Page 37 of Play For Me

“Such a brat,” he mutters as I start to jog down the field.

I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot.

When I get back with the ball, he’s standing there with two water bottles. He hands one to me and I try not to notice the way his fingers brush against mine.

“Did you play in high school?” I ask after I’ve sucked down some water.

“Yeah. I was on a travel team.”

“You didn’t want to play in college?”

He shrugs. “I was recruited by a few schools. Mostly D2, one division one school out east. But I knew I wouldn’t be playing after college, and I wanted to stick around here.” I’m not sure what he sees in my face, but he chuckles. “That horrifies you, doesn’t it? That someone wouldchoosenot to play soccer.”

“I wouldn’t say it horrifies me,” I argue, figuring I should at least try to be polite. “I mean, it doesn’t make a lot ofsenseto me…”

He laughs. “When did you start playing?”

“God, I can’t remember a time I didn’t play. My older brothers all played and I was basically always following around behind them. My mom plays too—she’s amazing.”

“You’re close with your family,” he says. A statement, not a question. “I mean, that’s pretty obvious. You spend, what, ninety percent of your time on this campus with one of your cousins?”

“Not ninety,” I argue. I shrug at his disbelieving look. “Maybe eighty.” There’s a beat of silence. “Eighty-five.”

He laughs. “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

“We’ve always been like that. The five of us are just a few months apart in age, and our families were always together, so naturally we were, too.” I’m not sure why I’m opening up aboutmy family, but I can’t deny I feel more comfortable talking to him than I have since we met.

“The Littles, right?”

I look up at him in surprise and his expression turns sheepish. “I overheard Ash calling you guys that once.”

“Yeah. The rest of the family has always referred to our group as the Littles. We spent a lot of time trying to come up with alternatives when we were kids, because we thought it made us sound like babies.” I shrug. “Now we embrace it. If they want to tease us by calling us the Littles, we’ll just make sure the Littles are the coolest, most bad-ass people in the entire family.”

He grins. “It must be nice to be in such a close-knit group,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that gets my attention. But he quickly changes the subject, holding out his hand. “Done with your water?”

I pass my bottle back. This time our fingers brush for even longer. Of course, our eyes have to meet at the same time and I feel stuck there for a moment, just looking up at him. He really does look amazing in glasses.

Then I realize what I’m doing and jerk back. “You want to go another round?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice light and cheery. “Or did I wear you out already?”

His grin sends little buzzes of warmth cascading through me. “I think I can handle another round. Do your worst, Ransome.”

So I do. My play gets a little more aggressive and he matches me, his defense turning physical. It sparks something in my chest, some gooey feeling of satisfaction. There’s nothing I hate more than a guy treating me like I’m fragile on the soccer field.

But a few minutes later, I realize I don’t need any help looking fragile. I’m capable of doing that all on my own.

Solomon blocks my shot, sending the ball careening to the goal post. My mind immediately calculates what I need to do to score. I’m closer and it should only take me a few strides to reachit and knock it into the net. I move to do just that, hurrying to get around him. I succeed—but his foot is in my way. Now I have to pivot a little, extend my left leg farther and come in off a more awkward angle.

And I…hesitate. I just completely freeze, right there in the middle of the play. It’s only a split second, but my hesitation allows Solomon to move in for the ball, ending my chance at scoring. I curse under my breath, heart pounding ridiculously hard all of a sudden. My mouth feels dry and my stomach churns as sweat breaks out on my forehead.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Solomon doesn’t take control of the ball like I expected. Instead, he stops and looks at me, a questioning expression on his face.

“What?” I snap, wiping my forehead.

“I should be asking you that.” He tilts his head, studying me. “What just happened?”

“Nothing.” The answer comes too fast. Too defensive. He’s looking at me so intently I have to duck my head just to avoid his gaze. Why the hell is my heart pounding so hard? It’s like I’ve just been playing a full ninety minutes of a real game, rather than messing around with one other player for a few minutes.