Chapter 18: Training Distraction
The sun was a brutal, white glare off the cracked training pitch. Eli drove a ball into the top corner of the net with a force that should have been satisfying. The thwack against the ribbed nylon was sharp, final. It meant nothing.
His body was here, executing drills with mechanical precision. His mind was twenty miles and twelve hours away, tangled in dark sheets and the smell of burnt toast. The memory of her weight on him, the way she’d looked riding him in the quiet dawn, played on a relentless loop behind his eyes. It was a distraction so complete it felt like a physical displacement, as if part of him was still back in the apartment, in that bed.
“Oi, Bedfield! You planning on actually passing today, or are you just here for the cardio?” Marco, his longtime teammate, jogged past, slapping him on the shoulder. The contact was jarring.
Eli grunted, retrieving the ball. “Shut up, Ricci.”
“Touchy. Someone didn’t get his beauty sleep.” Marco’s smirk was knowing. “Or maybe he got too much of something else.”
Eli ignored him, lining up another shot. He focused on the ball, the clean strike, the geometry of the goal. For a second, it worked. Then his phone, tucked in the pocket of his training bib, buzzed against his hip.
It was an unfamiliar sensation. He never had it on him during sessions. Marco would have given him endless shit for it. But after the call from his agent, after Hadley had left and the silence of the apartment had become a roaring, oppressive thing, he’d slipped it into his pocket. A pathetic tether.
He told himself it was for emergencies. Club officials, his agent. Practical.
He dribbled the ball toward the shaded bench under the old oak, pulling the phone out as he went. The screen was slick with his sweat. He tapped it.
It was a selfie. Hadley, in paint-splattered overalls, her hair a wild mess piled on top of her head. She was squinting against the sun, a grin taking over her whole face. In her hand was a fistful of brilliant, unruly dahlias, the same burnt-orange as the late afternoon light. The caption read: Miss me yet?
His breath left him in a rush. He fumbled the water bottle he’d just picked up. It hit the baked earth with a dull thud, rolling away.
“Whoa.” Marco had followed him, stooping to grab the bottle. He handed it back, his eyes flicking from Eli’s face to the phone screen still glowing in his hand. The smirk returned, softer this time. “Ah. So that’s the seismic event. Good for you, mate. Seriously.”
Eli didn’t hear him. He was lost in the pixels. In the fleck of green paint on her cheekbone. In the crinkle at the corner of her eyes. The flowers looked like they’d been grabbed, not picked, an impulsive burst of color. Just like her. He could almost smell them, earthy and sweet, cutting through the sterile scents of grass and sweat.
“She’s trouble, isn’t she?” Marco said, taking a long swig from his own bottle.
“You have no idea,” Eli murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her smile on the screen.
“The best ones always are. Makes life less boring.” Marco clapped him on the back again. “Now, for the love of God, either text her back or focus. Coach is giving you the death stare.”
Eli looked up. Across the pitch, the manager stood with his arms crossed, a scowling statue. The world snapped back into focus—the shouts, the whistle, the punishing sun. The cocoon of memory shattered.
He tapped out a reply, his big fingers clumsy on the small keyboard. You’re a distraction. A beautiful, perfect distraction. Those flowers are lucky. He hesitated, then added, Yes.
He locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket. It felt like he’d sealed a piece of the sun in there, a warm, humming secret against his thigh.
The rest of the session passed in a strange duality. His feet were on the turf. His mind was in a flower shop, or a studio, wherever she was. He played better, somehow. The tension that usually coiled him spring-tight was gone, replaced by a fluid, almost reckless clarity. He made a pass so audacious Marco just stared at him. He tracked back and dispossessed a winger with a clean, calm tackle that drew a rare nod from the scowling coach.
It was because he wasn’t thinking about the game. He was thinking about her laugh. He was thinking about the way she’d choked down his terrible eggs without complaint. He was playing free, because a part of him was already free, already elsewhere.
In the locker room later, under the buzz of fluorescents and the cloud of steam and cheap citrus soap, the noise was a wall. Televisions blared sports news, men shouted, towels snapped. Eli sat in front of his locker, the din washing over him. He pulled out his phone again. No new message. A stupid, sharp pang of disappointment hit him.
“So,” Marco said, dropping onto the bench beside him, his voice low. “The mysterious Hadley. She the one who finally got through the fortress walls?”
Eli scrubbed a towel over his face. “Something like that.”
“And the crooked poster?”
Eli froze, the towel hiding his face. He slowly lowered it. “What about it?”
Marco’s grin was wide. “You mentioned it, once, after a few too many. Said it was the one thing in your perfect museum of an apartment that was allowed to be off. I figured it was a girl. This her?”
The casual deduction, the evidence of his own past vulnerability, was unsettling. He gave a single, tight nod.
“Good.” Marco’s tone lost its teasing edge. “It’s about time, Eli. You’ve been living in a glass box for years. Pretty to look at, empty as hell inside. It’s not good for a man.” He stood up, grabbing his kit bag. “Just… try not to overthink it into oblivion, yeah? Not everything is a tactical maneuver.”
He walked away, leaving Eli alone in the crowded, noisy room.
Overthink it into oblivion. That was his specialty. His agent’s call that morning had been a masterclass in potential complications. Sponsorship optics, scheduling conflicts, the voracious appetite of the tabloids for any scrap of his private life. Marco was right. His life was a series of calculated, defensive maneuvers. Letting someone in wasn't just a risk; it was a strategic nightmare.
But as he drove home, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold, the phantom scent of dahlias seemed to linger in the car. The memory of her breathless gasp in the grey morning was louder than any agent’s warning. The fortress walls, for so long his only protection, now felt like what they were: cold, hard, and utterly, desolately empty.
He pulled into the underground garage of his building. The silence there was absolute, tomb-like. He sat for a moment in the dark, the engine tick-ticking as it cooled.
He wasn’t just missing her. He was missing the version of himself he became when she was there. The one who could laugh at burnt toast. The one who left a poster crooked on purpose.
He took out his phone one last time. He didn’t text. He called.
It rang twice before she answered. “Hey,” she said, her voice warm, a little raspy. He could hear traffic, life, in the background.
“Hey.” The word felt too small for everything lodged in his chest. “Those flowers. What did you do with them?”
Her laugh was a quiet, delighted sound. “They’re in a mason jar on my windowsill. They’re kind of lopsided. I’m no florist.”
“I want to see them,” he said, the decision solidifying as the words left his mouth. “I want to see where you put them.”
The pause on the other end was filled with the distant honk of a horn. “Now? It’s a mess here. I was just cleaning brushes.”
“Yes. Now.” He was already unbuckling his seatbelt. The momentum was carrying him, a forward pass with no clear receiver, just instinct. “Give me the address. I’m coming over.”