Page 2 of Falling Offsides

Then another.

I nod again, mostly to myself. “Okay. I’m going in.”

“Atta girl. And hey—remember: see Number Sixteen? That’s Matheo Hillier. He looks like he commits war crimes in the bedroom. If you don’t send me photographic proof, I will file a formal complaint.”

“You are so broken.” A snort bursts from me at the same time as I step inside the expansive lobby. It’s all concrete and white walls with the purple, navy, and gold team colors accenting the modern space. It smells nice weirdly, like when a supermarket pumps the bakery smell straight tothe front of the store. Except it’s more of a masculine leather and lavender scent.

“Okay, Dee, I’m inside. I’m doing this.”

“Yeah, you fucking are!”

“I am.”

“I am your biggest fan. Now go kick some ass, Nilsson.”

With one last exhale, I hang up and just as I put my phone away?—

“Court!”

I leap out of my skin at my Dad’s booming call.

Coach Bobby Nilsson is standing behind the reception desk, all Comets gear and proud smile. He’s barely changed—still tall and commanding, even with a little more gray at the temples.

Seeing him has my chest doing all kinds of weird shit. It doesn’t know whether to squeeze or relax. A myriad of excitement, anxiety and relief confusing my synapses. Because in spite of everything, Dad always makes me feel safe. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other or spoken. He’s always mydaddy.

Hoisting my backpack over my shoulder, I grip my suitcase tighter as I meander to the reception desk where he has an ID dancing from his finger on a Comets’ lanyard. “Hi, Coach.”

“You made it.” He sweeps me into a brief hug. It’s awkward, a little stiff—but so darn welcome, I allow myself to relax into him. “Everything go okay?”

“Flight was fine. Uber was…Uber.”

“Well, you’re here now and you can breathe easy.”

With one last top to toe glance when I release him and pull back, he gestures for me to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

We move through the facility in silence, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floors. Even though Dad’s being purposefully cautious with what he says and does, he’s practically beaming.

I don’t know if it makes me happy or whether his pride is making my nerves worse. Both, I think.

We turn into a busy hallway. People are running around, prepping for the first day of summer camp. Rookies are being shown around, drafts being given the lay of the land. Yet, the instant my father’s presence is felt everything quietens, ready for instruction.

Before we get too close for anyone to hear, I blurt, “I don’t want anyone to know.”

He slows, turning to me with a pulled brow. “What?”

“I don’t want the team knowing I’m your daughter. I’m just the temp photographer. That’s it.”

His brows lift, the corners of his mouth tug down. Still, he nods after a beat. “All right. You got it.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds with narrowed eyes, “you eat lunch with me. In my office. Every day.”

I open my mouth to argue because that’s a bad idea. Worse than people knowing Coach Nilsson is my dad… they’re going to think something worse…gross.

“And,” he continues, “if you don’t want to stay with me, fine. But dinner—once a week.”

Trying to fix the awkwardness I’ve just caused with my request, I give him a faint smile. “We don’t have to force plans, Dad. Let’s just take it day by day. Okay?”

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