Cameron throws him a dark glance. “Hard pass. I’m so done with the socialites and fame-hungry women. I have to get out there and meet some normal women, if that’s even possible,” he says, kicking a football.
“Phew,” I breathe out. “And here I spent my summer worrying you’d find your woman in the US and would abandon us all to be with her.”
“Worrying or praying?” Finn asks, arching an eyebrow.
We all laugh, and Cameron just shakes his head. “Sadly, I’m not that lucky.”
“That explains the sour face,” I tell him.
“Messieurs!” François breaks through our conversation as he strolls onto the pitch, clutching a clipboard like it’s sacred. He stops in front of us dramatically, letting the silence build before continuing in his thick accent, “Today, we do not just train. We sculpt. We paint. We buildla beauté du footballwith our feet and our sweat. Only six days till showtime.”
We all stare back at him.
“I missed this guy,” Wade mutters behind me. “Mad as ever.”
“Hey! Quiet,Capitaine,” François scolds, somehow having heard that quip from across the field. “If I see one pass that lacks poetry, I will send you to run laps until you weep.”
Wade bows dramatically. “Wouldn’t dream of disrespecting the craft, boss.”
With that, warm-ups kick off, and soon we’re moving on to drills—passing, headers, crosses. I’m defending the net, gloves on, my world narrowed to footwork and timing. The first proper save of the day sends a painful jolt through my palms, and it’s glorious.
Finn tries to nutmeg me when I step out of the box during a shooting drill. That goes about as well as you’d expect.
“Denied!” Ishout, tossing the ball up and catching it again. “Nowwho’s the rusty one?”
“I was going easy on you.”
“Oh, please,” Cameron cuts in. “You trip over your own laces going ‘easy.’”
I lean against the post, grinning to myself as their bickering starts up.
Yeah. We’re back. Loud and chaotic—and already panting with exhaustion—but this is the part of the game I love. The rhythm, the noise, the teamwork. After everything that happened these past weeks that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around, this is my solid ground.
Our first training of the season is over, and it flew by fast. I’m already looking forward to tomorrow, although I won’t complain about turning in early tonight. My lack of training during the break is tangible, screaming from every one of my muscles. I was the last one to leave the showers, standing under the hot stream of water like it owed me something. I was two aches away from marching straight to the physio room and asking for a massage, but the teasing from my teammates would have ended me. Maybe tomorrow. I can pretend to pull something at training so I don’t look like too much of a wuss, maybe?
I’m still seriously considering the idea when I pull into the underground garage, cut the engine, and force myself out of the car. Every step toward the lift feels like a personal betrayal from my wobbly legs, but I manage to shuffle along. The lift door is already starting to slide shut, so I muster the last ounce of energy in my body and jog toward it.
My hand smacks the edge of the door just in time, and it bounces open.
“Oh, hey,” Katherine says, clearly startled. Her eyes widen slightly, and her hand instinctively brushes her hair back.
I grin, my shoulders immediately relaxing. “Of course it would be you.”
She looks beautiful tonight. Her hair is slightly windblown, and a navy-blue dress hugs her curves. Her cheeks are flushed, like she’s been walking fast, or maybe she just always glows like that.
“How are you?” I lean against the wall of the lift, trying to hide the limp I probably still have.
“I’m okay,” she says, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “I was on my way out but forgot something upstairs. How about you?”
“Coming home,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “Today was our first training back. It was intense.”
“I bet,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “Do—”
A sharp jolt cuts her off. The elevator shudders once, then lurches to a stop.
The lights flicker but stay on.
We both freeze.