Offside love

~ CHAPTER ONE ~

The sun hadn’t fully broken over the horizon when Avery’s car rolled into the stadium complex. Even from the parking lot, the building exuded a presence: glass facades reflecting the early light, the smell of freshly cut grass wafting from the main pitch, the faint hiss of sprinklers watering the field like some ritual to wake the world.

Avery sat in her car for a moment, straightening her black blazer, smoothing the front of her tailored blouse. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror not to admire herself, but to calibrate her posture, her eyes, the exact precision of the calm, professional mask she always wore when stepping into a new environment. This wasn’t just a first day at any clinic. This was the club a world of fame, money, and a roster of men whose egos were as large as their paychecks.

With a deep breath, she unlocked the doors and stepped out, each step gliding against the pavement with a deliberate rhythm. Her kit bag swung lightly at her side, filled with everything she might need: tape, bandages, antiseptics, massage oils, a small electronic device for muscle scanning, a notebook. She didn’t carry more than necessary she didn’t need to, and clutter in her space meant clutter in her mind.

The lobby was already bustling. Trainers shuffled equipment, interns flitted between offices, and a small group of players lounged near the coffee station, tossing around a ball like children. Avery’s legs didn’t falter though it felt like it could , as she moved past them, head high, scanning the room. She had done her homework. She knew who was important, who was reckless, who would test her patience immediately.

“Good morning, you must be Avery,” a cheerful voice said.

A middle aged physiotherapist approached, hand outstretched. “I’m Mark, head of medical staff here. Let me show you around before practice.”

Avery shook his hand firmly, her grip neither too tight nor limp, signaling confidence without aggression. “Morning, Mark. Lead the way.”

The tour was precise. Avery noted everything room layouts, first aid stations, emergency exits, locker room configurations. She listened attentively as Mark explained protocols for taping, injury assessment, emergency treatment during matches. Every detail mattered. One second of hesitation could be the difference between a player walking off the field or being stretchered.

Then came the players’ warm ups. Avery’s eyes scanned the field, assessing posture, gait, and movement. Even as a newcomer, she could read body language, the subtle quirks that betrayed fatigue or tension. One winger favored his right knee slightly, another tucked his shoulders, a midfielder moved with a tightness in the hip flexors that would limit sprinting.

Avery knelt instinctively, adjusting tape and checking joints as the players rotated through drills. She didn’t introduce herself unnecessarily; most of the men barely registered her presence. That was fine. Underestimation was an advantage.

And then she saw him.

Zayne Navarro. Star striker. Athletic god, media darling, ego on par with skill. He leaned against the railing at the far end of the field, water bottle in hand, observing the drills. Dark hair swept across his forehead, eyes sharp, calculating, a smirk that could cut a man down to a puddle of envy.

When their eyes met, Avery felt it not in her chest, not in a girlish flutter, but the unsettling recognition of being assessed . This wasn’t curiosity. This wasn’t interest. This was him cataloging, processing, imagining.

She returned his gaze evenly, neutral. Professional. She would not give him a reaction.

The session continued.

By mid-morning, a player young, reckless, eager to impress rolled his ankle during a change of pace drill. Avery was on him before the assistant coach even called a timeout. Gloves on, she examined the swelling, palpated the joint, checked ligaments.

“Sharp pain?” she asked, voice clear and precise.

“Yeah… kind of,” he admitted, teeth clenched.

“Good. Keep the foot relaxed. I’m going to stabilize and tape it.”

Her hands moved with practiced efficiency: tape cut to length, strips applied at exact angles to support the ligaments, ensuring flexibility for next drills while preventing further injury. She instructed the player to move carefully, testing his range of motion. By the time she stepped back, the young man nodded, impressed, muttering something about her being “serious.”

She ignored the small compliment. Approval wasn’t her goal. Functionality, safety, and precision were.

All the while, Zayne’s gaze followed her. From across the field, leaning casually, he didn’t approach. Not yet. He didn’t need to. Watching her work, seeing her in motion, seeing the focus, the exactness, it was like a magnet. He recognized it immediately. She wasn’t someone who could be distracted by charm or money or notoriety. And that intrigued him in a way that frustrated him to his core.

Next, she moved to the stretching area, attending to tight hamstrings and sore shoulders. Players who had underestimated her before now paused mid-conversation to watch her technique. Avery assessed muscles, aligned joints, corrected form where necessary. She barked precise instructions “Shift your weight forward. Tilt your pelvis. Relax your neck.” and men obeyed, some begrudgingly, others with awe.

The physicality of the day kneeling, bending, adjusting players didn’t shake her focus. She kept careful notes, jotting small observations about muscle tension, recovery times, and minor injuries. Every detail mattered. Every observation could prevent disaster during a match.

It was then that Zayne moved closer. Not abruptly, not with fanfare. He drifted toward the physio station, water bottle dangling, shirt clinging to his chest, arms flexing naturally as he passed. When she glanced up, he tilted his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes, and for a second, Avery felt the weight of his scrutiny.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge more than a cursory nod.

He smirked subtly and moved on. But she knew. He had noticed her. The way she moved, the control she wielded over the players. The exactness in her touch. The lack of reaction to his presence.

By the end of the morning session, she had taped, treated, stretched, and observed every player. Even the coach normally gruff and skeptical of new hires gave a nod of approval. Avery’s first day had been successful.

She gathered her kit, wiped sweat from her palms, and exhaled. The sun had climbed higher, but she still felt no exhaustion beyond the normal physical strain of the job. Her mind buzzed with observations, strategies, and notes , notes she sorted for deep in their online presence and she couldn’t help but look him up the one star player that had bothered her the most with the farthest distance kept away from her .

As she scrolled past pictures of numerous goal celebrations , steamy pictures , match celebration nights she received a follow notification from ……Zayne ?