For the Win (2 page)

Lainey closed her eyes, feeling like her guts had just been ripped out and put on display. It was the first time she'd seen the footage. The pain, the fear, the excruciating disappointment of missing the biggest moment of her career flooded back. This whole day was overwhelming. She belonged on the field, not in front of the cameras like some Hollywood actress.

“Do you have any comments on Lainey's goal?” Grace Mallery purred in Gabe's direction, who looked perfectly relaxed, leaning back with his chair balanced on its hind legs like the cool kid in junior high.

“I think the goal speaks for itself. It was the most beautiful sequence of soccer I've ever seen. Why don't we get a photo of Lukas and me on the field instead?” he suggested with a wink. A symphony of cameras flashed in his direction. He rewarded them with his trademark grin. “What do you say, Lukas? Want to get your first feel for Chester Stadium?”

Any chance of saying no was drowned out by the cajoling of the reporters urging her onto the field. She rose from the table, clenching her fists, and followed him offstage.

Hometown Hero, my ass. More like Hometown Ego. This was
her
press conference, and now Gabe was stealing all the attention away from the Falcons. The Surge already had every advantage over her team: a five-man coaching staff, a full crew of physiotherapists and trainers, a salary cap a dozen times higher, and the adoration of tens of thousands of fans. But it wasn't just about resources. Gabe had some sort of mystical power over the media and, if she was being honest, over her, too. If she had just a fraction of his charm, the Falcons might have secured a broadcast deal ages ago.

She hobbled down the dark concrete corridor leading to the field, wishing that her first time walking through these hallowed halls was not in borrowed, too-small, three-inch heels. She heard a flash of cameras behind her. Discreetly, she reached her hand behind her to smooth her skirt.

Yep. Butt sweat.

With a deep breath, Lainey stepped out into the heart of Chester Stadium. The delicious smell of fresh grass filled her nose and wiped away her fears and doubts. The stands wrapped around the field like loving arms, goalposts rising mightily like David Beckham's finely sculpted legs. So what if this wasn't how she pictured her first time? There may not have been adoring fans packing the stands and screaming her name, but then again, that shit really only happened in bad sports movies. At least she was out of the pressroom, which would from here on out be referred to as the asshole of Chester Stadium.

“Hey.” A hand pressed softly into her back. It was an innocent touch, but it was enough to send Lainey tumbling forward on her death stilts. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her upright before she kissed the dirt.

Lainey clutched those arms—those nice, muscular arms—to steady herself. She twisted around, discovering that those arms were attached to an equally appealing chest. She inhaled the rich, male scent enveloping her and let her gaze travel up to his face to see if it matched the fantasy crafted in her mind.

“You!” She tried to disentangle herself, but Gabe's lazy smile said he was more than comfortable to hang on a little longer.

“I thought you might like an excuse to get out of that pressroom.”

She tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled his ear toward her lips. “I don't need you to rescue me from anything. Got it?”

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Dozens of cameras captured the moment.

A picture is worth a thousand lies, Lainey thought with dread. She righted herself and tried to project an aura of competence and respectability.

“Smile for the camera, sweetheart. That's media lesson one-oh-one,” Gabe whispered to her, standing uncomfortably close.

“I am smiling,” she whispered back through gritted teeth.

“That's a snarl, not a smile. No need to be nervous; there's only a dozen or so reporters here and none from any of the national networks. Just relax and enjoy it,” he added, striking a ridiculous pose for the cameras like he had just scored a goal. “Plus, we make a good-looking couple, don't you think?”

“Quit photo-bombing my press conference!” The only thing a photograph of Lainey in dress clothes next to a muddy, geared-up Gabe Havelak would accomplish is convincing the public that men were the real athletes. “I'm not here to look beautiful. I'm here to sell tickets, and no one is going to take me seriously dressed like a tax accountant when you're all suited up in your practice gear.”

“Waitress,” Gabe whispered back, making her realize her voice had elevated to a shout in her last tirade.

“What?”

“You look like a waitress, not a tax accountant. But a hot waitress.”

Lainey grunted in frustration, pushed herself from his grip, and carefully stepped as far away from him as she could manage—which wasn't very far at all considering her heels kept sinking into the grass. She said a silent prayer for redemption to the soccer gods. Destroying beautiful sod was as grave an offense as blowing a penalty shot over the crossbar.

“Just remind them that the tickets for the women's league are much cheaper than ours,” Gabe whispered earnestly as Lainey stumbled away, clenching her fists.

