“Any time,” Coach says, plopping down into her chair and parking both elbows on her desk. “Any time you want to explain why, one day into being named co-captains, you’re acting like children on the field. What kind of message are you sending the team? What if there’d been press covering practice?”
Oliver’s head snaps up. “Was there?”
Coach arches an eyebrow, tipping her head. “Could have been, for all you knew. You two weren’t thinking about the press. Or the team. Or the shitty publicity that would come out of brawling. You weren’t thinking at all, and that’s exactly what a captain is not supposed to do. You’re the ones who keep your heads, who keep your cool.”
Fury emanates from her in waves. There’s something dangerous in her expression, a warning. Time to defuse the situation.
“Bergman and I talked,” I reassure her. “It won’t happen again.”
Oliver cuts me a skeptical glance.
“Damn right it won’t,” she says, sitting back, arms folded across her stomach. “’Cause if it does, you can both say goodbye to your captaincy.”
I barely stop my jaw from dropping. “You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“Lexi—”
“Coach,” she reminds me. “December to January you get to call me Lexi because I’m not bossing you around a field and because what we went through when celebrating the 2012 Olympic gold went south, and however the hell you got us out of that scrape, secured you lifelong first-name status privileges, but then and only then.”
“But the US men’s team didn’t even qualify for the Olympics in 2012,” Oliver says, blinking innocently my way.
I cut him a scathing glare. “And you were doing what in 2012, Bergman? Still getting your ass wiped?”
“Hey.” Coach points a finger my way, then his. “That’s what I’m talking about. Be nice.”
“He started it!” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes, then directs herself to Oliver. “Bergman, you are correct. The men didn’t qualify. But Hayes was there being classy with some of the guys from the men’s team, cheering on the women.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” I say through a clenched jaw.
She turns and looks at me. “Proceed.”
“Coach. I’ve been captain since I signed. You’re not honestly threatening me with loss of my captaincy, when this complication’s only arisen after this—”
She clears her throat. Raises her eyebrows. “Proceed with caution, Hayes.”
Oliver sits back and folds his arms across his chest, staring at me. Waiting for what I’m going to say.
“I’m simply pointing out…” I studiously avoid Oliver’s eyes. “If anyone should be on probation for this, it’s Bergman.”
Air rushes out of him. Like I’ve stunned him. Which just goes to show how naïve he is, how little he knows me and the desperation with which I cling to every moment I have left in this world. Because after this?
I’ve got nothing. Soccer is it for me. And when I’m too old for it, too broken too many ways, I honestly cannot say what life will hold, but I can tell you I’m not going to fucking like it. Oliver Bergman sure as shit isn’t coming between me and every remaining moment I get leading a team, starting each game, playing every fucking minute.
Coach stands, palms on her desk as she leans in. “Your captaincy is just as on the line as his, Hayes. It’s earned on an ongoing basis. Because being a captain is more than being an incredible player or charismatic or—typically, at least—in control.” Her gaze dances between us. “It’s about showing your team that you have their best interests at heart, that your every moment on that field is for them, that your love of the game and the club you represent is what guides your behavior on and off the field.”
I glance down, my gaze traveling the scars on my body from so many matches that ended in a new injury, a new source of pain. This game is everything to me. I’ve literally broken my body for it. It’s my life. Being lectured on this is acid poured in a gaping wound. It stings like hell.
“You two,” she says quietly, making me glance up. “You make better partners than you think, or you would, if you gave each other a chance. But you’ve got chips on your shoulders, both of you, and they’ve got to go. If they don’t, I don’t want to replace you, but I will.”
Oliver nods. “Understood, Coach.”
I don’t say a word. But I nod tightly.
“Excellent.” She straightens slowly, rubbing her lower back. “Well, at least you waited until we were winding down practice for this nonsense. Now go home, get some rest, and when you come back tomorrow, I expect to see nothing but complete professionalism.”
After throwing her bag on her shoulder, she opens the door and points toward the hallway. “Go. Shoo. I’m hangry, and you’re pissing me off.”
Oliver holds the door, gesturing for her to go first. “Please.”
Coach practically melts, throwing him a tired, grateful smile. “Thanks, Bergman.” She cuts me a narrow-eyed glare. “Hayes.”
I nod again and say pointedly, “Coach.”
We follow her on a lag in some mutually understood self-preservation instinct, giving Coach a wide berth to more or less waddle down the hallway and turn the corner, before proceeding that way ourselves. Oliver drags her door shut until it clicks closed and locks. That’s when something else clicks, too.
Unless I’m willing to endure a taxi—and I’m not—I need someone to drive me to pick up my car at the dive bar the poker guys dragged me to last night. I stroll into the locker room and glance around as I gather up my things. Everyone’s gone for the day. It’s just me. And Oliver.
Mother fuck.
“Well, Bergman,” I say, throwing my bag onto my shoulder. “If we’re going to play nice, why don’t we start with you giving me a ride?”
If I gave a shit about awkwardness, the car ride would be really awkward.
Thankfully, I don’t.
I don’t care that Oliver drives me in absolute silence to the tiki lounge, which, in the late afternoon daylight, looks even less likely to pass a health inspection than it did last night. I’m not bothered that he cracks not a single joke or pun about a place named The Leaky Tiki.
In fact, after Oliver pulls out the moment I exit his car, I’m completely beyond the weirdness of the day, from our unfortunate and never-to-be-repeated carpool-turned-coffee-run escapade to the fumbling hallway collision to losing my absolute shit on the field to the moment in the locker room when I was inches away from Oliver’s mouth, thinking very specific and inappropriate things about what I’d like to do to it.
By the time I pull in front of my house, I have one thing on my mind: a scalding-hot shower involving a fast and furious wank to the mental image of some faceless man who absolutely does not resemble Oliver, then going the fuck to sleep.
Then waking up tomorrow resolved to keep myself together for the next ten months while I have to co-captain with Oliver Bergman.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, slamming my car door shut. I glance up to the sight of Oliver on the phone, pacing outside his house next door. Yelling.