GOLDEN GOAL
Nicole leaned over and double knotted her tennis shoes as I juggled the ball around, only half paying attention to what I was doing. Mostly I was watching her bent over, tying her shoes, wearing red short-shorts. She really did have gorgeous legs, and I didn’t think I had really appreciated them before. Firm…shaped…must be from all that running she does. I could see the flex in her calves and th
ighs—she had some muscle there. I was very tempted to run my hands over them.
I shook the thoughts from my head.
The girl had to be just a little bit crazy, I figured, or maybe she was just looking to lose the bet. Anyone would have to be damn good to get past me, and from the very beginning, she obviously didn’t know what she was doing. Maybe it was her way of saying she wanted to tell me whatever this dirty little secret was but without just coming right out and saying it.
I didn’t know; girls were weird.
I smirked as she walked toward the goal. I popped the ball up in her direction with my knee, and she squealed and batted it away from her face. I laughed as she glared at me, picked up the dirty ball with her fingertips, and placed it at the top of the box.
“You’re making it a lot harder on yourself!” I chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
I pointed to the white circle in between us.
“That’s the PK spot, baby.”
“Oh.” She mumbled something else that I couldn’t hear and then took a few steps forward to place the ball on the right spot. “Here?”
“That’s it, Rumple.” I winked at her as she glowered at me.
She stood right behind the ball, looking back and forth from one side of the goal to the other. I crouched down a little, bouncing on my knees a bit.
“How many tries do I get?” she asked.
“Normally, one,” I explained, “but you can have three because I’m such a nice guy.”
She snorted.
I might have let her kick all afternoon, but eventually I’d get tired. It was still a little hard to breathe, too.
“Okay.”
She brought her foot back with bended knee and kicked. The ball glanced off her toe and rolled at about the same pace as a toddler’s plastic truck. I jogged over and picked it up before it hit the side bar.
“Rumple, Rumple, Rumple,” I teased. “You gotta get some power behind it!”
I walked over to her with the ball, placed it down on the circle, and started explaining the physics of kicking to her.
“Use a running start to give yourself more power, but the main thing is to keep your leg as straight as possible. You gotta use those beautiful thighs.”
She whipped her head up from the ball to me as she narrowed her eyes.
“Just calling it as I see it,” I said with a shrug, but I walked back to position anyway.
Her next try was a little better. She did take the running start but still bent her knee too much. The shot was on-goal but had nowhere near enough leverage to get past me. I jumped left and easily trapped it in my hands. I settled into position and rolled the ball back to her.
“One more try, Rumple,” I said, “and then you’re gonna have to spill it!”
She smashed her lips together and scowled at me before taking a deep breath and placing the ball back on the white circle. I was still standing straight up—not even close to being ready to jump—when I watched her take a couple of steps back, and her thigh muscles tightened deliciously. I may have been a bit too focused on the shape of the muscles instead of what she was doing with them. The angle was more firm, her quadriceps more sure of what they were doing—something that only occurs when muscle repeats a movement often enough to create long-term muscle memory.
She took two steps forward, curled the toe of her foot back toward her, which would make for a higher angled kick, and straightened her leg like a fucking pro. Straight, long, lean, and enough leverage to fling the ball right at the top left corner of the goal.
It flew up fast. My balance was off—I hadn’t even been trying to bother jumping since I thought it was obvious she wasn’t going to get enough power to kick it fast enough. A goalie has to know which direction the ball is going to go before it’s kicked to have a chance at stopping a penalty. You already have to be moving before your opponent’s foot touches the ball. I wasn’t ready, and I would have had to jump in exactly the right direction long before I realized it was too late. I dived anyway, landing on the ground too low to be of any use. She nailed the top corner.