Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(17)

My eyes fly open and lock with his. I’m speechless. Stunned.

A banging fist on the door shatters the moment, jolting us apart. “You two!” Coach barks. “My office. Now.”





5





GAVIN





Playlist: “Believer,” Imagine Dragons





“What the hell was that?” Coach shuts her office door behind us. At her pointed finger’s direction, we sit in the chairs on the other side of her desk.

I’m reeling. It’s been so long since I lashed out like that. Granted, I swear up a storm and bark orders at my teammates, but it’s always measured, intentional. I learned long ago that soccer wasn’t the place to lose control—it was the place I found it. Even when I’m on the field, my aggression is precise and controlled, reserved for the unfortunate souls I play against, not my teammates.

Then there’s what happened in the locker room. That’s never happened before.

And it never will again.

As I sit, my knee bends too sharply, too fast, pain knifing down my leg. A sobering, agonizing jolt back to the present moment. At least, until I glance over at Oliver, who’s biting his lip. And then I think about how fucking close I was to dragging that lip between my teeth, earning his breathless gasp—

I straighten my knee, knowing the pain of extending it will be worse, nearly unbearable, before I have relief, an agony that turns my vision blurry. But not long enough. Because once it’s cleared, he’s still there, looking as unsettled as I feel while he stares down at his feet, silent. I’m hit with a terribly unwelcome gut punch of guilt. I see it all over again, the pale blue-flame flicker in his eyes dimming as I told him the truth: We are never going to be friends.

I compress that unwelcome feeling back down inside me. There’s no room for guilt or softness or regrets. There’s room for this game and not a fucking thing coming between me and playing it for as long as I have it in me.

“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.