Page 100 of Relationship Goals

Luke

My knee’s alittle fucked up from the tackle I took earlier in the game, but other than a few wobbles, my adrenaline’s kicked in and I’m hardly feeling it.

We’re tied with Vegas, 1–1, with six minutes of stoppage time on the clock. Sweat drips from my brows, the familiar sting of it in my eyes.

I want to fucking win this game.

I always do, because I’d be a shit player if I didn’t have that drive. I want it more than usual, though, because I know, back in LA, my girl is watching.

I want her to be proud of me.

It’s her I’m thinking of as a hole opens up in the defenders’ line, Marino effectively distracting the hell out of them with some fancy fucking footwork. Guy might be over the top, but he is a damn fine player.

He calls my name, and I run up the field as he passes it. The ball connects with my foot, and any exhaustion leaves my body as the play materializes in my head. One of our outside midfielders, Logan Steel, manages to get right where I need him just as the defenders catch up to me, and I pass him the ball.

It sails across the turf, going exactly where I wanted it to, and Loganruns it farther up the field. My quads burn with fatigue, but I push down the pain, push it all away until there’s nothing of me left besides the need to win and the sound of my blood roaring in my ears.

The defenders are shouting at each other, trying to catch up to us, but they’ve played like shit all game and now they’re fucking scrambling.

My cleats pound against the ground, and a Vegas defender charges at me, but I manage to get past him in a burst of lung-stinging speed.

“Wolfe!” Logan shouts. “Time,time!”

He’s right. We have time. He’s still taking the ball farther up, I just need to get there. I need to get there—so I do.

I make it to the top of the box just as Logan hits the outside of it, and somehow, thanks to the hundreds of excruciating days of drills and sprints and running plays—I’m in the perfect position for Logan’s near-perfect cross.

It’s a bit high and too forward. My heart hammers against my ribs and I fucking run for it. My feet leave the ground for the header right as the defender on my right does, too. Fuck him.

I nail it, then fall back, my teeth clanging together as I slam into the turf.

The ball sails past the keeper and into the back of the net.

Beautiful.

Fucking beautiful.

I hope Abigail saw it.

•••

The whole hotelbar is singing, and I wince at the sound of too many drunk men being too loud. Even so, I can’t help the small smile on my lips as the header that won us the game against Vegas replays on TV.

Gold’s standing on a table as fan after fan buys him shots, and from the way one of his eyes is half-closed, I’m going to have to make sure someone gets him back to his room safely tonight.

I attempt to politely wedge my way through the crowd, most of whom slap me on the shoulder or scream “L-A WOLF” in my face, as if I might have forgotten my name at some point between when I walked in the bar and now.

A beer splashes against my shoes, the smell of yeast and hops nearly overbearing.

Finally, I make it to where one of the team trainers is drinking a Coke from a bottle.

“You hurting after all?” she asks. “That one foul looked bad.”

“As if I’d tell the likes of you, Lexi,” I growl at her. “You’d just find where it hurts and shove your elbow into it.”

The two other trainers laugh, and I jerk my head toward where Gold’s now singing, a fresh beer in his hand sloshing all over.

“I pledge allegiance to thee, Texas—” He pauses dramatically to take a massive swig from his pint.