Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(15)
That’s what made Gavin almost slam into me, both of us saved by his unnatural agility for such a large body. His shoulder brushed mine, his hand wrapped around my waist, and Sweet Jesus, I breathed him in, which was not wise, but sadly unpreventable, because he smelled so damn good. Clean and spicy.
A shiver runs down my spine as Coach blows the whistle for another kickoff. I huff a breath, set my shoulders, rein in this nonsense. I can’t do it—start thinking about Gavin in a way that once came so naturally, a way I swore to myself would never again have a place anywhere near my soccer career. I learned that the hard way in college, and I’m not making that mistake twice.
I focus on my surroundings. My happy place. The field. The sun in the sky, the ball at my feet, a breeze kissing my skin. At least, I try to, but it’s hard when all I can think about is what’s made Gavin Hayes nastier than he’s ever been.
Is he that mad about the co-captaining thing?
Dropping the ball back to Carlo, I sprint up the field, getting into place at the top. I’m distracted as I watch Gavin bark orders from his command center in the midfield, the wind whipping his dark hair severely to one side, the sun casting the tips of his thick eyelashes bronze, catching the auburn in his beard.
He glances my way and scowls at me just as the ball arrives at my feet, a snappy pass from Andre, who’s running wide up the midfield. I turn with the ball, fake out Stefan, who’s defending me, then cut toward Nick, our backup goalie.
Ethan does just what he should and steps in to mark me after Stefan left me open. Stefan scrambles to cover Andre for him so I can’t do a give-and-go and send it back Andre’s way for a shot on goal.
As Ethan steps in closer, I cut the ball and throw my weight into him, harder than I normally would, my frustration with Gavin pouring into the physicality of my play. Ethan’s thrown off-balance by that, stumbling, his foot slipping forward and inadvertently tripping me. I hop over it, take one more step, and shoot, nailing the ball into the upper ninety of the net.
Turning toward Ethan, I offer him a hand. “Sorry about that,” I tell him.
“Me, too,” he says. “All good?”
“Just fine.”
He takes my hand and lets me hoist him up before we clap each other on the back.
Gavin’s voice cracks like a gunshot over the grass. “Bergman!” he bellows. When I turn and look at him, there’s fire in his eyes.
I clear my throat and force a friendly smile as Ethan wisely jogs away to take his place for kickoff. “Hayes.”
He’s stalking toward me, quickly closing the distance. “What the fuck was that?” he snaps.
I lift my eyebrows. “Uh. A goal. Did you miss it?”
A chorus of chuckles that quickly turn to coughs dances across the field. Gavin ignores them, eyes glued on me. “You don’t help up someone after they fucking tripped you.”
“It was incidental.” I shrug. “I shoved him first. Besides, he’s my teammate.”
“Not right now he’s not. Right now, he’s your opponent.”
“Hayes, it’s just practice.”
“Exactly.” Gavin steps closer, until our chests almost touch, exploiting the full inch he has on me to glare down his nose. “And it’s called practice for a reason. What you do now is what you do in the game. And you do not fucking help them up.”
My jaw clenches. Fire fills the pit of my stomach, burns up my throat.
“Last time I checked, Hayes,” I tell him, taking the final step, elongating my spine to erase the gap in our heights as I look him dead in the eye, “you weren’t my coach. I will play to the level of sportsmanship that I value. I will help up whoever I damn well please.”
Silence rings around us. Everyone’s watching. And I’m too fed up to do what I have for two years: make myself smile, brush it off, and move on.
A vein pulses in Gavin’s forehead. His eyes glitter dangerously, fiery amber in the sunlight. “Your ‘sportsmanship,’” he says, low and menacing, “conveys a tolerance for being mowed down that makes all of us look like pushovers. I won’t stand for that to be the example. They push us, we push back. They fall on their asses, we run by. This is a brutally competitive fucking game, not recreational lawn bowling.”
“Aw, thanks for the reminder. But I think I know what I’m doing.” I lean in, my voice nearly as low and just as even. I’m so far past the point of no return, I couldn’t shut my mouth if I tried. “Or have you forgotten who had the most goals last season?”
His eyes widen. His nostrils flare.
I know it’s a sore point for him. He has an incredible record with every club he’s ever played for—leading scorer, year after year, truly a feat for a central midfielder whose goals come from far out on the pitch, those Hail Mary shots in the dwindling minutes to tie up the game, during high-pressure set pieces. The moments that make or break a player are the ones Gavin has broken under his will, time and again.
Until last season. When I outscored him by nine goals.
“You think that’s everything there is to it, hmm?” he sneers, his chest nudging mine. I can feel the barely contained rage thrumming inside him. “Finishing open-net goals? Looking good and flashing that toothpaste-commercial smile of yours when you score, simply enjoying what the fruits of good genetics and youth have to offer you?” His lip curls. “You’re their fucking captain now, not their friend. They need a leader, someone who’s hungry for better, demands more, not someone who’s late to practice because he’s kissing ass with the staff, who tolerates sloppy shots and shit defending and half-assed breakaways. But you’re too obsessed with pleasing every fucking person in this place.”