Page 7 of Reckless Goals

Too risky.

Too reckless.

“You can take off,” she yawned as she got closer to me. “I’ll take the balls to the storage room and clean up.”

“Hell no, I can…” I trailed off when my eyes caught the redness of her skin. Her stomach was almost blistered with a round area where the ball had hit her earlier. “Oh shit.”

Without thinking, I closed the distance between us, and took my hand to her stomach, gently running the tips of my fingers over the edges of her sore. She stiffened, but didn’t stop me, watching as I tested the pain she was feeling. Goosebumps rose on her skin and her breathing started to get ragged.

“Oh fuck,” I whispered, anger starting to stir up in me. I have kicked soccer balls at a million people and never left a mark. Not like the one on Ash’s stomach. Regret was seeping into me, and I started to shake my head as I backed away.

“I had no idea it was even there. It doesn't hurt anymore.”

I could hear the desperation in her voice, wanting to save me from the anger that had undoubtedly started to surface.

“Fuck.” It was the only word I could say, and I was repeating it over and over again as I began to pace in front of her.

“Rhys,” she tried getting my attention, but I was now the one that couldn't focus. All I could think of were ways to make it better. An apology wasn’t enough. The only thing that came to mind was to buy her a car, add an apology note, and maybe a red bow.

“I didn’t think I kicked it that hard,” I tried explaining, a grimace on my face as I squinted toward her stomach again.

Finally, her laughter stirred me from my self-loathing, and my eyes found hers. “We are a mess. We need to decide who's going to be the crazy one. It can’t be both of us.”

“Do you need a car?” I was serious, but her laughter got louder.

“No,” she waved me off, shaking her head. Her attention had turned toward the slew of balls in the middle of the field and she started putting them in the netted storage bag. “It was an accident, go home.”

My face scrunched up and my lips curled in confusion. “That wasn’t an accident.”

“Luck, then.”

“Not luck.”

She stopped loading balls into the bag and looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Whatever you want to call it, it's fine. And I think it’s safe to say that you’ve been nominated as the crazy one.”

I nodded, agreeing with her—I was losing my shit. But it wasn’t because I kicked her so hard, it was because of how much I cared. I started backing away, knowing I needed to get out of there. The whole night had been nothing like I expected it to be.

When I got to my car, I realized my fingers were still tingling from touching her, and my head was still spinning with anger at myself for hurting her.

What the fuck, Rhys?

ChapterFour

Ash

Rhys Peyton was nothing like I imagined him being when I first realized he was there to run drills with me. I imagined a cocky playboy with a little swagger, and very self-absorbed. Some of that peeked through, but ultimately, he was just a guy that loved the game.

When we finally started kicking the ball around and playing one-on-one, the awkwardness and anger I had felt, drifted away. We both focused on what we loved and how we knew to play.

Most plays, Rhys bested me, but I expected that–he wasn’t a world champion because he was just so-so. But those few times I got past him made my own swagger soar a little. I hadn’t felt like that after practice in a long time.

Thoughts that always weighed on me seemed to be suppressed. The pain of losing my grandparents, and the fact that they never got to see me play at the college level. Guilt that they had to sacrifice so much for me always lingered. Grandpa used to sell his model cars just to pay for my cleats, and grandma canned jellies to pay for the uniforms. It should have made me want to play harder, but it usually made me shut down. I never knew if I would be able to play the next season of soccer so I never made it my dream, or part of my goals.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I never wanted to be like my mother. She had a child she didn’t want and couldn’t take care of. She prioritized herself over my needs, and was too selfish to even worry about how hard my grandparents struggled to raise me. It had been almost a year since I had heard from her, but I knew she kept tabs on me in case she ever needed something. Not that I had much to give, but that didn’t discount me as a tool she could use, if necessary. If I thought about her too much, I usually panicked, so having those worries shoved to the side for the night felt good.

No panic, no pain.

There was even a smile on my face as I hopped into my shower and then climbed into bed. I pulled my laptop up to get some work done on a paper that was due soon, about the concepts around the Dirichlet–Jordan test. But as much as math fascinated me, it seemed to pale in comparison to spending the evening yelling at Rhys Peyton. It was hard to get my mind off of everything that had happened, how crazy the whole night was. Eventually, I scrubbed the paper, and found my way to YouTube, typing in Rhys’ name.

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