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“I have to go. Please don’t tell her I was here.”
Without looking back or waiting for a response, I stand up and leave the stadium, my heart lying broken on a football pitch in Southern California.
Kate
“Abby! I’m leaving for work.”
“Okay, Kate! See you later!” my flatmate Abby yells out from behind the bathroom door where she’s getting ready for her internship at a counseling center. It’s been a good job for her to have while she’s getting her PhD here at UCLA.
Thank god she got in, because it means I still have my flatmate and best friend. At least for another few years.
Smiling, which is rare for me these days, I grab my bag, locking the door behind me. Summer in Los Angeles is brutal, so I shouldn’t be so happy to be working outside, but I scored the perfect job after graduation. It’s even within walking distance of my flat, which means I don’t have to take the horrid, sweaty bus anymore.
Ten minutes later I’m entering an air-conditioned building that serves as home to ESAC, the European Soccer Association of California, a top-notch academy that trains and develops future football stars. And I’m one of their trainers. While still at uni, I interned for their summer camps. When I received my degree in sports medicine last spring, they took me on full-time as a trainer.
I love working with the kids and continuing to have football, I still can’t bring myself to call it soccer, in my life. In fact, I play for a local women’s premier league team as well, simply because I can’t imagine not competing in some form or another.
“Kate, you look lovely.” Logan, one of the full-time academy coaches gives me a huge smile when I pass by his messy office.
“Logan.” I should know better than to flirt with my sort-of boyfriend at work, yet I can’t help but grin back. The way Logan blatantly adores me is almost addictive. He’s good for my ego. “Missed me already, yeah?” We spent last night together having dinner out before he brought me home.
That’s the other good thing about him. Logan is very patient when it comes to… sexual activities. I’m nowhere near ready for that.
“Whenever you’re not with me I’m missing you,” he replies with a wink.
Grinning, I head for the locker rooms to change. Logan is the first, the only, man I’ve dated since Dax and since that terrible incident with Wes.
It took me a while to accept that Dax was gone and never coming back. Some days, my heart still aches for him. I wake up and swear that I smell him on my sheets, feel his presence in my bed. It took just as long to begin to trust men or want to be intimate again. I’m thankful I had my friends there to help me through it. Well, one friend in person and one on the phone.
Most days, I’m able to move on with my life and be somewhat happy with Logan.
It only took watching five minutes of watching a Lila’s television program to finally cure me of my fixation on all things Dax. At least, I tell myself I’m cured.
Work goes well, all of the girls are focused and driven. Logan has an adult league game of his own tonight. He’s highly competitive, possibly the most competitive person I’ve ever known. Sometimes, I can’t take it he’s so bloody arrogant when it comes to footy. He actually had a tantrum once when I stripped him of the ball while we were messing around on the pitch.
But he worships me. I can deal with a little bit of a competitive streak.
Since Logan’s not going to be around this evening, I quickly shower after work and walk the few blocks home to the little flat I still share with Abby.
“Kate!” Abby barrels into me the minute I come through the door. “Oh my god where have you been?” she screeches, hugging me tight.
“What the hell, Abby?” I check the time on my mobile. “I’m only a few minutes later than usual.” I patiently wait for her to let go, but it’s apparent that she isn’t moving. “Can I put down my bag and get a drink?”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry.” She drops her arms, hopping up and down on her toes as I get a Gatorade out of the fridge, chugging half of it down in seconds.
Abby is fidgeting excitedly while I drink, which in turn makes me incredibly nervous.
“What? Just say it. You’re freaking me out.” I clench the bottle of blue liquid in my hand. Waiting for whatever news Abby is about to drop on my head.
“There’s a voicemail for you!” she squeals. “Go check it!”
“What is it?” I ask, irritated that she won’t just tell me. I despise surprises.
“Go listen! Go, go, go!” She stays on my heels for the short walk to the table where we keep the house phone. Picking it up as if it were a bomb about to explode like in those old Mission Impossible shows on the telly, I dial the code for our mailbox.
A recording of a British woman with a Northern accent begins.
