“Gotta take care of my boys.” I winked and skipped to my car.

Very rock and roll.

Soccer. A band. It was all the same to me. And it felt damn good to be part of a team again.

Chapter 6

“Soccer. Kerby Field. Pick you up in ten minutes,” Drew ordered when I answered the phone the following morning.

“It’s out of your way. I’ll just drive over there,” I said, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, crawling to shut my bedroom door.

“I’m going through Auden withdrawals,” he whined.

“Okay. I’ll be ready.”

Drew Bertucci and I went to elementary school and high school together. One of my favorite childhood memories was riding our bikes to the sports store three blocks from my house to buy hockey cards when one of us would come in to some birthday or holiday cash. Our friendship survived even after I’d made a fool of myself by writing him a note asking if he wanted to be more than friends.

The lesson: Don’t write down your feelings about a guy. And if you do, don’t ever share them with him. Unless, of course, your heart is made of rubber and you can bounce back from the embarrassing backlash unscathed.

I traded my pj’s for a Liverpool F.C. T-shirt and soccer shorts, then pulled black warm-ups over that. After shoving my cleats and shin guards into my duffel bag, I threw it over my shoulder and wandered into the living room to wait for Drew.

Grandpa was lounging in his recliner when I dropped my bag and parked myself into the chair across from him.

“What are you doing with that?” Grandpa asked, eyeing my soccer duffel.

Evidently, when you’re cut from a team, you can never play that sport again.

“I’m heading over to Kerby to play with some kids from high school.”

“What kids?”

“Drew and the hockey guys,” I answered, knowing my answer would end Grandpa’s interrogation. Drew was on the approved-friends list because our families had known each other since our parents were in high school.

When I heard the three quick honks signaling Drew’s arrival, I grabbed my gear and ran out the door, calling goodbye to Grandpa over my shoulder.

“Hey, Drewseph!” I said, sliding into the passenger seat of his faded red SUV. Drew came from a large Italian family where everyone was a Joseph, except him.

“What’s up, Aud?” Drew asked, alternating looks over his shoulder and in his mirrors as he backed out of the driveway.

“Not much.” I shrugged. “Just working. Viktor set me up with a job for the month.”

“Translating The Communist Manifesto?”

I laughed. Drew knew all about my previous projects. “No. He let me work with a real person this time. I’m a translator for a hockey player.”

“Really? Who?” Drew, a hockey player himself, had taken the college route. He chose State for their Landscape Design program.

“Aleksandr Varenkov from the Pilots.” I kicked an empty water bottle rolling back and forth on the floor.

“No way.” Drew glanced at me.

“Way,” I replied, happy to be around a friend I’d known so long that we had inside jokes. When we were in eighth grade, we’d had a movie marathon. Since neither of us could drive, we had to choose movies from his dad’s collection. We’d picked Wayne’s World, Tommy Boy, and Billy Madison. Absolute classics. People still quoting them today is totally understandable.

“I heard he’s—” Drew began.

“Douchey?” I supplied.

Drew snorted. “Exactly.”

“He’s not so bad. I’ve learned how to rein him in.”

“I bet. He’s got a reputation with you ladies.”

“Oh my gosh, Drew! That’s not what I was talking about.” I smacked his thigh. “I meant, Viktor will kick his arrogant Russian ass if he steps out of line.”

“Okay, good. I don’t want to hear that you were one of his conquests.”

“He knows I’m not a bunny.”

“You’re a hot girl hanging around hockey players. To them you’re a bunny.”

Frowning, I gave Drew a sidelong glance. “For my job,” I emphasized.

“Don’t get involved with him, Auden.”

The big-brother role, which I’d appreciated every other time he’d played it, annoyed me now. Where did he get off trying to interfere in my dating life? I held back my anger, as I always did with my friends. I didn’t have very many, so there was no reason to rock the boat with the close ones I had.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I called him out in the locker room in front of his team. It was in Russian, but I think he got the point.”

“The bunnies say he’s a total dick afterward.”

“Oh! So this is really about you trying to hook up with Varenkov’s leftovers? No wonder you’re mad,” I joked, massaging his shoulder in an attempt to ease the tension between us.

“Just looking out for you.” He shrugged off my hand. And my comment.

“Thanks, Drewseph. I appreciate your concern,” I said, hoping my sincerity was apparent.

A few silent minutes later, Drew whipped his Explorer into a parking spot at Kerby Field.

Instead of following Drew toward the group of guys warming up near one of the soccer goals, I scouted out an empty patch of grass on the sideline near the white chalk line and sat down. The dry, brittle blades prickled my calves when I tugged off my warm-up pants. Though the ground was hard and frozen, the grass’s earthy scent was so ingrained in me, the memory of the smell alone brought me close to tears.

Being cut from Central State’s soccer team hadn’t been a hit only on my college finances. It majorly bruised my entire sense of self. Soccer, the one thing I excelled at and never gave up on, had been taken away from me.

Coach Tamber’s words still echoed in my head: There’s no easy way to put this, Berezin, but we’re gonna have to cut you. We’ve got some talented upcoming freshman, and we need to make room. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to walk on next year. I just can’t hold your spot.

Or my scholarship. Or my pride. Or how I’d defined myself for the last fourteen years. See ya, Soccer Girl.

I should have realized my dismissal was imminent, having sat the bench for both of my two seasons on the team. Most players sat as freshmen, but when sophomore year came and went and I still hadn’t been subbed in, I saw the writing on the wall. Still, I hung on to that last optimistic thread of the severed rope I’d been grasping, hoping I’d get my chance. Was I the most talented player? No. But I worked my ass off and practiced harder than anyone on the team.

Shaking my head to dismiss the thoughts, I checked out the crowded field. Guys I’d known for years scattered across the grass. A few went to high school with Drew and me, but the majority were guys that Drew had played with on travel hockey teams. As the only girl who’d ever been invited to play, you’d think I’d have dates for the rest of the year. But no. None of the guys had ever expressed interest in me. Granted, I’d been shy in high school, but still, not one of them found me even remotely attractive?

No wonder I went boy crazy when I got to Central State.

A few feet away from me, a guy jumped up and down tapping the top of his ball in an alternating pattern, left foot then right foot. It was someone I hadn’t seen at the field before but recognized immediately.

Aleksandr, in all of his soccer-shorts-wearing, Mohawk-pulled-back-in-a-ponytail, ridiculously muscled glory. His thighs and calves alone were a testament to how much time he spent working out off the ice. As my gaze traveled upward, my mind flashed an image of his half-naked body. I blinked a few times as if that would erase the memory of the magnificent work of art under his shirt.

Without thinking, I ran up behind him and stole the ball he was tapping on.

“Hey!” Aleksandr called, looking up with narrowed eyebrows as I darted away. His annoyance faded, and he smiled. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”