Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(75)

To win.





23





GAVIN





Playlist: “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” Penny & Sparrow





Endorphins pump through my body. I stare out at the field, feeling energy, fire, in my limbs like the game I loved never left me, like everything I have is at my fingertips, in my feet, about to pour out onto the grass until it seeps into its soil. I feel the strength in my body, even knowing it’s ebbed. I feel my voice, hoarse and sharp, cutting up my throat from my place in the middle of the field, from the center of this place that’s the center of my world.

I see Oliver, drink him in. Chest heaving. Flushed. Dripping in sweat. Hair half out of that infuriating spurt-of-gold ponytail.

Fucking perfect.

The whistle blows. There’s no time to tell him what I want to do. Our opponent has the kickoff, and they’re already sending it deep into our end. Ben’s fucking useful for once, winning it off their offense, dropping it to Amobi, who works it over to Carlo.

Carlo sends it up the wing to Ethan. Cutting in, Ethan sees me ahead, higher in the midfield, and sends the ball my way. I wait for him, toying easily with my defender, faking him out and breezing by. I hear the stadium noise tick up, feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Reading my tactic, Ethan cuts toward midfield as I stretch the field, deep toward the sideline, drawing out the defense until the box is exactly how I want it, wide open, with Oliver running in to fill it.

I trust Ethan enough to know I want a give and go, having screamed at him since preseason started to see those triangulations quicker. I send the ball his way, and he reads me perfectly, a straight shot down the field.

But farther than it should be.

Cursing under my breath, I explode, a hot warning pain radiating through my back, slicing down my leg. I ignore it, sprint toward the ball as it darts dangerously close toward the goal line.

My defender’s hot on my heels. Too close for me to get a foot on the ball and keep it inbounds. At least, for me to get an upright foot on the ball. At the last moment, I slide in across the goal line and nudge the ball to safety when it’s inches from the paint.

The stadium erupts as my defender trips and stumbles past me, as I crawl upright and sprint back onto the field. The next defender’s barreling toward me. I fake right, as if going for the goal, then tap the ball left, making him stumble, too.

And then I see him, tall, lightning fast, that golden head of hair heralding his arrival. As Oliver sprints toward the goal, I flick the ball off the outside of my right foot. It’s one step in front of him. Then he’s there with a one-touch to the back of the net.

Goal!!!

Arms raised, I feel triumph singing through my veins.

But then a body slams into me, wrenching my back. A pop and burn blazes through me, chased by pain like I’ve never known, swallowing up the world in darkness.





I know it’s a dream. No, a nightmare. And yet, I can’t make myself wake up.

My pain is dulled thank God, my steps measured, as I walk into the locker room and drink it in. The polished wood of each player’s cubby glinting under the lights. The funk of soccer gear and body sweat. The sound of my bag dropping at my feet like it has for seventeen years. The creak of my cubby’s bench beneath my weight as I stare down at my bag, the tools of my trade, a ball, a few scraps of flimsy fabric, a pair of cleats.

My armor against the world. The armor that became my world. When no one wanted me, when I hated everything, when I felt helpless and hopeless. Soccer was everything.

I want to wake up. I don’t want this dream to be reality. But somehow I know reality isn’t what I want either, so I stay, just a little longer. Instead of waking, I walk out of the tunnel as I have so many games, the lights flooding my vision when I step onto the grass.

I can’t leave it without saying goodbye.

And that’s when I know the truth.

It’s over. Done.

All that’s left is to say goodbye.

With the wind in my hair, the give of the grass beneath my feet; a silent, empty stadium, I stand. And feel it.

An end. A loss.

I suck in a breath. Then another. My chest aches. My eyes burn. My breathing turns tighter as I drop to the grass, crush it in my hands. My heart pounds, a pain in my chest that intensifies until I swear it’s going to split me apart—

“Hayes.”

A warm hand clasps mine, wrenching me awake to a familiar presence. Sympathetic dark brown eyes. Calm, even voice.

“Coach,” I croak.

Her mouth lifts with a small smile. Her hand squeezes mine. “Lexi.”

Just one word. It carries a world in it. She’s not my coach anymore. Because I don’t play for her. Because it’s over. I’m done. I knew it when I ran down that field, when I poured everything I had left in me into that last play and pain knocked me unconscious.

I swallow thickly, blinking away tears. “Lexi.”

Coach swallows, too, and dabs the corner of her eye. “Damn pregnancy hormones,” she mutters.

Our gazes hold. Gently, she lets go of my hand and sits back in the chair beside my hospital bed. “You’re gonna be okay,” she says quietly, her eyes not leaving mine.

“Am I?”

She nods. Confident, reassuring. A coach, through and through. “Dr. Chen said so. Though, I don’t mean just your body. I’m talking about this—” She taps over her heart. “This, too.”