Forging Passion

I can't tear my eyes away from her.

She's incredible, the best soccer midfielder I've ever seen. Raw passion on the field. 

A hundred percent my type, but a thousand percent a distraction I can't afford right now. 

I've dated other athletes before. We're all too focused on our game for anything meaningful off the field. And usually I prefer it that way.

But she's all muscle and grit, with fierce eyes that let me know she'd wreck my body. And I'd love every second. 

Our connection feels immediate. The desire is mutual, like nothing I've felt before. 

Then I make the mistake of a lifetime: I let her wreck my heart.

WARNING! This is a prequel novella with scorching hot love scenes and spicy language.

I flash my ID to the airport security and kick off my shower slides, sticking them alongside my phone in one of those gray tubs before I hoist my bag onto the belt. This isn’t my first time traveling for soccer and I know better than to let my gear out of sight. No way in hell will I be breaking in emergency cleats from a box store near the airport.

I step through the metal detector, and no sooner do I grab my phone from the belt when I hear it buzzing and see the rapid, incoming messages.

Dad: 

Where are you? 

Dad: 

Seriously, Wes. Enough. Where are you? 

Dad: 

Do you want to give your mother a seizure? Pick up the phone, son.

That last message is specifically designed to guilt me, but I’m not falling for it. Mom’s epilepsy has been stable for years and Dad can fuck off. 

I recognize that leaving school with only one year to go seems like a foolish choice, but if I want to get serious about playing pro soccer, about playing for the national team someday, then I need to focus on my game. 

Sure, it’s messed up that academics are the distraction in my student-athlete world, but it’s the truth. I’m putting in at least 20 hours a week of practice, conditioning, weight training, and watching film. I’m studying the game so much I literally have nothing left in the tank when it’s time to hit the books. 

So yeah. I skipped out. At least, I can see how my dad views it that way. I let my college coach know about my plans to step down. I actually filed the papers to withdraw from school, too. I’m officially unaffiliated with the university. As of tomorrow, I’m a free agent, ready to show off my game to all the scouts at the elite open-invitation camp in California.

Technically, it’s a camp for the U.S. national team coaches to look at potential players leading up to the Olympics, but I know I’m not ready for that milestone. I’m there to get picked up by a pro team hoping to round out their roster with fresh legs and healthy knees. Mid-season, long after the draft, these teams have ditched the guys who couldn’t cut it or snapped their ligaments. Scouts swarm these camps with contracts at the ready.

Do I want to piss off my family? Do I want to ditch my cousin, who’s been my roommate and teammate for years? Of course not. But Wyatt’s on his own path, and I need to do what’s right for me. At least he’s not irate about it like my dad. Although, to be fair, Wyatt knows where I am right now, and my dad is apparently having a stroke because he thinks I’m missing. 

Thatcher Stag can’t stand not knowing where his family is every second of the day. I know he’s overcome some abandonment trauma, but seriously, no parent needs to keep “find my phone” tracking on his 21-year-old son.

I grit my teeth and fire off a text to my mom, promising her that I’m just fine, that I know what I’m doing, and that I’ll be in California for a few days. I’d have thought with two brothers as professional athletes, my dad would understand a lot more about seizing opportunities while my body is fresh, but he’s too focused on me keeping non-soccer options open that he can’t see it’s costing me opportunities on the field. 

I’m seizing the day, damn it. 

I enrolled in this open camp, and committed to a year in the championship circuit playing semi-pro if things don’t work out for me this weekend. Where will I land? I have absolutely no idea. It could be London, Chicago, Miami…that’s the beautiful thing about the beautiful game. It’s truly global and as long as I’m willing to live out of a suitcase—which I totally am—the opportunities are mine to pass up. And I’m done passing this particular ball. Wyatt and I have the lease on our apartment until the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to figure out where to stash my belongings. 

But if I have anything to say about it, I’ll know everything I need by the end of this weekend when the pro soccer coaches are fighting each other to pull me off their discovery lists. 

I shove my phone back in my sweats and grab my duffel from the security belt, looking around for my slides. An irritated female voice hollers at me. “Hey, that’s my bag, asshole.”

I whip my head around to find a barefoot Latina woman glaring at me, toned arms crossed over her chest as her red-tipped toes dig into the tile floor. She looks murderously angry, dark hair in a braid over one shoulder, dark eyes glaring out from above tawny cheeks flushed with frustration. She is exactly the kind of woman I’d chase if I had the time and energy for such things. 

But I don’t, I remind myself quickly. She moves her hands to her hips, causing her t-shirt to stretch across her chest. It reads OU SOCCER. My breath rushes out of my body. The temptation is extreme—I love athletic women. I love joking around with them and I love the feel of their bodies against mine. And sexiest of all, this one is annoyed with me. “You have my bag.”

I look down at my duffel and see that it is, in fact, not mine. There are no scuffs on it, for starters, and it’s got the name MORENO embroidered on the side instead of STAG. “My bad,” I say, slipping the bag off my shoulder and handing it to her. She snatches it with a huff and looks past me, I assume searching for her shoes. 

Which seem to be caught up in a line at the machine, where the security agent is scowling at my actual soccer bag. The angry woman sniffs. “What did you do? Leave your tape scissors in there?”

“Shit.” My stomach lurches because I definitely did leave my athletic tape scissors in the side pocket of my bag. I look around for someone to explain, but they’re already beckoning me toward a podium. I can tell they’ll be wagging a blue-gloved finger at me for my error. 

I pad over there in my socks–my slides are still somewhere on the belt—and explain about the scissors. “I understand that you have to take them,” I tell the guy, who rolls his eyes so hard I can almost hear it. 

“This is serious, sir. You can’t bring weapons onto a plane.”

“Yes, I understand that. Like I said. I’m sorry.”

He tosses the scissors into a bin next to the podium and gives my bag a final rummage, wrinkling his nose at the pungent odor from my shin guards. “Please make sure to take all your belongings from the belt,” he says, shoving the bag in my direction. I nod and grab my stuff so I can hustle to my gate.

The flight is half boarded by the time I get there and as I make my way to my seat, I can’t help the grin that splits my face. Moreno is sitting in the seat next to mine.