At First Sight

I can't remember the first time I met Sarah. I mean, I know the facts of how we came to know each other, and my brain can fill in the blanks with logical details, but I have no real memory of us actually meeting for the first time.

On the other hand, the first time I saw Reid? That memory is burned into my brain. I couldn't forget it if I tried. And I have tried. God, how I've tried.

Maybe that should have been the first sign of what was to come, the fact that I could recall every detail of such an innocent, insignificant meeting. If someone was watching a movie of my life, maybe it would've been obvious. Maybe they would've been screaming, "No, don't do it, you idiot! RUN!"

I wish I had.

But in that moment, I can honestly say I had no clue. It was just a soccer game, like any other game I'd ever played. Sarah had recently joined Dolls With Balls, the ladies' team that I had played on since I aged out of youth sports. She was friends with one of our longtime players, and she immediately blended into our tight knit group that had played together for the last five years. With long, wavy blonde hair, clear blue eyes and a body that stayed thin no matter how many hot wings she hoovered after a game, you'd think she would've triggered that innate insecurity and envy that seems to be bred into womens' DNA. Yet she was so sweet, good-natured and bubbly that it was impossible not to like her. I adored her immediately. We all did.

It was a month into the season, and we were playing in a small town about forty five minutes outside of the city. We'd all had to rush like crazy to get there by 6:30 pm kickoff, the field was in some weird hard-to-find location, and to top it all off, these women were straight up thugs. Women's soccer is pretty rough at the best of times, and this team was downright vicious. Thrown elbows, hip checks, kicks to the ankle. They were throwing their considerable weight around, prompting many unflattering comparisons to livestock. (We were the modicum of class, obviously.)

Midway through the first half, one of their heifers, I mean, players, hoofed the ball way out of bounds. I jogged over to get it, bitching under my breath the entire way. I had only gone a few strides when a guy on the sidelines grabbed the ball, and started jogging over to bring it to me. As I opened my mouth to thank him, I found myself momentarily stunned.

I looked into the face of the most ruggedly sexy man I had ever seen. Stubble shadowed olive skin and a chiseled jaw. His hair was thick, dark, and slightly mussed from the summer breeze. In that moment, I felt my entire insides melt, as I stared spellbound into his caramel-coloured eyes. Any perceptions I had of myself as a nonromantic, sarcastic, contemporary woman shattered. I was straight up swooning like a cheesy Harlequin heroine.

He smiled. Just a half-smile, almost shyly. "Looking for this?" he asked.

Somehow I managed to make words happen. "Thanks!" I chirped, immediately wanting to kill myself.  Allie, you are not a bimbo, for God's sake, get your shit together.

I turned and threw the ball in, stretching and arcing my body to propel the ball down the sideline. As I ran back onto the field to  rejoin the game, I heard it.

"Nice throw," he said, so quietly I almost missed the impressed note in his voice.

I grinned back over my shoulder at him.  It was a throwaway smile, one I would have given to any spectator that had paid me an offhand compliment.

That was it. No fireworks. The earth didn't shatter, the heavens didn't open up. It was an ordinary interaction that I could've had with anyone.

And yet I couldn't shake it. For the rest of the game, I felt his presence, like something just on the edge of my peripheral gaze. I was aware of him with every pass I made, every ball I stole, every opponent I sent flying into the grass. (Yeah, I might be a bit of a thug, too. Regina George cross-checking the goalie at the end of Mean Girls? That's totally me.) I played harder and better than I had in years.

At the end of the game, as we packed up our equipment, Sarah said, "I'm so happy we won! I've been bragging about how good we are to Reid for weeks, because his men's team kind of sucks this year. I was kind of worried that I'd jinxed us for when he actually came to watch."

"Your husband came to watch this game in the middle of nowhere? That's so nice!" Rachel, one of my close friends on the team, replied.

"Oooooh, which one is he?" our keeper, Jen, asked.

"The guy standing on his own in the black jacket." All of our heads swivelled to the sidelines at once. So subtle.

Once again, my eyes fell on the delicious man on the sidelines, no longer a stranger. I glanced back over at Sarah. I can honestly say that I didn't have a single malicious or jealous thought. They were a good match. His darkly sexy good looks were the perfect foil for her angelic natural beauty. "You guys are the hottest couple ever. Your babies will be models," I said jokingly.

"No shit. He is gorgeous!" added Mel, another midfielder who played on my line.

"Awww, you guys are too sweet." Sarah laughed as we made our way over to greet our fans, aka the boyfriends and husbands we dragged out to come watch and who spent most of the game staring at their phones. Not Reid, though. It made sense now, knowing that he played too. The only guys who care about women's soccer are guys who play soccer.

Sarah introduced all of us to Reid, who waved shyly and muttered, "Hey." I fought the blush that tried to rise as we made eye contact again. Don't make an ass of yourself, Allie.

And I didn't. As Rachel and I drove to the town's drive-up stand for ice cream (luckily far easier to find than the field #priorities), we chatted and joked about the game and how hot Sarah's husband was, and I felt my swoon dissipating. By the time I was swinging my legs over the picnic bench, hot fudge sundae in hand, I was back to my normal self.

Reid and Sarah sat down across from me. "Reid and I were just talking about what a great game you had!" Sarah said.

Reid smiled. "You're pretty fearless out there."

"What can I say? There's a reason my boyfriend nicknamed me She Beast after the first time he saw me play." I said, wryly.

"He really did." Rachel confirmed.

As we all relived the highlights of the game and regaled Reid with tales of past glory, I felt it again. Just a slight tingle of awareness when he laughed at one of my jokes or when our gazes met for a second. It was barely noticeable, barely anything at all.