Page 2 of Offside Rule

All the guys wandered away from their spots.

“Get back on the field.” Coach rushed us, massaging his bald head.

I stopped in my tracks, the rest of my teammates behind me. “Unless you get your shit together and start training the rest of us, I’m not coming back on the field.”

While I had never spoken to him that way, I was done with his bullshit. He could throw me off the team for talking back to him if he wanted to, but that was better than losing on the world stage. It was better than coming back home with our heads hung low, too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone.

It was time he realized what he could lose if he didn’t come back to his senses.

Coach opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes darted to his son, and his lips glued back together. That was the only answer I needed; he wasn’t going to stop me. So I left.

Coach might’ve been my uncle, but this team was his responsibility, and we were going to lose tomorrow’s game. He still had a chance to make things right since losing the match wasn’t going to eliminate us, but I just hoped it wasn’t going to be too late.

“You coming to watch the game tonight in the hotel lounge, Xavier? Looks like there’s nothing better to do here.” Micah, our winger, bumped his shoulder into mine. His blond hair had gotten in front of his eyes, so he brushed it back with his fingers.

We were staying at a hotel in Hamburg, ten minutes away from the stadium where we were about to get our asses kicked in less than twenty-four hours.

I shook my head. “Nah.”

“You sure? We got free booze,” he tried to convince me.

“I’ll pass tonight. And you shouldn’t drink before a match,” I told him before walking into the locker room.

“It’s Germany, bro. The land of beer. It would be offensive not to have at least one.” He winked, a wide grin on his face.

Even if I didn’t go hang out with the team, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t want to watch the game. England and Italy were playing, and since we were going to be on the same field as England tomorrow, I wanted to see their weak points one last time before meeting them. It was a hell of a good team, and we needed to prepare both mentally and physically. It wasn’t going to be an easy match.

So instead of staying in my hotel room, I decided to walk into a random bar close by. As much as I loved my teammates, I needed to be alone after the day we’d had.

The bar had brick walls and wooden floors, with an L-shaped bar where a row of stools stood. On the other side hung a large TV.

This would do for tonight.

I took a place on one of the stools, supporting my back with the bar as I bounced my leg. I watched the teams enter the field, observing their faces, their emotions, and how tense or ready they were. The game began once each team had sung their national anthem.

I was nervous about tomorrow, I had to admit. It was my first time playing in a championship and I didn’t take it for granted—unlike our coach.

Shit, I wanted to squeeze the life out of him for what he’d done today. Favoring someone is different than pushing the whole team aside. He may have been a star in his youth, but that didn’t mean he was a good coach now.

When the match started, I tried to focus all my attention on their attack and defense. They were clearly killing it with their defense, but missing something with the attack. It was like theydidn’t communicate at all. One player wanted to pass the ball to another to shoot, but they hesitated and lost any chance to score.

“Offside,” I whispered under my breath, because I could clearly see that England’s striker had been in front of the Italian defender when they’d struck.

“It’s not offside.” I heard a feminine voice next to me, and my head flew in her direction instinctively.

She had piercing green eyes, and burning red hair that was all curled up in a bun on top of her head. Her cheek was resting on her shoulder as she uninterestedly watched the game, as if she already knew the outcome.

I let out an offended puff, more bothered than I should’ve been.

“Itwasoffside, just wait for the replay,” I argued with her as my Spanish accent slipped, then pointed at the screen in front of us.

The woman tugged her crop top lower on her stomach as she leaned forward, planting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. “You’re wrong. Antonio had his foot in front of the ball before Harry hit.”

I opened my mouth to contradict her again, but I realized I shouldn’t bother. “What do you know about football, anyway?”

Just as I turned my eyes back to the TV, the channel replayed the clip while the referee talked to the back team to make a decision. I squinted my eyes, sweat sliding down my back.

The two players ran at the same pace next to each other, and when Harry ran to score, he was two steps in front of Antonio. I waited for a close-up where they showed …

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