Moving the Goal Line, page 1
Moving the Goal Line
Harley Burke
Copyright © 2023 by Wild Arrow Publishing LLC- All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
The story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices may be mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Contents
1. 🌼 CHAPTER ONE 🌼
2. 🏒 CHAPTER TWO 🏒
3. 🌼 CHAPTER THREE🌼
4. 🌼 CHAPTER FOUR 🏒
5. 🏒 CHAPTER FIVE🏒
6. 🌼 CHAPTER SIX 🏒
7. 🏒 CHAPTER SEVEN🏒
8. 🌼CHAPTER EIGHT🌼
9. 🏒 CHAPTER NINE🏒
10. 🌼 CHAPTER TEN🌼
11. 🏒 CHAPTER ELEVEN🏒
12. 🌼CHAPTER TWELVE🌼
13. 🏒 CHAPTER THIRTEEN🏒
14. 🌼 CHAPTER FOURTEEN🌼
15. 🏒 CHAPTER FIFTEEN🏒
16. 🌼 CHAPTER SIXTEEN🏒
17. 🌼 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN🌼
18. 🏒CHAPTER EIGHTEEN🏒
19. 🏒CHAPTER NINETEEN🏒
20. 🌼 CHAPTER TWENTY🌼
21. 🏒CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 🏒
22. 🌼 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO🌼
23. 🏒 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE🏒
24. 🌼CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR🏒
25. 🏒CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE🏒
26. 🌼CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX🌼
27. 🏒CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN🏒
28. 🌼CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT🌼
29. 🏒CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE🏒
30. 🌼CHAPTER THIRTY🌼
31. 🏒EPILOGUE🏒
🌼 CHAPTER ONE 🌼
|DAISY|
I won’t admit to being nervous. The turmoil within my stomach is more than a flutter of butterflies. Instead, it’s as if ruthless bats are careening against the walls of my insides, their chaotic flight devoid of caution. The August heat of California has no role in the sweat trickling down my neck. My trembling hands have little to do with skipped breakfast; they echo the apprehension coursing through my veins.
My hand hesitates over the office door handle at the crossroads of possibilities. There are only two, and neither is ideal—retreat to my car and postpone the inevitable, or confront the challenges behind the door immediately. Neither option shines with promise; it’s an unfortunate dilemma.
Technically, I am ahead of schedule. I really could use the extra ten minutes to meditate and slow my speeding heart. But my father’s teachings echo in my mind: to be on time is to be late, and to be early is to be on time. There is a chance that this is one of my father’s silent tests that often lurk beneath the surface. So, I decide to face what lies beyond the door. The job is already mine. What am I so scared of?
Yet, my hand remains suspended in mid-air, caught between known and unknown. A sense of foreboding hangs over me like a gloomy cloud. How I wish I could turn around and never go in at all. But wishes are powerless against reality.
One would think that after six years of pursuing an undergrad degree and a master's in medical science and athletic training, I would jump at the opportunity to start my first official job. Isn’t this what I wanted?
Not exactly. But this is what you agreed to. As much as I hate to admit it, my inner voice is telling the truth. I did agree to it. The voices of protest have faded, leaving me standing alone. A deep sigh escapes me as I steel my nerves, raising my knuckles to knock. Two hesitant raps later, I swing the door open at the invitation of a gruff, “Come in.”
My father’s essence bleeds into every corner inside the meticulously organized office. The step over the threshold brings dimmer lights, a nod to the ambiance he prefers. The decor—dark mahogany and angry impressionist-style paintings—does nothing to dispel the sense of impending doom that comes with being in my father’s direct line of sight.
Closing the door behind me, my gaze rests on my father first. Even seated behind his desk, his commanding presence looms large. A perfectly tailored image—salt and pepper hair cropped close, a crisply pressed button-down, a solitary watch adorning his wrist. While my hazel eyes mirror his, most of me reflects my mother—gentle features and soft contours.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, standing awkwardly in the middle of the large office. Tucking a stray strawberry blonde hair behind my ear, I focus on my father, my nerves carefully concealed before I take in the rest of the room. I know the formality of his introductions is imminent.
“Aspen,” my father says in acknowledgment, and a suppressed grimace twitches within me. He knows my disdain for the name, a relic of his yearning for a son. I accepted the name long ago. But my heart resonates with the name I prefer, the one given to me by my mother.
My father always wanted a son, a fact reinforced when my gender launched a chain of disappointments. He forced my mom to keep the name they had chosen for his imagined son. She fought hard to turn the middle name from David to Daisy. Over time, my name became a reminder of what a bother I was to my father.
This job drags me back to memories best left buried, returning me to a house that no longer feels like home. It reunites me with a past I hoped to escape, casting me back under my father’s watchful eye. Even now, in a room full of people, he communicates without words, demanding excellence through his cold eyes, a silent warning. Don’t fuck this up. The weight of his gaze is heavier than I remember.
