Page 25 of Romancing My Grumpy Goalie

“Come on back,” Mike says, leading me through the door.

We head back to a room, and I climb onto the table. After working on my mobility, he sends me back to the gym area, and we work on my cutting drills, which I’ve been cleared to do.

Cutting drills are exactly what they sound like—sprinting in one direction, then slamming on the brakes and darting the other way like your life depends on it. Which, in soccer, it kind of does. If your knee isn’t solid, that move will tear it apart faster than a bad divorce.

This is a big step for me, but I’ve been pushing harder to get to the next level. Mike notices, too.

“If you push too hard, you can delay full clearance by months,” he warns me.

I hold back a groan. Can this get any more frustrating?

“You’re good enough to play for Roanoke, but not yet stable enough for the kind of explosive pressure you’d face in Atlanta.”

“When can I expect to be there?”

He sighs. “It’s hard to say. You’ve plateaued. But for now, we can keep working on these cutting drills.”

I nod. It’s not what I want to hear at all. The last thing I want is to be stuck playing for the Forge. I’ve fought my entire life for a spot on the Arsenal, and when I finally got it, everything fell into place for me. Only to have my dream ripped from me five years into my contract. And right before it was time to renew it.

“I want to keep you coming to the clinic two to three times per week for monitoring, testing, and conditioning.”

I hardly register his words. The word plateau keeps circulating in my mind.

I’m doomed to be stuck in this town for eternity.

I walk down Main Street after exiting the local bookstore. I found a couple of books on sports history that look interesting. You’d be surprised what you can learn from those who went before us. I still have had no breakfast, so I stop by Josie’s Coffee Shop, which is next door.

Outside the shop, planters are full of blooming daffodils. As soon as I step inside, I’m met with a warm, cozy atmosphere and a mixture of cinnamon, espresso, and vanilla in the air. Laid back indie music plays, and Josie stands behind the glass case of muffins and bagels. Behind her, a chalkboard displays the menu, where she offers her own blend of coffee, a Maple Creek staple.

I step up to the register. “I’ll have your special blend. Black.” I want to taste it without interference from creamer or sweetener.

“Lucas!”

I turn, and Nolan runs toward me, eyes bright. Behind him, Anabelle is sitting at a table with drinks and food.

“You should come sit with us!” Nolan insists.

“Will that be all for you?” Josie asks.

“Uh, sure.” I shove my card in the reader. I take my coffee from Josie, and Nolan tugs my hand toward his table. “It looks like I’m having my mind made up for me.”

“You look like you really mind,” Anabelle says.

I really don’t. But I should. Because Anabelle is wearing one of those sweatsuits that are a matching set, and her hair is down in waves like she’s just come off a photo shoot. And there’s something different about her. Fresher somehow.

She’s holding an iced coffee and takes a sip. I can’t help but focus on her lips as they close around the straw.

“Come on, Lucas. Don’t just stand there. Take a seat. We have room at our table for you.”

Anabelle smiles. Her face looks like she’s wearing one of those filters from social media, only she’s just that pretty. Sheprobably performed some kind of makeup trick, but whatever she did, she’s very good at it.

That breaks the trance. “Uh, sure.” I pull back a chair and sit. How can I deny this kid anything?

“You didn’t get anything to eat?” Anabelle asks.

I look down. I got so flustered by her being there that I forgot to order a muffin.

“We bought too much,” she tells me. “Would you like this blueberry one?”

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