“Oh, really?” I stammered. My teen hormones were perking up and starting to take notice, but a flash of blue eyes in my head fought against them.
“You will make a fine, fine addition to the team.” Tiffany hummed into my ear as her hand slid down over the front of my jeans.
I moved my hands to her hips rather instinctively or maybe reflexively. I stroked slowly up her sides and looked down at the tightly wrapped tits in front of me. I could clearly see the outline of her nipples through her shirt.
Her tits were too big and probably fake, too. When I glanced up to her eyes, I saw they were bright green and just…wrong. Tiffany took another step closer, pressing her body to mine and pushing her hand firmly against my crotch.
Down, you little motherfucker.
I was going to have to play this off in some way that wouldn't give rise to any suspicions. I gave her my cockiest smile and a bit of a wink.
“The middle of a restaurant isn't the very best of places to get to know each other,” I told her. “It's good to know some of the…uh…benefits of the team, though.”
She giggled, and the sound made me want to retch.
We walked back to the table with her holding on to my arm.
They wanted me.
Dad was ecstatic.
I felt…numb.
Days turned into weeks.
I dropped AP Biology and the Shakespeare class. I had almost all the credits I needed to graduate, anyway.
I trained with the school team.
I flew to Seattle twice a week to train with the Sounders.
Real Messini sent a special trainer to me three times a week.
It was tiring, but at least at night I was usually too wiped out to think.
Nicole stopped trying to contact me, and that bothered me a lot. It was stupid because I was the one who had done all this to her. I watched her sometimes, and whenever I did, I could feel her hand in my hair and the heat of her body close to me as we slept.
I missed her.
Horribly.
National championships.
I was in the zone, not really thinking about much of anything as we walked onto the field to play some team from Minnesota. The temperature was perfect for a game—January in southern California was not too hot or cold. There was a nice breeze, too, which felt good, but I was trying to figure out how to compensate for punting.
The band played the national anthem, and the announcer started introducing all the players. Again, I wasn't really paying any attention until I heard one particular name.
Number seventeen.
Forward striker.
Dennis Johnson.
I zeroed in on the player—maybe five-nine, medium build, with kind of shaggy, eighties hair. I knew it was him. I just knew it.
I clenched my fists in my gloves, narrowed my eyes, and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet. I had complete focus but not necessarily on the ball.
I was going to hurt that motherfucker.