Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

“What?” she taunts. “I just love watching you haul ass, is all.”
Yeah, right. Her ponytail bounces as she runs ahead, and I almost wish
Coomer would bench me. It’s amazing how fast Clay can deplete my
motivation.
Krisjen passes the ball to her, and she catches it, running toward me. I
back up, holding my stick, ready to catch, but she shoots it over my head.
Mercedes Peron goes for it, but an Eagle player knocks her into the ground.
The ball rolls away.
I shoot daggers at Clay. I’m going to kill her. She’s sabotaging this on
purpose. Trying to prove no one needs me.
But just then, Clay pulls off her eyewear, wipes the sweat off her
forehead, and looks anything but pleased with herself.
“Collins!” Coach shouts, but Clay refuses to make eye contact.
Mercedes holds out her hands, questioning Clay. “I thought you were
passing it to Jaeger.”
“Just shut up,” Clay bites out.
The midfielders engage and Amy takes the ball, looking for Clay, but I
rush over just as she shoots it, grabbing it with my stick and knocking Clay to
the ground. I don’t even look down to see her reaction, and I don’t care if I
get in trouble. I’m not letting her screw this up.
Racing down the field, I pass it to Amy who passes it to Lena Marcus
who shoots and scores. I smile, backing up and ready for the ball to come
back into play.
But when I look back, Clay is on the sidelines, Coomer giving her a good
tongue-lashing. Clay stands there, her defiant little chin stern as always, and
Megan stands near them, looking at me and biting back her smile.
I’m not smiling anymore, though. Clay isn’t looking at the coach. She’s
looking at me, her breathing calm and even like she doesn’t give a shit.
Why is she doing this? What does she want?
I don’t have time to ponder too long, because plays start up again and it’s
pedal to the metal for the last twenty minutes of the game. Clay re-enters,
avoiding me again and ignoring the coach, running the ball to the goal herself
and securing our win at eleven over five.
I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I just want to get out of here and
away. Grabbing my shit, I walk for the parking lot, not staying for the
coach’s little talk after the game and see Trace jogging up to me right before
he lifts me into his arms. “O-liv-i-a!” he screams. “Ma bitch! Four goals!”