2

And what a field it is, folks. Twenty-six-thousand-seat capacity. John Chester was passionate about soccer, and it shows in this construction. Little-known fact: he played in England's Football League Second Division in the 1940s before starting Chester Pharmacies. Unfortunately, John Chester passed away before the inaugural game in 1996.

—
Behind the Surge: A Documentary of Seattle's First Professional Soccer Team

STANDING AT THE EDGE
of the field, Gabe watched Lainey fidget uncomfortably in her button-up shirt. He'd never seen her out of uniform. And when she was on the field, it was hard to notice anything beyond her uncanny ability to find the back of the net from any angle. But even in the ill-fitting dress-up clothes she was a knockout. Mile-long legs and an impossibly cute girl-next-door face, complete with a smattering of freckles and warm brown eyes.

A handful of Gabe's teammates emerged from behind the crowd of reporters to join him on the field. None of them had been able to resist the opportunity earlier to sneak past the pressroom on their way to the showers to find out more about the women with whom they'd soon be sharing Chester Stadium.

“So that's your star player, Americano? Meh. In Brazil our athletes are sexy. Strong. Dynamic. She looks like a waitress,” his teammate Zazu said.

“Yeah, but a pretty waitress. The kind that keeps you coming back every day even though the coffee's weak and the food is stale.” Gabe had been a fan of Lukas's since she first burst onto the scene out of nowhere during last year's Women's World Cup. It wasn't just her looks that had him riveted. It was the passion that was blazing out of her, like an aura. It had been a long time since he could remember feeling that kind of fiery enthusiasm for the game. Lainey Lukas was without a doubt the most exciting female soccer player in recent history, but she might also be the world's worst interviewee. He almost felt bad for her, but that little dig at the Surge's prospects of winning this season had stung.

“Pretty? Let me see. Damn, she could serve me all night long.” Gabe knocked Johnny Darling's hand off his shoulder. The nineteen-year-old up-and-comer played with a finesse beyond his years, but he had the libido and maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. “You gonna tap that, Gabe? Send a little ‘Hometown Hero' charm her way?”

Gabe smacked Johnny on the back of the head but smiled inwardly. His reputation with the ladies was exaggerated, but he wasn't about to correct anyone who thought otherwise. Not when that reputation fueled a series of lucrative promotional gigs.

“Why does she keep touching her hair?” Zazu asked with curiosity.

Gabe didn't answer, but he knew. Years of cultivating his own media persona made him extra perceptive of people's on-camera quirks and fidgets. Every time she absentmindedly tucked a wayward brown lock behind her right ear, she quickly untucked it, letting it hang down in front of her eye. She was covering the infamous scar that the media was clamoring to get a close-up of. How could no one else but him understand what really happened that day? The entire soccer world had come to a standstill at that moment. No one cheered when the final whistle blew. The stadium was hauntingly quiet as everyone held their breath, wondering if the star of the tournament, who had just scored the most spectacular goal, would be okay. It was one of the darkest clouds to hover over an international sporting event, and now, more than six months later, it was still marring Lukas's career.

“Coach just told me the Falcons are taking over our practice time. The owner wants them to get a better feel for the pitch, so we're being moved to Cricket Field next month when the season starts,” Johnny said.

“What? Those chicks can't take our practice space. Cricket Field's a shit hole! It's cursed!” Gabe exploded, drawing the crowd of reporters' attention in his direction once again.

Oh hell. Now he'd done it.

Lainey sent him a fierce glare while mouthing the words “those chicks.” She looked ready to tear out his throat. This press conference was about to go from bad to worse, but Gabe wasn't worried about that. Cricket Field was covered in Astroturf, not grass. Every time the Surge had practiced there, the team captain suffered a career-ending injury.

“Any more questions about the Falcons?” Lainey called out to the press hounds.

Mean Jim Green, Gabe's least favorite reporter, stepped forward. “So, to clarify, Ms. Lukas, if you cannot promise the women's league to be bloody or sexy, why the heck would sports fans in Seattle support the Falcons instead of watching real athletes play for the Surge?”

“I guarantee fans will see the highest level of skill and excitement on the field. The top footballers in the world will be playing here.”

“Top female players,” Green corrected with obvious derision.

“Top female players who are every bit as fast, strong, and skilled as any male player,” Lainey shouted back, losing her composure once again.

If she just had a ball . . . Gabe thought as he watched Lainey dig herself deeper and deeper. She could easily turn this press conference around. She just needed to learn how to work the cameras and generate a little excitement. It had been eight months since the World Cup, and the world was overdue for a reminder of just how stellar an athlete Lainey was. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the ball boy gathering up the last few balls from their practice.

