Page 40 of Winning Brynn

Leo Sullivan is a first-prize asshole.

That said, I still don't fully understand the whole influencer thing, but then, I guess it isn't too far off from the sponsorship deals I do. And photoshoots can be hard work, man. All sweaty and shit because apparently international fashion empires don't put much stock in air-conditioning, particularly back in the UK.

That's one of the perks of living in the States, I will admit. The AC. And trust me, the list of perks isn't very long at all. Target and air-conditioning, that's it.

But I digress.

Modeling is hard, marketing is harder, and maintaining a consistent social media presence is a fucking ball ache. So, maybe I don't totally get building a career out of those things, but I can set aside my pride and former judgments to admit that, yeah, actually, it's probably pretty hard work.

And she's good at it.

So I hear, anyway.

I didn't spend hours on the flight to Chicago scrolling through her Instagram while she sat in the seats in front of me with my daughter on her lap. Not once did I have to think about Alex's man bun to stop myself from getting hard because some of her posts really toe the line between effortless sophistication and outright sex appeal.

And cerulean blue is certainly NOT my favorite color now simply because of the bikini she was wearing in a photo of her vacationing in the Bahamas.

I'm not a pervert.

I just mean that I'd probably buy that swimsuit in a heartbeat if I didn't have a dick. Good at her job, that's all I'm saying.

And now I'm staring at her again—by accident, obviously—as she stands in the VIP suite with Salem on her hip, watching the game. I'm not the only one either. The boys could hardly contain themselves on the plane over here, sneaking glances in her direction or even gawking at her, just as they're doing now.

My poor best friend. He's spent the last eighteen hours deflecting any and all attention away from his sister, so midway through the match, when Coach Carter swaps him out for Rutherford—nice enough guy, bit of a dickhead player—I think he's just grateful for the rest.

Little psycho needs a nap.

His exhaustion is what I'm blaming for his decision to nominate Theo as team captain for the remainder of the game. Because seriously? The dude sank seven beers in the hotel bar last night and could barely remember his own name this morning.

But fine.

Whatever.

I'm not bitter at all.

It's not as if we've been playing for seventy minutes and have yet to score a goal. And sure, it's a friendly, but I'm pretty sure we haven't touched the ball at all for the last fifteen minutes, which is, quite frankly, pitiful.

And it's no one’s individual fault.

We're all playing like shit. Though, thankfully, so is the other team.

Another ten minutes pass of benign plays that get us no closer to winning, and I can see Coach's face grow increasingly more purple in color in my periphery. I guess he grows sick of our shit when Chicago Fire makes a failed corner that ultimately sends the ball soaring into the stands behind the goal, leading him to perform a rapid—and somewhat aggressive—series of hand gestures at Theo, who looks back at him with bleary eyes.

Though, to Theo's credit, he communicates the new set of instructions to the rest of us with more efficiency than I knew him capable of.

Formation change. Center midfielder—aka me—to push forward after the goal kick. We have about five seconds to process the information before Arun sends the ball flying down the center line, where it's received by Rutherford, who's flanked by two Chicago Fire defenders.

But the dickhead doesn't even look up. Doesn't check on the rest of the team for open players, like me, who's currently hurtling down the left wing without opposition. So, I shout. Then shout again. Finally, he looks up, and his eyes meet mine.

Say what you want about the guy, but he can execute an excellent through ball.

It finds me where I need it to, and I keep running. There's a player on my tail now, but I'm too close to the box for him to do anything about it, and the keeper is coming for me and spreading himself wide to protect the goal, leaving his legs the perfect width apart for me to send the ball gliding through them and into the bottom right corner of the net.

I'm flattened to the grass as my teammates throw themselves on top of me in celebration, whooping and hollering so loudly I can barely hear the chants of the dedicated Seattle Strikers fans who came to watch.

Through the corner of my eye, I can just about make out Coach's face, which looks somewhat less purple now, though still a hearty shade of maroon.

But there's only one person I want to see right now.

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