“New girls?”
“The team’s seen quite a lot of movement. Half of us are new players learning to work together. That’s where I think you can really make a difference. Come out, observe us on the field, and whip us into shape.”
“I’ve seen the tapes. You’re all incredibly talented. Are you sure you need me?”
“We lack cohesion as a team, and I can see you being an asset in helping us get to a point where we can compensate for each other’s weakness.”
Coach Rodriguez nods in agreement.
“We’ve spoken to the GM and upper management, shown them the before and after stats of the players whose performances you reviewed. They were aware I’d reached out to you for informal counsel.Sitting across the world, you managed to help us. Even those who had doubts are on board with bringing you on.”
“But, I—”
“You’re sharp and we can benefit from your experience. Help the team, Alia. We miss you. We want—no,need—your help to play better.”
“I. . . I. . .” I stammer, my head pounding from the pressure of my emotions. “Could I have a few days to think it over?”
“Don’t take too long. Your team’s waiting for you,” Coach Rodriguez adds as we sign off on the call.
I lean back with a sigh, staring out the window at the bright day outside. The world moves at its own pace while I remain paused, replaying the conversation that just ended.
My nose burns, a prickling sensation crawling up my spine as a cathartic sort of pain sits heavy on my chest.
A few months ago, I had no idea where my life was going. Now, I have two job offers, both related to the sport I love. One will keep me here, where I’ve made new friends and am finally settling into a life in which I’m happy.
The other. . . My throat sticks around a hard swallow. The other will give me the chance to correct the mistakes of my past. Mistakes I’ve struggled to forgive myself for. Mistakes I’m still learning to move on from.
It’ll give me a chance to rewrite my chapter within the history of Indian women’s cricket, one I was forced to leave unfinished.
My dreams before came at the cost of having no life outside of the game. It was a sacrifice I made willingly as a teen. But this time, I hesitate. I question how badly I want this. Whether I can live without taking the opportunity I’ve been presented with.
Because the cost this time?
. . . Cal.
44
CALLUM
It’s been an insane month going into the final stretch of the regular season. The race to make the playoffs is heating up and, as strong as we’d started, recent and unexpected losses have us fighting for a spot that should’ve been ours already.
The team has had a couple big fumbles lately and I can’t pinpoint where we’re going wrong. Losing DuPont for the rest of the season because of a torn ACL has added to the stress as we try to fill his spot.
We’ve called in a replacement from our farm team, but it’s not quite the same. Chemistry can be worked on, but we have no time for that when we’re in a make-or-break situation.
With everyone keeping a close eye on the standings over the next couple weeks leading up to conference finals, the difference between a regulation win or going into overtime could mean not advancing to the playoffs. The boys and I leave yet again tomorrow for a stretch of games that’ll determine our fate.
Which brings us to Block on Wood tonight to blow off some steam.
Between reviewing tapes, back-to-back practices, physical conditioning, and games, I’ve had time for little else other than hockey. Still, I manage to obsess over Alia. In quiet moments as I’m falling asleep, the first hazy seconds of my morning before I’m fully conscious, in between line changes when my hammering heart is straining for comfort, but, especially, when I return to an empty home—I miss Alia.
I stand beside an ivy-covered pony wall, nursing a beer that’s gone warm, unable to recall why I need to keep a distance from her in public. Across the room, she leans in to hear something Marissa is saying. I observe the graceful arc of her hand as she lifts it to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. The slow drag of her fingertips along the length of her neck has an unintentionally erotic effect on me.
My eyes home in on her delicate collarbones that wing outward above the modest neckline of the dress she’s wearing. I try to recall if there’s a nearby coat closet I can entice her to meet me in. For all her inexperience, Alia likes the idea of being touched in public. Exhibitionism is not in her nature, but a controlled environment with the illusion of risk is something that gets her off.
And whatever gets her off, gets me off, too.
Especially if I can tug that neckline lower and suck her perfect tits the way I want to, maybe leave a little mark on her skin so everyone knows she’s taken. I’ve never felt so territorial over a woman before, but Alia makes me desperate to stake my claim.