Page 21 of With the Assist

This guy makes millions. He has coaches, trainers, regimens, and a million other things at his disposal. Why would he need me?

“Why?”

He exhales slowly. “It’s a contract year, and my stats suck. I’m at risk of losing my contract altogether if I don’t turn it around.”

It seems like he is playing fine, by the way ESPN raves about him. You’d think he is God’s gift to earth the way they talk about him.

“What does that have to do with me?” I let my hair down before pulling it into a tighter ponytail.

“The first couple of practices and games after I worked out with you, I performed better.”

“That could be a fluke,” I argue, because surely he can’t actually think one practice with me is responsible for his hat trick the next day.

Yes, I know he had a hat trick. Professional interest. That’s all.

“Maybe, but it felt good. I haven’t been challenged that way without all the pressure in a long time. I’ve been doing the same drills and exercises for so long, but training with you was different. It helped.”

My pulse stutters at the implication that I inspired something in him. I tell myself he’s only referring to the workout, but my heart beats faster anyway.

“Will you help me out?” His voice drops, quieter now. “Just a couple of days a week. Nothing crazy.” Hope shines in his eyes as if I’m his only chance.

I feel for him. I know what burnout and complacency look like, even if you still love what you do. I’ve watched teammates struggle with those issues at every level. I want to help.

But…

The last time I let myself be talked into something, back in college, I almost lost my scholarship.

My family needs me to concentrate on one thing, and it’s not him. If I say yes, it might help him, but it could hurt me. Besides, spending too much time with him feels dangerous in a way I can’t afford.

“I can’t,” I say finally.

He deflates. “It was probably a stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid. I just don’t have time to commit to that. I’m chasing the National Team, and I can’t risk messing up my own progress.”

He nods, but his jaw twitches.

I know he gets it. Athletes understand sacrifice better than most. His own commitment to his sport is the only reason he’d swallow his pride and ask for my help in the first place.

“In case you change your mind.” He pulls out a piece of paper with his number on it.

“I won’t.” I don’t toss it aside, instead tucking it into my pocket. The lone butterfly in my stomach is impossible to ignore.

His crooked grin appears, but this time it’s layered with a resignation that cuts into me. “You’re brutal, you know that?”

“I don’t have a choice but to be.” It’s not snappy, just honest.

In my life, there’s only one thing that gets me where I need to go: unwavering dedication to soccer. Anything else is wasted energy.

His head tilts, smugness blending with earnest curiosity. “What if you did have a choice?”

I swallow, refusing to answer. I don’t consider it for more than a second because it’s hypothetical anyway.

“Anyway,” He motions to the pocket I’ve slipped his number into. “Give me a call when you change your mind.”

Then, he turns and walks away.

“I told you I don’t have time to train with you.” My voice echoes across the field.