Three weeks later…

This is the worst relationship I have ever been in, and it’s not even that kind of relationship.

If Jesse Windmeier makes me do suicides one more time, I’m going to launch myself at him and see how well he can breathe when his oxygen supply’s been cut off.

What was I thinking, giving an asshole like Windy that much power over me?

I drag myself with something a little faster than a drunken swagger towards the other end of the field where a shiny orange pylon is, where I’ll have to crouch down, touch the field, and then attempt to sprint my ass back to another orange pylon, farther away than my original starting place.

I’m panting hard enough that my breath feels like it’s rattling in my throat, and my lungs burn enough that I want to cough them up. My legs are being dragged down by invisible lead weights, and it’s a wonder that I can even shuffle-run as much as I am right now.

I get suicides, the sprinting from line to line, maxing you out, only to have to do it again and again at the blow of a torture device known as a whistle. And a whistle in Jesse’s lips is a very, very dangerous weapon. I get it.

But I’ll also murder him in his sleep.

Nothing is worth this.

Nothing.

My entire body is soaked with sweat—there must be a quarter cup of water between my tits and sports bra, and there’s sweat droplets falling down from my hairline into my eyes, the salt stinging them with every step I take. I didn’t know I was this out of shape. God, I didn’t know. I’m panting so hard, my breath a hoarse rattle in my throat, even as I start to get nauseous, regretting that last slurp of water, my heart kicking hard against my ribs in my chest.

Yeah. I’m not feeling so great.

I think of only happy thoughts while the rest of my body is going through the pain of dragging me through space and time as I struggle to complete my sixth set of suicides the length of half the field. It matters to me that I haven’t slowed down to a walk—yet—or just keeled over from all the cardio stress. Goddamn it, I didn’t think it was going to be this bad getting me back to golden level where I can actually start a game. Shit, shit, shit.

I finish my set so slow that I could race a snail, and that slimy asshole would totally win, but I finish it, and then have to walk around shuffling, feeling my muscles starting to cramp and I have to shake out my legs to get them to stop hurting.

I need Gatorade and probably an ice bath, and then a session in the cryo chamber later or whatever Trainer Bee decides to do with me when I report that I’ve been adding extra training sessions on my own and have her evaluate me.

Ah, just as soon as I catch my breath.

In through the nose and out through the mouth, in through the nose and out through the mouth…

We’re on the men’s side of the training field. It’s gone nine o’clock at night where most people would be tuning in to a show or reading a book, but I’m out here with Mr. Windy himself, trying to get back into shape but still feeling like my goal is a far way out on the horizon.

“How many more times are you going to make me do this?” I ask, inhaling between each word, trying to catch my breath. I want to lean over, plant my hands above my knees and pull in deep breaths, but that’s admitting the kind of weakness that Windy over here enjoys, so I don’t do any of that.

There are spots dancing across my vision, and I shake my head hard enough that they go away for a time. I concentrate on pulling in deep breaths, painfully aware of my heart trying its damn best to beat its way out of my chest.

Yup, I went too hard, too fast. Shit.

Jesse lets his instrument of torture dangle from between his teeth, giving me a sadistic smile if I ever saw one.

What. An. Asshole!

I’m too tired to pull in a breath and waste more words on him, so I continue walking, slow and steady, letting my heart rate return to normal, pacing in front of him, even walking a circle around him. I really do contemplate attacking him from behind, just launching myself at him, but the carrot on the stick of him teaching me some new tricks has me stopping that thought dead in its tracks. Well, almost.

“You need to build up your stamina. You’re definitely getting better, but you’re not there yet. How are you supposed to play a whole ninety-plus minutes?”

“You and I both know you’re not running the whole time. Jesus, I just have to put on speed when I get the ball, pull a few tricks and score. Simple.”

Jesse lets the whistle drop from his grip, and it hangs around his neck, the silver colour winking at me off the stadium lights glaring down at our training field. He makes a show of looking around, the inky black sky even darker for all the light pollution, and we’re the only two people illuminated for what feels like kilometers around. We’re also glaring targets if a crazy person decides they want to find us.

I have to stop watching Criminal Minds. It’s messing with my head.

Jesse keeps quiet, and I groan in not-so-mock despair.

