RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,18

grabbed the food and walked as best I could with a broken heel into the house. “Come on, boy.”

He licked the side of my leg, getting nothing but black skinny jeans and the smell of Escada perfume.

The hall was clean.

The kitchen was gorgeous, but a complete mess, like he hadn’t done a dish since he’d moved in.

With a grumble, I found a bowl, cleaned it out, dumped some dog food inside, and then started working with the dishes.

Chapter Fourteen

SLADE

I pulled up to the stadium and tried not to throw my bag at the ground and jump on top of it with my cleats.

What the hell?

Matt was waiting by the door. “You look . . . rough.”

The same couldn’t be said of Matt. Every hair was in place. His suit belonged in a boardroom full of millionaires with too much time on their hands, and yet there he was, perfectly poised and polished with his blond hair swept back and his designer suit making everything around him seem cheap in comparison. The only thing standing out was the toothpick between his teeth. The guy had a thing about sucking. And let’s just leave it there.

I glanced down. Adidas cleats.

At least he came prepared to chase me out of there, if need be.

He used to play for an American soccer team in LA before an injury led him to switch to the business side of things, and now he managed everyone from bands to athletes.

“She was late,” I said, sweeping by him and heaving my duffel over my back. “And she was rude. You should fire her.”

“After ten minutes in your company?” He gasped. “Rude, you say? Color me shocked.”

I flipped him off.

He swatted my hand away, and his blue eyes searched mine. “I could have been partying on a yacht with Tom Brady and Ben Affleck right now.” He gripped me by the shoulders. “But I’m in Seattle, midwinter, it’s bloody cold, and I’m staring at your ugly mug instead of drinking champagne with supermodels.”

“Sacrificed a lot, have you?”

“Super. Models,” he felt the need to say again. “Don’t fuck this up, not if you want to keep playing. They’ll just bench you and pay out your contract. This team is different from Chelsea. They need a leader, alright? That’s what they’re paying you to be. The leader, the co-captain. They want a cup. You’re here to give it to them. So bury all that shit inside, and play like the Fifty-Two Million Dollar Man, got it?”

I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. “Got it.”

He slapped my ass. “That’s the spirit, now get in there and change, you’re almost late and Coach Mesinger said warm-up starts in five minutes. They’ll want you leading some of the drills, Mr. Number-One Striker.”

I was tempted to flip him off again as I made my way into the locker room and pulled off my warm-ups. At least the stadium was new and covered so I wouldn’t be freezing my ass off on the field.

The locker room was already empty. I pulled off my sliders and grabbed my cleats like I had so many times over the last decade. Only this time my hands were shaking.

This time I was walking out there without my dad.

Shit.

I inhaled deeply, put on the cleats, and slowly stood.

I took the walk down a long hall, and when I pushed the door open, all of the guys were already out on the field with the coaching staff.

Silence blanketed the field as I approached, and with each step against the turf, I felt more and more angry. Angry that I’d been forced away from a team I used to love.

To a new team that was going to expect fucking miracles from one human being.

I stopped at the edge of the group as Coach Mesinger gave me a quick nod. “Let’s all give a warm welcome to the number-one striker in the world—”

I hated it when they announced me like that, like I was important when I was just coordinated and hardworking.

“Slade Rodriguez.”

I pulled a confident smile out of my ass.

I could almost feel Matt breathe a sigh of relief from across the field.

“Mile run,” Coach called. “Then Rodriguez is going to run you through the warm-up. He’s your new co-captain, treat him that way.”

Most men met my gaze and nodded.

Most.

Save. One.

Jagger Komokov.

The other captain.

The goalie.

My nemesis.

We’d been at each other’s throats for years. It didn’t help that Matt represented us both—nor did it help that we had history that went