Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(25)

He blew his whistle.

“Oh, thank God.” I bent over and tried to suck in air while I watched his cleats walk past me as he grabbed a few more balls. “Wait, what are you doing? We’ve been at this for three hours.”

“One-on-one,” he answered.

I held in my groan and made my way over to him, my legs wobbly and tired, so sore and heavy I wanted to take a long nap on the cool green turf. Instead, I had five balls in front of me and an evil coach with a red whistle that I was going to flush down the toilet later.

Sweat dripped down my face, and I wiped my eyes with my sleeves.

“Got a little something right here.” He pointed at the sweat on my chin.

I gave him a middle finger.

“Ah, that’s the spirit,” he chuckled. “Alright, beat me and you can go home.”

“Wait, that’s it? I just have to beat you?”

“You’re warm, I’m not.”

“You played pro. I’m trying to get in.” I bent over and examined the goal, his posture, the way he looked at me, and down at the balls. “You’re calculating.”

“You’re studying me.” He grinned. “Won’t make it easier.”

“Injury,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Which knee was it?”

“Not telling.” He kicked the ball to me, and I stopped it with my foot. “Besides, I knew I couldn’t cut it, not like the other guys. Some of us have it, others are better on the sidelines.”

“I’ve got it,” I said confidently.

“Then show me.” His gaze was unwavering. I’d never actually had a coach challenge me. I was their star player, and they just wanted points up on the board. They wanted to fill the stadium’s seats.

And I did that, did it and more.

And all it got me was panic attacks, bad memories, and kicked out of my favorite sport.

“Hey.” Matt clapped his hands twice. “Focus or I’m pulling out the whistle again.”

I growled, which only made him laugh.

I dribbled left, right, through his feet, and thought I was home free until he kicked the ball from behind me, tangling me up in his legs and sending me slamming down to the ground. He stuck out a hand to help me up. “Four more left.”

“What happens after four?”

He smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

Shit!

I dribbled toward him this time, aggressively going to the left before I faked right and kicked. I missed the goal, but at least he didn’t steal the ball from me this time.

“Three,” he said like I couldn’t count.

I hesitated and watched his face as I started the third run toward him, and when I faked, I went back to the same side. This time he caught me, and I slammed into his chest, taking us both to the ground.

Sweat dripped from my chin onto his. I grinned and touched the place it splashed. “Got a little something right here.”

“Smart-ass.” He didn’t move. “Two balls left.”

“You’ll let me know the feeling of only having one, right?” I looked down just as he shoved me off him then stood and begrudgingly helped me to my feet.

“I could do a hell of a lot with one, trust me.”

I gasped.

“One soccer ball,” he clarified, hitting me with his shoulder as he walked past and took his stance.

I rolled my eyes and chased after him, then stared at the ball, then at him again. He was expecting me to dribble toward him.

Not to just kick the ball.

He was standing a few feet away.

I frowned.

He grinned like he knew where my head was at.

So I took a few steps, faked a kick, dribbled to the right, and kicked a perfect goal that went sailing into the net.

His applause mixed with my joy that I did it with one ball left. Without thinking, I ran full speed at him and jumped into his arms.

He swung me around like he expected it.

Then, as if he realized he was holding me, he quickly dropped me to my feet and held up his hand for a high five. “Good read, Parker. You finally saw the play. You don’t have to dribble every time. Sometimes it’s just as easy as kicking the ball.”

I put my hands on my hips as I contemplated what he said. “You were far enough away, I was just making it harder on myself.”

“You were thinking here.” He tapped my temple. “Instead of here.” He tapped my chest. It was just one finger, but I felt it. Man, did I feel it all the way down to my toes.

Every coach I’d had . . . had babied me.

He made me want to find a sharp object and aim for his man parts.

There was something to be said about a coach earning your respect, and he’d just earned mine. Big time.

“Thanks.” I looked down.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up. No way am I letting you in that SUV all sweaty.”

“Hey!”

“Hey nothing, you’re hitting the showers and then maybe I’ll feed you.”

“Best coach ever,” I grumbled. “And agent.”

“I kind of like being both.”

“Because you like torturing people?” I joked as we grabbed the extra bag of balls and walked toward the locker rooms.

He grinned over at me. “Only you, it seems.”