Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(43)

Ben sniffles.

Carlo blinks away wetness in his eyes.

Amobi looks alarmingly emotional as he stares down at his big goalie gloves.

Oliver throws a panicked glance my way as he realizes his truly beautiful pep talk hit perhaps a little too close to emotional home.

I hold his eyes and hope he sees what I want him to. Well done.

“You heard him!” I bark, setting a hand in, watching more hands, every color and size, slap on top of mine. “Get your asses out there and get it done.”





13





OLIVER





Playlist: “Here We Go,” WILD





Well. I talk a nice talk. Don’t think it made much of a difference, though.

To say we are a tad…out of sync, would be generous. It’s in the eightieth minute, we’re down 1–0, and we’ve messed up so many offensive opportunities, even I’m pissed, though of course I’m not showing it.

Neither is Gavin, and that’s all you need to know. That’s when you know it’s bad—when Gavin Hayes is being quiet, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, strategizing, wracking his brain for what he can do to save this. He squints, black-coffee eyes sparkling with flecks of toffee as the sun hits them. A frigid wind flies through the stadium, whipping back his dark hair. He breathes out a puff of steam that I see as he backtracks in the midfield, receiving the ball, not even watching it to his feet as he stops it with one flawless touch that’s as natural to him as that exhale from his lungs.

Finding me, he sends a pass that’s perfect, threaded between two defenders, both of whom turn and run after me. They’re fast. But I’m faster.

Unfortunately, they’re onto me. New England’s read our formation like a book and has every man marked. Santi’s covered. Carlo, too. Ethan’s fighting to give me something along the wing as he flies up from midfield, but his defender is right there, tight on him. I have nothing. It’s just me.

That’s when I remember what I told everyone. This game isn’t won by one person. It’s not all on my shoulders. It takes all of us.

Glancing back, I find Gavin, knowing exactly what I’m going to do.

I fake out my defenders and slip through them, pulling the ball in a Maradona and cutting central. I catch Gavin’s eye, wishing we’d practiced this, wishing I’d said something when he told me not to expect him to be fast enough to be right behind me.

You can still get there, I should have told him. I can buy you time.

But then I realize, I didn’t have to tell him. He knows. Gavin knows exactly what I’m doing. No one’s on him. He plays a commanding role that’s pivotal in midfield but not the most vital position to cover when defending an offensive attack, at least, if that position’s being held by anyone but Gavin. New England should know better, but they seem to be flying on autopilot, acting like he’s some regular player who’s not a threat outside thirty yards from the goal. Which he is. Oh, he is. And that’s why I’m about to give him the ball.

I know Gavin Hayes’s career better than I care to admit. I know his every goal, his every iconic game. I know the man has thighs like a goddamn truck for a reason. He might not have the speed that he used to, but he still has power; that man can crack a ball into the back of the net from here, easy.

As Gavin barrels down the field, I nutmeg my defender, cut past a guy chasing after me, and come face to face with Bryce. It’s shocking, how much nothing I feel as he bears down on me, as we hit bodies and I spin away with the ball, taunting him out of position, exposing the center of the field. I don’t look at those russet curls of his and miss threading my fingers through them. I don’t look into his bright blue eyes and remember staring into them as he touched me and begged me to touch him.

It's a sweet victory to feel nothing for someone who once made me feel everything I didn’t want to—self-doubt, hurt, betrayal, loss. It’s going to be an even sweeter victory when Gavin scores because of it.

And now he’s here, having read me perfectly, exactly where I need him to be, as I send the ball in a lateral pass across the field where it lands one step in front of him. I hold my breath, freeze as he plants his left foot and cracks the ball with one touch, a bullet through the air that hits its target at the top of the goal, rippling gloriously beneath the crossbar and down the back of the net.

Goal!!!

I sprint toward him, the whole team does, a crush of bodies throwing our arms around him.

As if he’s soaking up the moment, Gavin’s eyes are shut, his head bowed, as Amobi, the only one taller than him, ruffles his hair. But I see it when no one else does.

His smile. Small, private. The faintest tip of his mouth, but I’d swear if he’d shaved his beard down to scruff, I’d catch a deep dimple flashing in his cheek.

After he shoves the guys away good-naturedly, the group breaks apart. Gavin and I walk toward the center of the field.

I smile down at my cleats, watching them side by side with his. This camaraderie is what I dreamed might be possible when he first signed with the team. This is what I’ve been waiting for, for two long years.

We’ve scored together before; it’s not the first time. But it’s different today. Because of what he trusted me with, the way I knew where he’d be and what he needed, the way he leaned into my strength and leveraged it with his, and together we made something better than both of us. Because of that trust, the kind of partnership I’ve wanted with him and almost gave up on having, we’ve tied up this game.