Darcy, Darcy, Darcy.
The name I should have wiped from my mind nearly two years ago.
Her brother, and my assistant captain, has repeatedly warned she's off-limits to a guy like me-a playboy bound to bed her one night and break her heart the next morning-an opinion shared by her stepdad, who also happens to be my coach. I can see why they don't want their goalie anywhere near her. My reputation with women isn't exactly unblemished.
Except, they shouldn't judge what they don't understand, and neither should my girl. Okay, she's not technically my girl yet, but that's just semantics, as are the things I'll do to make her mine.
Each time she's visited from the UK, I've warred with the respect I have for my friendship with her brother versus pursuing a growing obsession for the honey-haired bombshell with blue eyes as big as the Ocean that separates us.
That is, until everything changes and there's nothing keeping me at a safe distance. She's living in Brooklyn and looking for fun with guys, and I can no longer observe from the sidelines. Any chance-no matter how small-she gives me, I'm going to take it and say to hell with the consequences.
Only, the opportunity I get isn't small, and neither are the stakes that go with it.
But again, that's just semantics ...
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