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A Captain can’t miss.
The keeper blew out a breath and patted her gloved hands together. We eyed each other from twelve yards apart—enemies with fingers twitching at our hips, ready to draw our guns. She’d shoot me dead if I didn’t shoot her first. I knew Bethany Lawrence’s stats. The club had spent a fortune on analyzing the opposition. That was one of the perks of being owned by a billionaire who was married to our striker—an endless supply of cash on anything that might make the team better. Gabe Rivers had thrown so much money at this club, we’d have to work hard not to get promoted at the end of the season.
Still, it was possible to screw it up. Gabe could buy most things, but not luck. And we’d had a lot of bad luck the past few matches. Nine times out of ten, Bethany Lawrence would dive left. That’s what the data said. The best bet was to place the ball in the top right corner.
Maybe she’d studied my stats, too. It wouldn’t help. Every time I took a penalty, I did something different. That was the key. Never show your hand. Don’t be predictable. Don’t give the fuckers anything to study. I caught Bethany’s eye and then I looked purposefully at each goal post.
Do you see that, Bethany Lawrence? Predict that.
A wild laugh rose up in me. Adrenaline burst hotly through my system, giving me an odd sense of delirium. My heart thundered in my ears. Everything was too loud and too sharp. Every part of my body tense. My teammates stood at my back. I couldn’t look at them. This was too important to fail. This wasn’t for me. It was for them. I owed them this. They’d followed me into battle, and now it was my time to deal a killing blow.
I just had to aim it right. Not too close to the post.
Do you know my stats, Bethany Lawrence?
Twenty out of twenty attempts on goal this season.
I never miss.
The sweat that drenched my body left my skin with racing chills as it evaporated. My breath came so hot and sharp, I could almost taste my lungs. I straightened my socks over my shin pads, taking my time, making a show of it. Bethany Lawrence always went left. The data didn’t lie. Confusion clouded my brain.
Or was it right?
Shit.
“You’ve got this, Skylar.” A shout drifted from the sidelines.
A few cheers rang out. Then clapping. Then stomping. I scanned the sparse stands. Among the handful of tense faces, my gaze found Sean. It had been a week since he’d turned up drunk at Gabe’s party. Since I’d thrown myself so desperately at another man, only to be rejected.
There’s something wrong with you.
Sean wore a bulky puffer jacket; his blond head was bowed to his phone. He wasn’t even watching, probably too busy sliding into the DMs of another model on Instagram.
You know what it’s like. They message me first.
A cacophony of sound screamed in my ears. I couldn’t block it out—the clapping, the stomping feet, the howling wind. How would I even be able to hear the bloody whistle?
Do you know my stats, Sean?
One heart, broken.
My breath came in sharp, hot gasps as though I’d left the stadium entirely and floated up into the atmosphere where the air was too thin. I scanned the sideline again and my eyes locked with Reece Forster’s. His dark pea coat flapped in the breeze, but he stood perfectly still and composed next to Gabe Rivers. So poised. So in control. He’d turned me down. Of course he had. He’d seemed into me in the library, but then he’d heard everything Sean had said about me and it had put him off. The back of my neck heated.
Bethany Lawrence always dove left. She tensed, ready to go. Ready to pull her pistol and take her shot. Was that a lean to the right? No. She’d go left. She always went left. A niggling sense of doubt twisted my gut. I pushed it down. The whistle ricocheted in my head like a starter’s pistol. My body flinched. I took a run-up. My foot skidded on wet glass. With every ounce of strength, I aimed for the top right corner.
For the first time, Bethany Lawrence dove right.
The bathroom door swung open. Claire strode in, her neat silvery blonde bob swinging around her jaw. My shoulders clenched. Great. Everybody had gone home. I couldn’t stand any more sympathetic smiles or pats on the back, especially not from my boss. I just wanted to be alone.
Claire’s gaze roved over me. Her voice was more gentle than usual. “Do you want to talk about it, Marshall?”
The back of my neck itched with embarrassment. I braced my hands on the cool ceramic sink.
Claire’s voice was tentative. “It was a good game. You did your best. It’s not over yet.”
“I never miss. It’s over. Everything we’ve worked for…”
“The Rovers lost. They’ve gone down two points. We’re still in with a chance. If we can win the next two games and if City loses two matches, then we can make it to the top of the league table.”
