People need to get over it. Just because a guy and a girl are hanging out doesn’t mean they’re going at it. Hell, if a guy and a guy are hanging out; and a girl and a girl are hanging out—doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going at it in the times when they are all alone. I mean, they could, I guess, but people like to automatically assume, you know?

I think Trainer Bee is a shipper and she doesn’t want anyone to know, but I do now. I do.

I’m doing light laps around the training field, a light jogging kind of pace that has my muscles warming up after all the disuse over the past few weeks where I couldn’t do anything and I’m working up to a light sweat.

My muscles have that pleasant burn that means I’ve got them right where I want them, all nice and warmed up and ready to do anything I ask them to. My breathing’s nice and even, and I’ve settled into a rhythm that makes me feel like every jolt of my system is connected to the pounding turf and everything underneath. Must be the endorphins kicking in.

I go somewhere when I run, away from myself, because there’s a lot of pain and straining when trying to max out and gauge our limits, season after season. My leg isn’t a real pain in the ass yet, but it’s there, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost in terms of mobility and range, limiting me. There’s a lot of explosive movements in football, a lot of stopping and starting, a lot of quick changes in direction that puts a ton of strain on your muscle fibers, and mine are healing right now.

So I’m not really in my body, but somewhere in my head, picturing my first game this season, starting line, kicking ass, scoring in under the first five minutes and the crowd loses their minds. I take a sweeping bow like actors do on the stage, and raise my arms up, Rocky-style.

So I’m not expecting a humanoid-shaped obstacle to be blocking my path, or to have been looking at this human-type obstacle straight on and not really seeing it until there’s hands that are moving frantically in front of me, a weird way of doing jazz fingers, and I’m pummeling into Jesse Windmeier before I can tell my body to stop.

We sort of end up tumbling together, me on the bottom, my head padded against the turf by something, oh yeah, by Jesse’s hands. That could be kinda sweet if he didn’t look like he wanted to kill me right now. Or maybe he’s just really annoyed about being happy to see me?

I wink at him from flat on my back, and he lifts himself off me in the quickest maneuver I’ve ever seen. Must be handy. I wish I could run away from my problems being that fast. I’d never have to face anything head on ever again.

“You can’t possibly tell me you did not see me, standing in front of you, calling your name for the last minute and a half.” Jesse doesn’t sound angry, but icy, words practically crystallizing as they leave his mouth.

My eyebrows rise at him mentioning that he’s been calling me for so long. I don’t think Windy is the most patient person on the planet.

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Relax, Windy, nothing your insurance can’t cover. Your legs are insured, right? A million each one?” I look down at his legs, now clad in tight joggers that are a thing in England and not really a thing back home.

I, for one, am extremely thankful that I get to gawk and ogle at his form. Jesse Windmeier had to go and have really nice legs, exceptional thighs, like he knew it was my one true weakness. I sigh and lie flat on my back again, staring up at the sky, catching my breath because I was jogging and for no other reason at all.

Of course he had to have really great thighs. I won’t feel like I’ll snap him in half if I sit on his lap.

And when are you going to be sitting on his lap, Maddie? What delusion is this?

I sigh again and move up to my elbows, staring down at my legs and cleats at the end of them. Man, I really love my cleats.

“That’s not any of your business.”

I snort, looking up at him. From my vantage point, he’s one lanky guy, practically blotting out the sun if he moved two inches over to my right. Bet he wouldn’t move over even if I asked him; it’s probably just who he is as a person.

“Right. Like it’s a secret. Everyone knows about it, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I hold out my hand to be helped up and Jesse just sort of glares at it like it’s a king cobra that’s going to snap at him. I wiggle my fingers when I get impatient, and only then does he put us palm-to-palm and I’m suddenly vertical without too much effort. I probably weigh more than your average bird (they call girls birds here, British version to chicks, I guess), and he takes it like a champ.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, adjusting my bandana around my hair so that it catches the sweat before getting into my eyes. “Did you come to negotiate terms?” There. Who said I couldn’t be serious for a second, or two? Who said?

Jesse shakes his head at me, putting a hand to the back of his head and ruffling his hair there, giving him that bedhead look that makes me quiver on the inside and want to commence immediate snuggling protocol. Bedhead is for snuggling, and that is nonnegotiable.

It’s probably been a while since I found a willing partner that didn’t make me want to throw up in the back of my mouth a little bit, but Jesse Windmeier is a fine-looking football specimen, and unfortunately, he seems to know it, too. Guys who know they’re hot are just so disappointing, like it gives them the license to be dicks.

Well, Windy over here is an asshole, and I’m pretty sure he knows that, too.

Or does he not? Better ask him.

“Do you know that you’re a giant asshole? I’m curious.”

Jesse’s mouth opens in a perfect O, and if he were a cartoon, his jaw would literally be on the floor. I end up snickering, planting my hands on my hips, rocking my weight from foot to foot. I really need to go stretch and then take a warm bath to ease the aches and pains that are bound to hit me like a train after getting back to it after so long, but instead I’m here, watching Jesse Windmeier’s expression and wondering why it’s so very entertaining.

“Excuse me?”

I shake my head, wave away his words. “Yeah, of course you know. Now, what did you come all the way out here, on our side of the stadium, to see me for? You’re gonna train me, right?” I envision me kicking his ass, making him eat turf while I dribble around him, pull off some of the coolest tricks that haven’t even been invented yet, and get him to eat his words, and his assholishness. Maybe even get him to apologize to me for being so rude. It could happen.

Jesse sighs, running a hand over his face, and that expression that was there a second ago has been completely wiped away. Nifty little trick since I have the facial equivalent of an open book.