The last six years have granted me a reprieve from my father’s imposing shadow. Attending his alma mater wielded a double-edged sword. I had a legacy to uphold, yet the distance between Oceanside and the prestigious Wharton Medical College University offered liberation. It’s harder to control a person when they’re over three thousand miles away from your clutches. Despite his efforts, he controlled sixty percent of my freedom. A victory, still.
“Gentlemen,” my father says, “this is my daughter and our newest athletic trainer. While Rob and Lawrence have met her, I wanted our key players to meet her, too.”
My father rattles off introductions, allowing me a moment to study the four men in the room. Standing behind the desk with my father is the team owner, Rob Langley, and the head of the Crusaders’ medical team, Lawrence Wilson. I’ve known Rob since I was a teenager when he took over the team from his dad. He’s always been kind, someone I genuinely like. But Lawrence and I only just met during my job interview.
Although my dad guaranteed me the position, Lawrence insisted I interview, an opportunity he exploited to interrogate and intimidate me. His harsh demeanor is part of the reason I’m anxious about today. I can’t quite fathom his issue with me, but the tension between him and my father hints at another legacy I’m bearing for him.
Shifting my eyes away from them, I focus on the other two men in the room—the captain and co-captain of the Crusaders. Both imposing figures sit shoulder to shoulder on the leather couch in front of the desk. Their presence commands attention, sheer size drawing the eye. But beyond their builds, they’re drastically different in appearance.
Ian Moore, the Crusaders’ level-headed captain, sits closer to the door and me. He’s handsome, rugged, with a crooked nose that hints at too many blows to the face. But, as my eyes sweep over his seatmate, I find myself thinking that Ian can’t compare to this one. However, his seatmate captures my attention. Wesley Henderson—a name I recently discovered. The pictures and roster headshots didn’t do this man justice. His curly hair, even pulled into a topknot, exudes a silky touch. His sharp features and enticing jawline makes a woman ache to trace her fingers along it. Our eyes meet, and I’m swept away by a river of emotions, a rich chocolate stream. He emanates danger and sin, an irresistible wickedness. He’s gorgeous…and I’m staring.
Shit.
My cheeks burn as I tear my gaze from Wesley’s, ignoring the smirk playing on his full pink lips. Jerk. I clamp my teeth together, focusing solely on my father, who has concluded his introductions. I force a polite smile, murmuring pleasantries, doing my utmost to ignore those captivating eyes that bore into me.
“Hey, Daisy.” Rob flashes me a killer-watt smile I can’t resist returning. At 38, he still holds a natural youthfulness, his handsome charm intact. My crush on him, once a teenage folly, has evolved into a platonic fondness as we’ve grown older. It’s been years since I last saw him; my college years provided the perfect alibi to evade team events, formerly mandatory.
“So, how do we know she’s even qualified?” The question, asked from Wesley, drips honeyed tones. I look at him, noting his appraisal of me and his underwhelmed expression.
“Wes,” Ian’s warning tone cuts in, but it’s met with a shrug.
“It’s a valid question,” the dark-haired man persists. “She’s young, newly graduated, and a family hire. This is our health we’re talking about, right?” I open my mouth to speak, but my father beats me to it.
“Are you insinuating I’d hire incompetence simply because they share my blood?” If Wesley only knew that my father tolerates no mediocrity. My very existence is built upon excelling in every endeavor he set before me.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, son,” my father says, and Wesley’s jaw clenches in response.
“With all due respect, Coach, I’m not your son,” Wesley says, leaning forward, his brown eyes hardening like a dark jasper gem. “When it comes to my health, I want to be sure she can be trusted.”
Ian shakes his head in disbelief, yet I catch the smirk on Lawrence’s lips. Wesley, the assistant captain and star scorer, seems to enjoy a privilege Lawrence doesn’t share. During my interview, I caught all those polite words through clenched teeth to my father. Lawrence likely relishes watching someone else put my father in his place.
To be honest, I’m slightly awestruck by the way Wesley challenges my father. Nobody I’ve met has dared to stand up to the intimidating man who raised me.
“Wesley, enough.” Rob comes to my defense this time, his hazel eyes narrowed in irritation. “Daisy is an excellent trainer. She graduated top of her class, holds two degrees, and completed a prestigious internship before joining us. Have some respect.”
I offer Rob an appreciative smile, and my father grunts his approval, folding his hands beneath his chin. Lawrence, on the other hand, seems to have tasted something sour, but I ignore him along with Wesley. I’m determined not to indulge further in my hungry glances toward him. I shift my gaze over him, mentally reining myself in. Starting now.
“I just wanted to introduce her formally to the important parties. Aspen, you are free to head to your office and begin your day.” My father is always quick to dismiss me from his presence. It’s been this way since Mom left, likely because I resemble her too much for his liking.
“Thank you. It was nice to see you all.” I address the room, even though my sentiment applies only to Rob.
Lawrence calls to me as I head out the door. “Your assignments for today are in your email. Be sure to complete everything today. We don’t offer trial periods, so I expect you to dive right in.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, offering a polite smile masking my inner frustration. Closing the door behind me, I release a deep breath, attempting to convince myself that the worst part of the day is over.