“Hey, Johnny,” he whispered to his teammate. “Grab a ball for me, will ya?”

Like a little puppy eager to please his hero, Johnny ran after the ball boy and emerged with a beautiful, round ­size-5 Adidas bouncing skillfully on his forehead.

“Whatever you're gonna do, don't do it. Trust me, man,” Joe Sheridan, the Surge's goalie and voice of reason, cautioned. Gabe trusted his best friend, but he also never got anywhere in life by being cautious.

He ran up to Johnny, gave him a little shove, and snatched the ball away.

“Aww, I almost broke my record!” Johnny whined. “What did you want it for, anyway?”

“This,” Gabe answered slyly, tossing the ball in his hands. “Hey, Lukas!”

Lainey turned as she was announcing the date of next week's preseason game, mouth forming an exaggerated O as the ball he just kicked flew toward her sternum. Like the true athlete she was, she braced her body instantly and cradled the ball in her chest, causing an eardrum-shattering thunk against her portable microphone. She cushioned the ball on her thigh, then instinctively trapped it beneath her heel.

It took an agonizingly slow minute for Lainey to steady herself and for Gabe to realize he should probably have heeded Joe's warning. The crowd of reporters was ominously still, mouths agape. Slowly a rumbling of faint laughter spread until it became an uproar.

With a deer-in-headlights expression, Lainey scanned her clothing, biting her lip when she caught sight of the grass stain on her chest. Then she looked down at her feet.

Her sharp stiletto heel had punctured the now flattened, sad-looking ball.

“Look,” Johnny yelled out in between fits of hysterical giggles, “it's Lainey ‘the Ballbuster' Lukas!”

3

April 3, 1993

Dear Diary,

My name is Lainey and I'm six years old and I like to win. One day I will play in the World Cup and I will win because I am a winner.

LAINEY SETTLED AN ASPHALT
shingle with perfect precision against the snapped chalk line. The serene, mossy West Coast air filled her lungs and coated her skin. She fired the pneumatic nail gun twice, and then repeated the entire process with meticulous fluidity a dozen more times. The repetitive nature of roofing calmed her.

Her concentration only broke when someone below shouted her name. She wiped the dampness from her eyes with the back of her hand and leaned over the edge as far as her safety clip would allow, careful not to lose her balance in the slight drizzle that was making everything a wet, slippery mess. Her uncle Walt was standing on the front lawn, pointing at his watch.

“You're twenty-seven minutes overdue for your break, Lainey.”

“Sorry, Uncle Walt. I'll be down in a few. I just want to finish this row.” With the weather, Lainey was eager to get the roof finished by the end of the day. But Uncle Walt was as stubborn about treating his employees fairly as she was about seeing a job done to perfection. Lainey knew how lucky she was to have this as a second job. The AWSL paid less than most part-time jobs. Some of the lower-ranked players on her team earned less than five figures, not even enough to cover the rent of a one-bedroom apartment in Seattle. Lainey at least made enough with the top up from the National Soccer Federation to live comfortably, but she needed to be more responsible for her future, something that an AWSL salary—even for a top player—would never provide. Not that Lainey was complaining about being paid meagerly to live out her dream, but most of her teammates' off-season jobs didn't offer the flexibility or benefits that she enjoyed. Uncle Walt was letting her continue on during the season by picking up whatever hours worked for her.

She quickly finished and scuttled down the ladder to join Walt and their coworker Mike, who were hanging out on the front lawn of the modest two-story house.

“Big soccer star showing the rest of us up on the job, huh?” Mike ribbed as he handed her a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich from the lunch cooler. Though he was as old as Walt, and blue-collar to the bone, Mike never made her feel inferior or unwelcome on-site. He respected her work ethic, and that was that. Lainey had picked up the trade during the years she spent living with her favorite uncle and Aunt Marnie as a teenager. She'd convinced her parents to let her train with a team in Seattle, where she could play at a much more competitive level than in Nebraska. In exchange for room and board and endless rides to and from practice, she pitched in with her uncle's roofing business. It'd started with her running around like a gopher, passing the men whatever tools they needed. But it turned out she had a natural affinity for the trade.

“If I really were a big star, I wouldn't need this job,” she answered wistfully in between bites. The Falcons were unquestionably world-class athletes, but until they could reel in a proper fan base and secure the future of their franchise, the word “star” just didn't seem to fit. And after the disaster of a press conference she'd experienced the day before, the chances of the Falcons folding were higher than ever. Given the spectacular catastrophe of her World Cup final, she wondered if she wasn't destined to become the laughingstock of the soccer world.

