12. Miles

The ball hits me squarely in the stomach, and I swear Raphael did that on purpose — again. That guy's really got it in for me. So maybe I"m not exactly playing my best today, but there"s no need for him to be so awful to me. Anyway, I"ve scored more penalties this year than he has, so frankly I don"t know what he's complaining about beyond some kind of petty jealousy he has of me.

Last week, Olivia was distracting me because I was on edge with her endless watching over me. My distraction today is still because of her, but today I can't stop thinking about the way she felt. The way she moved underneath me. The way kissing her felt like perfection, and how the way she touched me made me feel an ecstasy unlike anything else. Seeing her at the club opened up a whole new side of her to me. She always makes herself look so stern and businesslike, but dancing with her was the most fun I"ve had in all my time in America. She should let her hair down a little more often.

And I want to help her do it.

She just doesn't want me.

"Come on, Miles. Hurry it up!" shouts Coach Jacobs. "We're doing penalty shootouts over here."

I jog over to my teammates, none of whom particularly seem to like me. Raphael glares at me; he's definitely the leader of the pack, and unfortunately I seem to have made a mortal enemy of him.

And that means everyone else has decided to stand against me too. None of them really understand me. Sometimes I crack jokes in the changing room, and it feels like I"m speaking an absolutely different language to them. Not only that; sometimes they can"t even understand my accent, so they just stare at me with these blank, empty looks. I don"t fit in here at all.

Not that I"ve ever been too concerned about fitting in, but at least with the Canaries I knew everyone was going to laugh at the punchlines.

Somehow, the line manages to shift around me, and I end up behind Raphael who shoots me another dirty look and mutters, "Bring it on, big boy."

I don't bother dignifying him with a response. He is playing a good game today — even if I don't like him, I have to give him that. He is a great player. He's fast and agile, and he's strong at both offense and defense. He's a real asset to the team. Watching the Macaws play, I wonder why they even wanted me at all.

Not that I'm complaining. Without them, I"d never have met Olivia.

"Shit," I swear as I miss the net.

That girl is really going to be the end of me. I can"t afford to have a bad season here. My personal life aside, my professional career is tanking pretty badly as well. The PR stunt of me coming here was meant to benefit everyone — it was meant to be cool for the Macaws to have a British guy, and to give the Canaries a break from me. I'm not so stupid that I can't see that.

And if I can"t pull myself together? Then I"m looking at early retirement. If only Olivia's job wasn't riding on me as well. Getting myself into trouble is one thing, but getting her fired because of me is another.

I line myself up with the ball and take another kick. This one lands squarely in the back of the net, and I let out a long, internal sigh of relief. I've still got it.

Raphael scores two penalties without even thinking, and I grit my teeth, steeling myself to up my game. I'm not going to let him win. He gives me a glare as I score again, and I elbow into him as I head back down the line. He mutters a curse at me, and I spit into the grass in response. It's subtle enough that it doesn't look to anyone else like it's aimed at him, but he and I both know exactly what I mean.

It's a declaration of war.

When he misses again, I let out a laugh under my breath, a harsh noise that makes Raphael's already toxic frown grow darker. He puffs himself up in front of me, and I give him a withering look, folding my arms as if nothing he could do can affect me. Which it can't. He thinks he's the shit — and sure, he's good, but when faced with someone who won't bow down before him, he's crumbling.

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of feeling like he's won. And I'm not going to give him the pleasure of a fight. He's not worth it. I'm here to play the game, not get into petty fights.

As he backs down, the thought that Olivia would be proud of me for not fighting comes into my mind unbidden. She's been so stressed-out lately, and most of that's my fault. I've seen what she can be like when she relaxes. I've seen her smile.

For her sake, I think I'm going to have to try and change my ways. It was good to see her wind down. And it's not my job to make her life easier, but after seeing her in the club, in my bed, I want to. I want to help her live her best life.

Damn, now I'm thinking about her in my bed again. Her face when she comes is gonna haunt me for the rest of my life, and it isn't doing me any favors today. I take a swing at the ball, and it so nearly misses. To my relief, it doesn't give Raphael anything else to laugh at, but it wasn't my best work. Olivia is seeping into every inch of me, and I can't make it stop.

It sounds pretty dramatic, but I think I might be falling hard.

Finally, practice ends and I shove past Raphael and his cronies to go and stand in the shower, to let the hot water wash over me and try to forget her, the way she moves, the way she looks. The way her face lights up when she smiles. It doesn't work.