Yeah, I’m struggling to believe it, too.
🏒 CHAPTER TWO 🏒
|WESLEY|
The soft strain of rock music spills into my ears, keeping pace with my stride as I make my way toward the stadium. My phone vibrates, signaling a message, and even before I glance at the screen, I know who it’s from. My three baby sisters, the lights of my life.
Their nicknames light up the notification bubbles, a playful reminder of our unique bond. Willow and Winter, identical twins, are as opposite in personality as oil and water. Willow excels in academics, completing coursework in cyber security. On the other hand, Winter flourishes in sports, playing college basketball while scraping by with acceptable grades as she works toward her business degree. And then there’s Waverly, the quietest and gentlest of all of us and closest to me in age at 23 years old. She’s a teacher, a path everyone expected she would take because she sounds like a princess from your favorite childhood movie and has a heart of literal gold.
Cha-cha: I swear, I want to drop this program. These tech bros are just disgusting.
Swish: You should’ve gone the normal route and studied business. You’re too smart for your own good, mini genius.
Me: No quitting. You’re almost done.
José: Besides, one day, Wes’s body is going to give out, and we need somebody to take over as the appointed Rich Sibling.
Swish: What Waverly said. I’m trying to retire on my family’s dime by 45, sweet twin, so study hard. *kissy face*
Me: Hey, I’m basically Superman; my body is holding up fine, thank you very much.
Cha-cha: Thanks for the encouragement. You guys are sooooo helpful.
I chuckle as I tuck my phone away, a grin on my lips. No matter where life takes us, our sibling banter is a constant that brings warmth to my heart. The thought of my sisters always serves as a touchstone, grounding me as I step into the stadium.
But as soon as I cross the threshold, the familiarity of their messages is eclipsed by the image that’s been haunting me. It’s been days, yet the memory of Daisy Bamford refuses to release its grip on my mind.
Against my better judgment, I’ve been stumbling upon her every morning. My pre-dawn workout sessions have become a dance of avoidance. She’s there, like clockwork, doing her yoga routine in the training room, completely disrupting my peaceful routine. The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
The steel door creaks as I push it open, leaving the stairwell behind. My eyes immediately snap to the glass wall, and there she is, like a recurring nightmare I can’t shake. A scowl creases my forehead; it’s almost as if the universe is mocking me. Every. Fucking. Morning.
It’s not that I’m complaining about the view—she has an amazing ass—but it’s the inconvenience that irks me. The woman has infiltrated my solitude, her presence a constant irritation.
Daisy’s body shifts through a graceful sequence of poses, the yoga mat beneath her like a stage for her silent performance. I begrudgingly acknowledge the lithe curve of her form as she transitions into a downward dog. Damn, her ass.
I’m not going to make myself feel guilty about checking out her ass…again. I mean, give me a break here. It’s a nice ass and I am a warm blooded male, so I think I can get a pass for that one.
Yet, there’s something more than physical attraction that draws my attention. Her eyes are closed, the nearly invisible red lashes brushing her cheeks. Her mouth is turned into an easy smile and she looks so peaceful. I find myself wondering where her mind goes during these moments, an unspoken curiosity that tugs at my thoughts.
Part of me—the part that seems to have developed a mind of its own—yearns to sit and simply watch, to revel in the sheer beauty of her movements. The other part of me—the one that knows better—wants to bang on the glass and shatter her focus, to exchange a few choice words. I can almost hear the sarcasm in her voice, and a spark of anticipation ignites within me.
It’s been days since we were caught in an elevator together, or I found myself getting in line behind her to get a smoothie. Time and again, our paths have inexplicably crossed. I had no intention of allowing her to occupy my thoughts, yet here I am, trapped in the orbit of her presence.
I can’t help the tingle that spreads through me when I think about her eyes flashing amber as she attempts to cut me down with her tongue. I stall momentarily by the stairwell door that will lead me up to the gym as Daisy twists her body, feeding her arm through her legs in a stretch that has my imagination begging to run wild. Repressing a groan, I push roughly through the door and bound up the stairway two steps at a time.
WTF. Get it together, Wes.
Forcing myself to turn away, retreating into the gym. The cold, hard reality of the hockey rink beckons, and I’m determined to focus on the sport that’s my lifeline. With every rep, I shove aside thoughts of a certain redhead who seems to have taken up residence in my head.
As the gym gradually fills with the chatter of teammates, I immerse myself in the world of hockey. Conditioning training looms ahead, and I’m aware that this year is a make-or-break season for all of us. The previous year's losses have ignited a fire within me—the desire to prove my worth and secure my place on the team.
Last season was a disaster for us, ending with a painful four-game losing streak. It was a gut punch, and the memory still stings. This year, the pressure’s on all of us. We’re all teetering on the edge, knowing that our performances are under scrutiny. Rob Langley might be laid-back on the surface, but the numbers don’t lie. He’s invested, and anything that messes with his investment doesn’t sit well. So, no matter how chill he appears, I’m well aware of the stakes this year. Not that I’ve ever taken it easy—my dedication to my game is unwavering.
