Soccer Novels & Stories

I scroll to his flirty texts. Hot soccer legend: I miss your tits. Me: Wow. What about the rest of me? Me: also I’m in class you jerk. Hot soccer legend: I mean the rest of you is not that bad either. Me: Fuck off. Hot soccer legend: I’m just kidding. You know I like all the other parts of you. The way you taste. . .your touch, that feeling when I’m inside you. It turns me on just thinking about it. Fuck I want you Kayla.

My gaze dropped, almost against my will, to the wall over his shoulder. A vinyl sticker, nicked at the corner, clung to the painted cinderblock: STRIKERS. Bold block letters. Beneath it, a laminated schedule. Home vs. Riverton – 6 PM. A black Sharpie arrow circling Media – 12:30. The bench through the crack in the stall door held a scatter of shin guards and a duffel with the team crest. The air, suddenly obvious, was a cocktail of men’s deodorant, turf, and detergent. Not lavender body spray. Not cherry lip gloss.

Samanta shook her head hard, forcing herself to react. “I just realized that. Right now” she answered. “Piss off, Sam! That's his face on that sign” Carlos pointed his finger toward a huge sign placed high up on the entrance to a sporting goods store. “I knew it! His face kind of rang a bell” she muttered. “You've been watching the whole World Cup pre-elimination rounds with me. Not to mention the Champions League” Carlos showed his disdain. “Correction. I've been reading while you watched those games. You know I'm not a sports fan” his friend replied. “I'm sorry I failed to recognize a star soccer player.”

Leo jumped, reaching, and made a beautiful catch. "YES! Yes, yes! GO!" Joe was screaming. Lisa was grasping at my arm in a death vice, biting her lip. Leo pivoted and sprinted toward the end zone. He'd just crossed the goal line-accompanied by a piercing scream of delight that came from his mom-when a New York cornerback plowed into him, knocking him to the ground in an inadvertent late hit. Leo held onto the ball as though his life depended on it, even after the whistle signaled the end of the play.

The enormous field is overrun with kids playing tag. “Okay, what do you want to play?” I ask. “Um, soccer. My dad used to play soccer with me.” His sadness pulls at me. I make a mental note to ask Colin about Jonah and Tally. I grab the soccer ball and start kicking it to him. I don’t know what I’m doing. But somehow, other kids join us, and we begin a full-on game. Everything else falls away. I focus on helping Jonah win this game. I’d break out into song and dance if it made him smile. Jonah stays laser-focused on the ball. His moves are effortless as he maneuvers down the field. He kicks the ba

The field lights cast a golden glow on the lush green turf, where the two teams battled for a touchdown. I watched in anticipation as these two teams fought for dominance, with the Princeton wolves in possession of the ball. They passed, running with it, punting the ball and so on. Number twelve, which was Eren, held the ball leading the way with the Monmouth hawks trailing behind him with great speed. In a flash, Chase caught up with Eren, slamming into him with brute force but not before Eren successfully launched a pass across the field to his cousin, Jordan, who kept going until he scored a touchdown for the wolves.

"Anyway, you should come watch us practice." "Practice what?" "Football, obviously, that's why we're dressed like this. We're on the team." Sashka turned to his brother and hit his chest lightly with the back of his hands, "Moron, they call it soccer here." I smiled at that, "Oh, you two are in the football team too? I heard you have a game coming up soon." They smiled and nodded in sync. "That's right," one said. "Who told you?" the other asked. "Thomas Sato."

"There's a difference. Pushing is aggressive. Not being present is just... abandonment dressed up as respect." "I don't know how to do this," I said. "Just move," Eli said. "Just let your hand touch mine. It's not a decision that needs strategy. It's just proximity. It's just connection." I turned my hand, and our fingers made contact on the counter. Not hands held. Just fingertips touching. Just that small acknowledgment of physical presence. The moment stretched. "I'm sorry," I said. "I know," Eli said. "But sorry isn't enough anymore. You need to show me that you're actually choosing this."

Thе athlete соmmеnt really ѕtung – we both knеw I рlауеd D1 bаѕеbаll. "Fine, ѕоundѕ like уоu wаnt a bіt of a сhаllеngе. Here's one. One gаmе each оf pool, fооѕbаll, аnd dаrtѕ. Bеѕt оut оf thrее." "Whаt'ѕ thе rеwаrd fоr thе wіnnеr?"

The field. Brynne and his teammates are engaged in a heated game of soccer when I arrive with a stacked tote bag. Laughter and shouts echo as the players dart across the pitch, the ball zipping between their feet. His green jersey clings to his back, soaked with sweat, and his hair plasters to his forehead and temples. Standing on the sidelines, I watch him expertly dodge opponents and pass the ball, his movements fluid and confident. Once he catches sight of me, he loses focus, and the opposing team’s player snatches the ball from him.