“You sure about that?” Walt asked, nodding toward the bungalow across the street. A young girl, about ten years old, was peering at them with wide eyes from the side of the house. Lainey waved. The girl ducked her face and ran out of sight.

“I don't think I'm cut out for stardom,” she answered, trying to banish the press conference from her mind. “All I want is to play the beautiful game.”

“All you want is to win,” Walt corrected.

Lainey smiled. “Isn't that the whole point of playing?”

Her uncle's expression sobered. “Are you making friends at least?”

“I've got you and Mike.”

When the pair gave her matching pointed looks, she followed up with, “What? We gossip all day, and you give me excellent fashion advice. I saw an episode of
Sex and the City
once. I know that's what girlfriends do.” She ran her fingers down her secondhand, oversize denim coveralls, which were de rigueur at Walt's Roofing Co. “Okay, okay. Look, I've already played with some of the ladies on Team USA.”

“Sure, but you didn't have any friends on Team USA,” Walt added.

Lainey groaned. It was the same conversation they'd had when she first came to spend the summer with him at fourteen years old. And every subsequent year thereafter. “I'm trying, but we're just not on the same page. None of them seems to get how close our team is to collapsing. And on top of that, the owner's decided since I'm captain, I need to be the public face of the Falcons. Only God knows why—any other player on the team would do a better job with the media than me. I didn't ask for the spotlight, but they resent me because of it anyway.” Lainey had never managed a good relationship with the media. The one time she opened up to a reporter before the World Cup, it ended with an exposé on the extreme routines of athletes, questioning whether there was a link between Lainey's level of discipline and the mental health issues plaguing elite athletes. After the World Cup, when she refused to speak to any reporters, she was labeled a liar, a hermit, and a freak.

And now they'd coined her the Ballbuster. Great.

To say she hated the media would be an understatement. A giant, massive, supernova-size understatement.

But as much as that was true, Lainey wasn't willing to give up captaincy. She'd fought hard to earn that spot, and she wasn't a quitter. And though Frank drove her crazy with his sycophantic treatment of the media, she owed it to him and the rest of her team to play along. Coach Labreilla had taken a huge risk drafting her in the first round when her recovery was so nascent and tenuous.

“Always an excuse, Lainey. Everybody needs friends,” Mike inserted sagely. Walt nodded in agreement.

“Well, if our team folds, we'll all be shipped off to different cities next season, so the whole ‘friends' thing will be irrelevant.”

To Lainey's great relief, the conversation shifted to the topic of new asphalt as they finished their lunches. It wasn't like Lainey didn't want friends, but ambition and friends didn't mix well. She made a promise to herself last year that if she achieved her dream of winning the World Cup, she'd finally lighten up and work on having a life outside of soccer. She even made a list of things she would do and kept it tucked inside her pillow. Making friends was number three, after getting a library card and a snazzy new haircut without worrying about whether it tucked neatly into a ponytail. Bangs, even. She'd definitely get bangs. No one would ever comment on her scar if it was hidden.

There were so many things in life she wanted to experience after fulfilling her dreams. With one ill-timed swing, Mari String kicked those dreams out of her grasp. Lainey may have won the World Cup, but she didn't win. Instead, she woke up in a foreign hospital days later, where she spent two weeks stuck to a gurney before being transferred to the United States while her teammates reveled in their glory. Sure there'd be another chance in four years, but there were no guarantees Team USA would even make it to the finals again, much less win.

Not to mention, a team of neurologists told her repeatedly she was incredibly lucky to be playing at all. Few people walked away from that big of a skull fracture and the massive brain bleed that accompanied it. She'd had to take her unparalleled work ethic and send it into overdrive just to have a shot at playing in the AWSL. Instead of running five miles every morning, she ran ten. Gone were the days spent perfecting her skills for an hour after each scheduled team practice. Now she spent at least three hours every day dribbling, juggling, and shooting regardless of how busy she was, even if it meant waking before dawn to fit everything in. There was no room for distractions in her life anymore. The AWSL was a second chance to feel the joy she'd been working so many years for, and nothing would get in her way. Lainey brushed aside the morbid thoughts of what her injury had cost her and packed up the remnants of her lunch.

“Your little admirer is back,” Mike said. The girl across the street was clutching a soccer ball in her hands.

“Go,” Walt instructed. “You know you want to.”

“But break is over, and we need to get that roof done before the rain picks up,” Lainey protested weakly.

“Go.”

Lainey really did have the best jobs in the world. She jogged across the street and spent the rest of the rainy afternoon tending goal against a wooden fence while the girl practiced her penalty shots.