Page 56 of Relationship Goals

What is sometimes the hallmark of a great athlete can also be the hallmark of an absolute asshole in a relationship.

I cannot bulldoze Abigail Hunt. I cannot satisfy whatever this craving is for her just to get my way off the Aces and back to Seattle.

I repeat the words to myself as I pull my duffel from the back seat and walk into the arena. I want to get home to my mother, to my family, help my sister and my stepdad with her.

I want to give back to the one parent who didn’t leave me.

Unlike my father. My father, who taught me to play soccer. Who left when I was eleven. Who I just thought if I could be good enough for, he would come back.

The father who forgot so many birthdays the forgetting is almost all I remember of them. The father I left tickets for at will call every game of my first pro season, who promised to come.

He never did.

I was never good enough.

I haven’t left a ticket for him again.

My knuckles are white where I clutch the handle of my bag. The sun beats down overhead, near blinding me when I emerge from the parking garage near the stadium.

I can’t do this.

Using Abigail to get where I want, even if it’s home to be with my sick mom, is somethinghewould do. He made us all love him, madeus think we were important, until it became clear that he was the only important thing in his world. A lesson I learned much too late.

There’s a smattering of paparazzi here already, and I scowl at them, which they love, all the while telling myself I need to leave Abigail the hell alone and figure out another way off the Aces. Seattle isn’t that far from LA, after all, and while commuting up there isn’t the same as being down the street from my mom, I can make it work if the asshole owners don’t trade me.

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth.

There is no reason to mix her up any more in this than I already have.

I should call it off with her tonight.

My phone’s in my pocket, and once I’m safely in the locker room, I pull it out, fully intending to cancel our postgame date tonight.

There’s a few texts from her.

My finger floats over the screen. I could delete them unread.

I tap on the messages.

Abigail:Thank you again—I can’t wait to see you play later. I’m excited to cheer you on with your jersey on

Abigail:That was repetitive. Have a good game. Break a leg

Abigail:Shit. That’s something actors say. It’s probably not something soccer players say. I meant good luck.

Abigail:You probably knew that. Don’t break your leg

Abigail:I have plans that involve all your legs and your ballpark frank. Do not break any of the above

Abigail:I’m embarrassed please pretend this conversation never happened

My cheeks hurt, and it startles me to realize I’m smiling wide enough for that to happen. I’m not going to be able to break it off with her.I am not sure I ever will.

Fuck.

Luke:I knew what you meant

Luke:I won’t break a leg if I can help it

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