Page 14 of Scoring Eden

But I digress. With a one-night stand off the cards and a relationship unthinkable, there isn’t anything else I can offer her. Friendship, maybe? But I’m way too attracted to Eden to even attempt a platonic relationship with her.

All I know is that I want to see her again. Her style of verbal sparring is almost as exhilarating as gearing up for a penalty shoot-out.

Aspen crosses her arms. “Then, no.”

My eyebrows shoot upward.

“Sorry,” she says, “but even though my sister may live like an eighty-year-old woman with zero knowledge of popular culture, I know exactly who you are. And you, sir, are photographed leaving hotels with far too many women for me to allow my sister to become one of them. So, unless you’re asking for her hand in marriage or, at the very least, a date to a very expensive and exclusive restaurant, I will be declining your offer on her behalf.” She takes a bow. “Good day.”

“Was the eighty-year-old woman part really necessary?” Eden hisses as Aspen takes her by the arm and strides them both toward the exit.

I stare at the door long after they’ve walked out of it, bemused, dizzy, and a little high off cherry shampoo. That must be why I open the online form to the dental practice and book the closest available appointment.

It seems my toothache is acting up again.

TEXT THREAD BETWEEN ALEX AND COACH CARTER

Coach Carter: Meeting tomorrow. 9am.

Alex: Coach, that’s a Saturday.

Coach Carter: I own a calendar, Wolfe. Tomorrow. No excuses.

Alex: Am I in trouble?

Coach Carter: I’ll see you in the morning.

Coach Carter: Don’t be late.

FOUR

ALEX

“You’ve gone too far this time, Wolfe.” Coach slams a TMZ printout on the table in front of me, his forehead creased to such an extent his eyebrows brush his nose. “You seriously fucked a fan in the stands?”

I’m calm as he looms over me, my hands relaxed on the arms of the swivel chair in the team meeting room. “It’s fake news.”

One eyebrow lifts off his nose as he regards me with disbelief. “Your bare ass on every major news site in the country would beg to fucking differ. I’ve seen the footage myself.”

I snort but have just enough self-preservation to hide it behind a cough. “I don’t know whose ass you saw, Coach, but it sure as hell wasn’t mine.”

It’s the truth.

I’ve had sex with a lot of women in a lot of different places, but never in the stands of a soccer stadium. That’s a fact I’d quite like to remedy, come to think of it.

But he still doesn’t look convinced. Pacing the length of the room, his sneakers scuff against the maroon carpet, screeching as if they, too, are mad at me.

I lean forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees. “Look, I can understand why you’re having difficulty believing me. We both know I’m not exactly the pillar of chastity, and in all honesty, having sex in the stands is going on my bucket list because that sounds like fun. But regardless of whatever you think you’ve seen, the guy in that article isn’t me.”

Coach Carter pauses his patrolling to stare out the window that overlooks the training ground. He swipes a hand over his face, shaking his head into his palm. It’s not the first time someone has facepalmed because of me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. “A soccer player in England was fired for something like this. You know the new investor is pressuring me to follow suit? At the very least, they want you stripped of your captain badge.”

My pulse spikes. I open my mouth to defend myself, but Coach carries on.

“Purview is very careful about their public image, Alex. They’re giving a lot of money to this team, and they believe your reputation will leave a bad stain. They’re a family car manufacturer, for Christ’s sake. They can’t have your promiscuities linked to their name. It’s getting hard to have your back when shit like this keeps getting printed about you.”

They can’t strip me of my captain badge or drop me from the team. And for what? A case of misidentification? Another fake media headline? Everything I am is in this team, every drop of blood, every goddamn bead of sweat, every fucking tear. I pour it all into the Strikers.

“Coach,” my voice cracks, “you can’t do that.”