Page 2 of With the Assist

“Send the fruit basket after you win.” Her hug is warm, and it calms the storm of anxiety brewing inside me. She’s always believed in me more than I believe in myself.

My commitment to soccer has nothing to do with ego or believing I’m the best. It’s necessity. It’s been my life for so long that I don’t know how to carve it out of me. I stopped trying to a long time ago.

Avery leans in, fixing a loose curl near my temple. “Coach Bennett would hunt you down if you skipped.”

I sigh. “She already threatened an extra conditioning session.”

Harper winces, tucking a piece of her blond hair behind her ear. “That’s cruel.”

“Ha. That’s supposed to be a deterrent?” Avery jokes. “Extra training for you is like orgasms for me. Never enough.”

Harper and I both choke on our cookies.

“You are so wrong.” I slap her shoulder. “Even if you aren’t actually wrong at all.” I sigh. “She knows I wouldn’t let the team down, even if I do hate this.”

Avery rolls her eyes. “You hate social events. You secretly love winning awards.”

“I love winning games,” I correct. “Awards are for the ego.”

Harper laughs. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“You’d think after seven years together, you’d be less averse to fun.” Avery brushes more blush onto my cheeks.

She’s been my glam expert since freshman year, back when we both played for Boston College. I wish I could say I had more fun back then, but I wasn’t much better. Still, we fell in love with this city together.

After college, I managed to get a contract here, and after one season apart professionally, the soccer gods shone down on us, and Avery signed with Boston, too.

Now, as she touches up my makeup for the hundredth time, I realize it isn’t the makeover that I hate. It’s what the night represents. Shaking hands with people who don’t even know what a center midfielder is while standing next to one.

As women in sports, we’re expected to mix and mingle, always wearing a smile on our faces while people act like they know more about our sport than we do.

The mansplaining at these kinds of events is usually out of control. And while I prefer to stay quiet, I have a hard time biting my tongue when people deserve to be put in their place.

“I have fun.”

“What’s the last fun thing you did?” Avery challenges.

Shit. My mind actually comes up blank. Empty. That should be the only sign I need to know that they’re right, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

“I ran that 10k for the animal shelter.”

“You mean the one you took so seriously you trained for it?” Harper asks, standing and curling her shirt up to catch the falling cookie crumbs.

“Says the girl who married an accountant,” I fire back.

Harper shoots me a look as she dumps the crumbs into the trash. “James is a very exciting accountant.”

“Name one exciting thing he’s done,” Avery demands.

“He proposed to me at midfield, during my last collegiate soccer game.”

Avery and I exchange a look, silently acknowledging how little we understand her choice to give up her dreams for a guy utterly undeserving of the sacrifice.

A brief silence settles over the room, and I regret prodding at her. Talking about her soccer career and early retirement makes her nostalgic. It’s like when a song you haven’t heard in years comes on, and you still know all the words.

She’d been more talented than Avery and I combined despite being three years younger. When James, her high school sweetheart, proposed, she gave it all up and married him the second she graduated this past summer.

Considering she would’ve been able to play anywhere she wanted, I’d be lying if I said her choice didn’t bum me out. All three of us playing on the same team, kicking ass and owning the field together, would’ve been a dream.