Reckless Goals

Contents Reckless Goals Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Epilogue Afterword Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Katie Rae Copyright © 2023 by Katie Rae All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Design: KB Barrett Designs Editor: Brenda Bastien Reckless Goals Nothing is more reckless than falling in love….. Rhys Despite being in my mid thirties and one of the world’s best soccer players, I had never reached my main goals in life—to be a husband and a father. But after being left heartbroken and alone on the night I planned to propose to my girlfriend, I realized how reckless that goal was. Love, in general, was reckless…. In order to keep from self-destructing, I’m forced to train with college soccer star, Ashlynn Keller. She was young and naive, too caught up in her own life goals to focus on her game. We were on very different paths in life, but we found common ground on the playing field. It may have been wrong, but sparks started flying between us. And when we finally gave in to each other, we realized that being a little reckless was exactly what we needed. That is, until my ex showed up…. For my readers, who have shown me so much love and grace. Prologue Rhys My head throbbed. My body was wracked with pain. My heart was broken. Every night since Mel left, I had been living the same miserable existence. My very own Groundhog Day script. A loop of soccer practice, games, pushing myself to pain, and then falling into my bed at night, hoping sleep made me forget. This wasn’t supposed to be how the story ended. I was miserable, intolerable. “Back, back, back,” my teammate, Cruz, yelled from his position in the goal. The entire team shifted at his command as the other team pushed down the field. When they took a shot on the goal, Cruz caught the ball, and punted it toward me. The crowd was excited and started chanting my name. Despite the aches and pains in my body, I wanted to drive the ball all the way to the goal, but I was double teamed and would never make it. Choosing to pass it to Tripp instead, I let him drive up while I set up for another pass. When Tripp kicked the ball back toward me, I didn’t give my opponents time to crowd me again. I took a long shot on the goal, aiming toward the left corner of the net. It flew past the reach of their keeper and in, making the home crowd scream even louder. Let’s Get Loud, by Jennifer Lopez, played in the stadium while my teammates tried to congratulate me on the score. I accepted their pats on my back and words of praise, but I stayed quiet, walking back to my position as the ball was brought to the center of the field. But my eyes scanned the crowd, just like they did every night for the last few weeks, always looking for the same thing. Bright green eyes. Always looking, but never finding them. “Que te folle un pez.” A guy from the other team ran past me as we reset the field. I had no idea what he said to me, but it didn’t sound like ‘good job.’ I guess he had no way of knowing how short my fuse was, so he didn’t count on me turning toward him and approaching. “Excuse me?” I realized the player was Hugo Garcia, a big name from Spain who was a renowned competitor, and spoke very little English. That meant whatever I said back to him, he may not interpret correctly. So to make sure he understood how I felt, I chose the universal language of throwing my fist. Knocking him in the side of the face with a sucker punch, he fell, and I pounced on top of him trying to get another jab in. My teammates started pulling me away as his teammates did the same for him. The referees were blowing their whistles and the crowd was going wild. I could hear my coach yelling from the sidelines for me to hit the showers, while Cruz had run all the way from the goal and was telling me to cool down. When I was sure I wouldn’t get any more hits on Hugo, I turned toward the bench and marched off the field, assuming the referee had already flashed the red card, indicating my night was over. As I walked, I glanced up one last time in the crowd, looking for green eyes. “Do I need to bench you?” My coach asked when I passed him. But I kept walking, shrugging and letting him do whatever the hell he wanted to do. He couldn’t afford to bench me, because despite how I reacted to Hugo, I was the leading scorer in the league. When I got to my locker, I sat down and flexed my hand, looking at the blood that covered my knuckles. It had been a while since I’d thrown a barehanded punch, and it felt fucking good. Those days of boxing with gloves on to relieve stress may have to be a thing of the past. I wanted to feel more pain, see more bruises.