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It’s so at odds with my internal monologue, I’m not even sure how to respond to him.
“What if you’re wrong?” I ask him, the slight wobble in my voice revealing the vulnerability I’d meant to hide.
He uses his hold on my hair to tug my head back so that it rests on his knee as I look up at him.
“Do you believe you’re as good as them?”
His gaze travels down the column of my neck to where my throat bobs as I swallow. He pulls my hair again when I don’t answer.
“I’m afraid – anxious, really – that it still won’t be enough. That even with the extra training, I’m still going to fall short. That maybe they gave the scholarship and the captain title to the wrong person.” I tell him, finally admitting my worst fears.
He considers me for a moment, his eyes hooding over with interest as he watches my lips move.
“To lead your team, you need confidence. You need to believe you’re ready and you need to believe that you’re the best, otherwise you’ll sabotage yourself before you even set foot on the field. You might as well not play at all.” He says, his fingers threading through my hair and causing goosebumps to erupt on my skin. “I know what you’re capable of, I’ve seen it. I wouldn’t lie to you and give you false hope if I thought you weren’t as good, if not better, as the team you’re going to face today. But now, you need to believe it. Tell me you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” I tell him, working to inject assurance in my voice.
“I can’t hear you, love. Tell me you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” I say, more firmly. A smile spreads across my face as I look at him.
“Tell me you’re the best.”
“I’m the best!”
“Tell me you’re going to fucking win.”
“I’m going to fucking win!” I say, closing my eyes and yelling the words this time.
When I open them, he’s staring down at me with a pleased smile and a look so heated it peels back every defense I have and peers directly into my soul.
“Good girl.”
A laugh explodes out of me and it’s like the bubble of stress inside me bursts, freeing me from the prison of my spiraling mind.
“Thank you.”
I straighten and we sit in companionable silence for a few minutes as he finishes doing my hair.
“Look at us,” I tell him, “Literally braiding each other’s hair. Coach Faulkner would be proud.”
His amused laugh hits my ear like fresh spring water on a hot day. A proud smile crosses my face and a feeling akin to excitement fills my stomach at the sound.
Something vibrates quietly between my legs and I look at my phone screen. It’s Carter.
I don’t need to think about it for long.
I send the call straight to voicemail.
“When’s your next game?” I ask him.
“In a week. I think we might be able to go undefeated this season.” He says, pride clear in his tone.
“That’d be amazing, especially if you have scouts there.”
“The Arsenal scout should be coming to one of the matches at the end of December, that’s the only one I care about.”
I hum in my throat, acknowledging what he said.
