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“I doubt anyone will.” I try to tamp down the warmth his words elicit. No one aside from my teammates or close friends has ever complimented me about soccer before. “You sure your assessment has nothing to do with the fact I’m the Stevens twin whodoesn’tplay the same sport as you?”
“I’m sure,” Wes replies confidently. “I’ve beaten Liam at football. I’m not sure if I could beat you at soccer.”
My eyebrows rise in surprise. I’m impressed by the way he states his record against Liam so matter-of-factly, without the slightest hint of gloating, and startled by his last sentence.
“Do you want to try to?” I challenge without thinking.
Wes grins. “Do you have a ball?”
“Not with me. But”—I waver on the precipice between what I should do, and what I want to do—“we could meet tomorrow?” I let myself topple where I want to, and I’m shocked that I did.
“There’s a field in Fayetteville that’s usually empty. I can meet you there tomorrow afternoon?” Wes’s words are casual, as though he meets girls from Glenmont to play soccer all the time. I’m grateful he’s being so cavalier because I’m freaking out enough for the both of us.
“Okay,” I reply. My heart is racing, and I try to convince myself it’s just anticipation and panic I’m experiencing. Those are certainly both present, but the dominant emotion is excitement. About how I’m going to see him again.
Wes holds out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” I ask, handing it to him cautiously.
“So I can text you, Stevens. Do you prefer to receive handwritten notes delivered by pigeons?”
I scoff at his heavy sarcasm.
Wes types something into my phone, and then hands it back to me. I smirk when I see what he’s entered his name in my contacts as.
Good at one thing.
He grins in response. “I’ll let you decide what that is.”
I set my phone down on my gym bag and move next to the first cone for my third set. Wes copies me.
I count down as soon as we’re both in place, and then take off. The strain of my muscles alerts me to the fact I’m pushing myself even harder than before, and the tall, lean figure keeping pace next to me makes it impossible to forget why. I’m running drills with Weston Cole. It’s an absurd thought.
As soon as we cross the final line, I check the stopwatch on my phone.
“Well?” Wes asks, quirking a brow.
“Fifty-one,” I inform him. My best time of the night.
We run it five more times, and then move on to the next drill. Wes mirrors my movements exactly, only asking for a couple of clarifications as we work our way through my entire routine.
The longer we spend together, the more I’m able to appreciate I’m consistently running my fastest times ever, and less on the fact Weston Cole is the one running beside me. It’s a relief to focus on the motions of the familiar drills rather than the confusing emotions he elicits with every encounter we have.
Finally, we finish the last sprint. Wes flops on the grass of the Glenmont football field, and it’s a strange sight.
“Damn, Maeve. You do that every night?”
“Every other,” I correct, grabbing my jacket to wipe at my face again. Not that it makes much of a difference; I’m soaked with sweat.
“You should seriously train our football team. Coach Blake is tough, but man, his practices are nothing compared to that.” I feel myself blush in response to his praise. Wes sits up. “Of course, I’m slightly less motivated to impress him.” He sends me a charming, crooked grin that prompts a fresh wave of warmth to wash over my already overheated body.
“It’s probably a waste of time to try and impress anyone from Glenmont,” I respond.
Wes isn’t deterred. “Is it?”
I don’t answer because it should be an obvious response—but it isn’t. Not for me. Not when it comes to him.
“I should go,” I tell him, fiddling with the zipper of the jacket I’m holding and avoiding his gaze.