“I’m going to train you,” he says, and the world has exploded into a kaleidoscope of fireworks that I’m watching, completely tuning him out, because I, Maddie Chase, am going to be the best player the Prime League has ever had and it’s all going to be thanks to this guy. “Are you even listening to me? Christ, she’s not even listening to me.”

“Yeah, I am, I am! Totally listening. See these things, these are my ears and it’s what I use to listen with. Now repeat everything you just said, I went somewhere else in my head.”

“Jesus. I’m going to regret this later, I know it. However, in order for me to train you, there are the following conditions that have to be met. Are you listening to me right now? I’m not going to repeat myself again.”

“Aye, aye, captain. All ears. Go.”

He could be seconds away from throttling me, or he could be wanting to kiss the crap out of me, or he’s gotta take a shit, I just don’t know him well enough yet. “Rule number one: no one can know about this, not even your trainers, your friends—if you have those—your family. No one can know. If there’s even the slightest disturbance in my daily schedule and someone even mentions your name to me, even in passing, this is all over. Agreed?”

I have things to say, things I definitely want to say because who does he think he is, hiding me away like a princess in a lost tower? But then again, I’ll take it. I know this is the right thing to do, the thing that’s going to get me on my feet and get onto the field with enough skills to always destroy the opposition.

I nod along, knowing it’s a lot easier said than done. I don’t do too well with people who feel like they should be ashamed of me. I end up punching things and faces. It never really ends well.

“Rule number two: I can only give you a limited amount of time every day and we can stop at any time as soon as Coach deigns to give me back my time on the field.” He glances over his shoulder like somebody could be watching. I glance around him but don’t see anyone.

“That’s fine with me. The time’s going to pass anyway, might as well get some extra training in.”

“Right, but I’ll be training you, and you can’t have anything possibly to train me with, so really—”

This guy wants to get punched. He really, really does.

“Never mind,” he says, maybe catching that violent glint in my eye and he keeps on flapping his lips. “Rule number three: you do everything I tell you to, and you don’t argue.” I smirk, because I know how well that’s going to go. I nod again, just to make him feel better.

“Rule number four: when you score your first goal, I want you to find my jersey number up in the stands with that giant poster they have of me, and I want you to go down on your knees and—”

“If you say what I think you’re going to say, I might as well kill you right about now, dickhead,” I snarl at him, taking a step closer, almost putting us nose-to-nose.

“What? God, no, why would you do a thing like that? I want you to genuflect.”

“Genuflect?”

“Genuflect,” he confirms, giving me a little nod, a smirk playing along the corners of his lips. It’s a fetching look, actually, and now I really want to smash his face. These mood swings are getting me dizzy.

“Fine, whatever. Anything else, your Windyness?”

“Rule number five”—and he holds up five fingers for me to count—“is to give up any social obligations you may have, again, if you have friends, because I’m going to be taking up the rest of your time.”

Jesse walked into that one, and he realizes it a split second after he stops talking to me. But he doesn’t backtrack, just letting his words sit between us and watching what I’m about to do with them. I offer a non-committal shrug and take a step back because being too close to Windy is going to give me his seemingly contagious asshole condition, and that’s just not what I want to be.

“I don’t have a problem with any of your rules.” I throw out my hand, expecting a shake, but he just looks down at my outstretched hand, then up to my face, asking a nonverbal question that definitely means are you sure you want to do this?

Why wouldn’t I want to do this? This is prime training time with the primest. You can’t even pay the guy to give him some of your time, and I’m getting it for free! Wait, am I getting it for free?

If genuflecting is the price, I’ll gladly pay it. Who gives a shit if I have to worship at his altar if people are going to remember my name? I can eat humble pie with the rest of them.

“C’mon, Jesse, I’m tired and I want to get home and sleep. Tomorrow we start this training and you teach me everything you know. It’s a deal.” I shake hands with the air, waiting for him to grab my hand. He finally does and we do a business one-two pump and then our hands are back at our sides, mine tingling with his warmth.

It’s getting closer to dark now; we’re the only players left behind at the training center, the parking lot behind him almost empty.

“Where do you even live?”

I make vague gestures towards a not-so-great part of town that has never given me any trouble, but people like to yell a lot, and I’m sure the woman next door is dirt-poor, and I take care of her kid sometimes when I’m not training full-time. But now that I’m back at it, little Scarlet is going to be left without me, and that makes me sad as hell.

“What’s wrong? Why did your face fall like that?”

I spear him with a glare and wave it all away. “Nothing’s wrong. I thought of something sad. It happens.”

“You have the most expressive face. It drives me mad.” Jesse looks like it does, dark eyebrows pinched together, face still as a statue.

“Oh? Have you not met a human woman before? Even one who can kick a ball a hundred yards no sweat? Do we have to go through that whole introduction thing again? You do know my name is Maddie, right? Maddie Chase. Say it with me, Windy,” I say, as we walk back to the benches where I’ve left my bag, eating up the turf in a weird sort of companionable conversation that doesn’t make me want to flail from all the awkward.

“I know your name is Maddie. They tell me you’re good.”

Oh my God, oh my God! “Who told you? I want names to confirm.” I turn to look at him to find him grinning at me. Well, he looks fetching like that, too, the asshole. Who said that was okay?

When the Great Football God decided to create Jesse Windmeier, did he have to give him good looks and insane football talent? How is that even fair to the rest of us?

You play pro, too, Maddie.

Yeah, but I’m no Jesse Windmeier. Not yet, anyway.

Right, right, right. Not yet.

“I’ve heard people talking about you. They’re calling you the female me.”

Holy shit. Holy shit! I shake my head, willing those precious words to tumble into my ear for one more round so I can give them the attention they deserve. “You sure you’re not the male version of me?”

And now we’re grinning at each other, like we just made a private joke when there isn’t any need for it. We’re alone.

I can already see how this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.