“But why do we have to end with this? God, I want to die right now.” I stretch my arms over my head, pulling in deeper breaths, glad that my heart’s getting the memo and starting to beat normally. Athlete superpower for the win.

I take my clasped hands and hold them against my head while I twist at the waist, trying to get the kinks out. Standing like this, unmoving, I feel every inch of sweat coating my skin, the heat coming off my face.

The nights are getting cooler now, so we’re both in thermals, my thermal shorts underneath my game shorts, and socks, shin-pads and cleats with a giant t-shirt that used to belong to an ex-boyfriend before I decided he wasn’t worth my time when I needed all that precious time to train, train and train some more.

I’m aware that I look like a mess, but this is Windy—he doesn’t look pretty either when he’s all sweaty and exhausted after training. Why do we women have to look photo shoot ready twenty-four seven? I swear to God, if he says anything about my greasy hair, I’m going to deck him. I just have to find the energy, I just need a few seconds.

“Walk it off some more, and then we’ll do one more drill.”

“One more drill? Are you insane?” It’s what I say every time we train together, because there’s always one more thing to do, and I inevitably get excited for it, thinking this is it, he’s going to teach me his stellar way. I’m basically the Luke to his Yoda and he’s going to teach me everything he knows about the Football Force and I’m going to be a veritable Football Superstar.

And like always, we drill against one another, talking strategy more than doing any actual playing against one another, and there’s no tricks to be found.

“When are you going to teach me your tricks? Honestly, it’s been weeks and weeks since we’ve been doing this,” I exaggerate. It’s been three weeks, and most of it spent getting me back into some sort of shape that’ll let me play full on when I can get back to the field for my team.

My body’s not cooperating though, not recuperating fast enough for my liking. The more time I can’t play, the more time I’m off, the easier it is for my coach to forget how I play, to forget where to place me on the starting line.

“One more drill, Maddie. No, I don’t want to hear it. I have to remind you every single time that you said that you would listen to me.” Under the glaring lights, I can see Jesse’s face is completely washed out, making him look closer to the walking dead than anything real, except for those glaring circles underneath his eyes.

There's a pang in my chest, like an invisible hand is deciding to squeeze around my heart. 

“Fine, fine. Let’s get it over with. I’m starting to freeze my ass off.” Tonight’s the first night that I can see my breath puffing out of me in violet wisps against the night sky. I follow Jesse as he walks towards the middle of the field, the giant circle where a team’s forwards would stand around at the referee’s whistle, signalling the beginning of the game. He leads us to the middle of it, where the ball usually goes, and then he sits down, just plops himself right on the turf, looking up at me.

“Is this some kind of joke? We’re going to sit? What kind of drill is this?” I stare at the ground like devil hands are going to break out of the turf and haul me down to hell. Or there’s some sort of prank going on—something. I don’t see any dog shit, though, and the training fields are kept pristine so our boots won’t get damaged and we don’t end up killing ourselves in training.

Jesse keeps his mouth shut and just slaps the ground with both hands opposite him, and I sigh so he knows I don’t like this and sit cross-legged right across from him.

I’m hunched over, because the wind has gotten nippier, and it’s cooling the sweat on my body, and I could really use a hot, hot shower to turn me lobster red. But no, I have to do this one last ‘drill’.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, and his voice is soft. I glance around, checking to make sure no one knows we’re here, a weird shiver travelling up my spine. There’s only the half-length of the field on either side of me, the nets a long way off, and no one around. I feel alone all of a sudden, and chilled to the bone.

“No. I’m sore where the incision was, and I’ve got the aches, but I think it’s just from training harder and harder.”

“You’ll tell me when you’re not feeling well?”

I glance at him, looking into his eyes. How can he make dark circles and eyebags look cute? How? “I see you’ve decided to become a considerate human being. Yeah, sure, whatever. Now are we going to get this started? I’m freezing.” I shiver for emphasis and it takes over my whole body that I end up wiggling on the spot, shaking my body out.

Jesse nods, then starts playing with the whistle around his neck. I swear, if I have to do more suicides, he’s doing them with me.

He taps my right knee with his hand, his hands unexpectedly warm against my chilled legs. His fingers touch the fabric of my compression shorts, and I slap his hand away.

“I didn’t tell you to do that, nor did I give you permission to touch me.”

He grins. “Most women like it when I touch them.” He retracts his hand and then apologizes to me.

“Ugh. I just threw up in my mouth a little. Are you aware of what you are saying, or do you think I’m going to drop my panties right now because you touched my leg?” I shake my head at him, lip curling. “You’re an asshole. But I’ve told you that already. Now, can we get back to the training?”

Jesse nods, his face giving me nothing. It’s infuriating, not being able to figure him out.

“I want to know where your head’s at.”

“Why? You’re not my real dad.”

He glares at me, those stony eyes narrowing, and I glare back, and then it’s a test of wills to see who’s going to blink first. I let the tears spill over onto my cheeks, keeping my eyes open, not thinking about how much they hurt and how dry they’re getting when Jesse finally blinks and I reign supreme in my mastery of Jesse Windmeier in this one tiny thing.

It’s the little things that make me happy—a freshly laundered kit ready to be worn, a new pair of boots that I’ve just broken in, a goal scored in front of fans. Little things, and this is one of them.

“Christ,” Jesse says, head down, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger of his hand. He can’t look at me while I blink hard and rub one eye at a time, keeping him in my sights. “Are you talking with anyone? Friends? Family?”

Is he asking me what I think he’s asking me?

“What’s it to you?” I ask, not knowing where he’s going with this.

“You’re new at this, so I’m going to give you my advice.” He looks at me like he’s imparting the wisdom of the ages.

Oh, here we go, the football version of mansplaining. I can’t wait!

“Please enlighten me, your Windship. Ha!” I laugh. “Even you have to admit that’s hilarious. I’m hilarious. Wow. Not even a little quirk to the corner of your mouth? Not even that? Are you a cyborg, by chance? It would explain a lot, Windy.”

Jesse rubs a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, the dark strands then flopping all over the place. It could be cute, you know, if he wasn’t an asshole. “Talk to someone, all right? Going through this alone is exhausting.”

I narrow my eyes at him, leaning closer like I’m going to tell him a secret. He mirrors me and leans closer too, close enough that I can determine the tiny flecks of green in his eyes despite those bright lights doing something good for a change.

“Are you trying to tell me that I should talk to you?”

Jesse leans back with an almost audible snap to his lower spine and I can’t help but grin.

“That’s what I thought. You can’t go say things like that. I jump to conclusions.”

He looks stricken, at a loss for words, and then he pulls in a deep breath and keeps going. “I can be that, if you want me to. Although I don’t know that you would want to, seeing as I’m not your favourite person.”

“You’d be right.” I nod along then shrug. “But my dad lives in Manchester and my mom lives overseas, and I hate talking on the phone and she hasn’t mastered the whole texting thing yet when I’m a phone call away, so you could be an option.”

“Thanks,” he says, deadpan, and I grin at him again, aiming to punch him in the shoulder, grinning wider when I get solid contact.

“You’re very welcome. Hey, if I’m the female version of you, is that like talking to yourself?” I gasp, mouth round with mock surprise. “God, I knew you were into yourself, but this is taking it to a whole different level.”

Jesse looks like he’s in pain now, eyes closed, and probably very sorry to have started this whole line of conversation. When he opens his eyes, he’s got a wicked grin on his lips, and for a split second, I know true fear.

“I want three hundred crunches before we call it a night. You can start now.”

Motherfootballer!

I glare at him hard enough to bore holes into his body, but I haven’t manifested that sort of superpower yet, so I have to content myself with throwing bad words at him in my head only as he crouches and holds my ankles while I cross my arms over my chest and do my crunches.

I’ll get him back for this, I will, I just don’t know how yet.

Yeah, you do. You have to beat him at his own game. You have to kick his ass on the field.

I’m not at that level yet. We tried scrimmaging in the past against one another, and I couldn’t pull my weight since my leg was starting to hurt. I’m going to knock that smug look off of Jesse Windmeier’s face and he’ll never look at me that way again, like he’s all superior. Maybe he’ll be the one genuflecting to me in the end.

They’ll be calling him the male version of me and not the other way around.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks as I grunt on the upswing of my hundredth crunch, and still two-thirds to go. Do I detect a quiver in his voice? Or did I just imagine it?

I keep my smile contained, but only just. “No reason. No reason at all.”