A/N: Hello, everybody! I've never published fan fic before, but I had one of those ideas I had to write down, and once I wrote it, I had to share it. The result is an AU-ish story written for writers, dedicated to all of you authors out there. I'd love your ideas on how to make this better. :)

There are eight chapters in all, and I'll post one or two chapters a day until they're all up. Enjoy!

Oh, yeah. I don't own any television shows. Not one.

Revision

Chapter One: Pre-Writing

April, 2003

Dr. Gillian Foster cringed as she walked past the front desk and the staff that was sorting through her patients' mail. Four years working here, and she still hadn't gotten used to it. Sure, they came across the occasional pack of cigarettes or razor blade, but it just seemed so wrong. She took a deep breath and tried not to look, focusing on the grimy door that led to her office. She'd spent a decade counseling government agents, but it wasn't until she'd come here that she knew how emotionally draining psychiatry could be. The walk from her car to her desk felt like wading through water. At least she had Alec to go home to every night—he was such a comfort during these difficult times.

She waited patiently for the door to creak open, revealing a seventeen-year-old girl who walked like she was sixty. Like she was stepping on broken glass. Dr. Foster sighed inwardly. This was what she had to deal with every day. This was what she had to try to fix.

Why did it seem like nothing she did mattered?

It took a few seconds for the girl to reach the chair opposite her desk, and Gillian made herself smile as she watched the girl inch the chair back and slowly take her place, shoving her hands in the kangaroo pouch of her tattered, oversized sweatshirt. She didn't look up, keeping her eyes trained on the desk, but her hair was draped so strategically over her face that it didn't matter.

"You're not going to like me."

"Excuse me?" Gillian had been about to ask the girl one of the standard questions, and the interjection caught her off-guard.

"You're not going to like me."

"Oh, I disagree. I think you seem very likeable."

That earned her a stare from her patient, who finally lifted her head show Gillian tired eyes that peeked through strands of hair half in revulsion, half in helplessness.

"You think I'm likeable." Her head went back down. "I make the homeless look giddy. You're my third shrink in two weeks. The other two couldn't stand me, and neither will you."

The shame that came with the statement was unmistakeable, and Gillian knew that though the words were full of venom, none of it was meant for her. How could she tell this girl not to hate herself? How could she stay professional and hide the love and compassion that was already welling up inside of her on behalf of this poor, miserable girl?

"I think you underestimate me. I'm not like the other doctors—I have a gift. I can see past the pain. In fact, I can already tell that on the inside, you're a good person."

The girl scoffed bitterly, but said nothing. Gillian swallowed.

"So, tell me why you think I won't like you."

The girl threw her head up and blew the hair away from her solemn eyes before locking them with Gillian's.

"Because I'm not going to kill myself."

Gillian found herself speechless.


January, 2010

Eli Loker lifted an eyebrow when he looked out the passenger side window to see where Dr. Foster had taken him. They were at a local park, and from the parking lot he could see a large, green field filled with people, coolers, and lawn chairs. Was she taking him to a picnic?

"What does this have to do with our case?" he finally blurted out. He couldn't help but hope that it had nothing to do with the case at all.

"You'll see," Foster replied, using her signature sing-song tone. Loker bit his tongue to keep down the words that would certainly get him fired. The close calls of the past year had made his trademark honesty decidedly less radical.

She pulled the keys out of the ignition and walked onto the field, and Loker hesitated for a second before ducking out of the car to follow her. As he got closer to the group of people, he saw that it wasn't a picnic at all—it was a community soccer game. The lawn chairs and coolers he'd noticed earlier were lining the rectangular playing field, each spectator cheering for one team or the other. He quickly covered his ears. He didn't know how he hadn't realized the noise before. It was difficult to keep up with Foster as she weaved her way through the crowd, but when they finally broke through the maze of people and arrived at the sideline, his jaw dropped.

This was a women's soccer game. A soccer game for women his age, or younger, all with tight, muscular bodies and short shorts. He knew now why this field was so popular. Where had these girls been all his life? What on Earth had he done to get Foster to take him here?

"That's who we're here for," Foster said, pointing towards the far end of the field, "the goalie."

She wasn't hard to spot—after all, she was wearing a bright yellow goalie's shirt. It was a little baggy on her, but Loker could see that she was in good shape, though she was a little tiny. She probably wasn't more than five feet even, which set her apart from the rest of her teammates. That, and her shorts, which were long enough to touch the top of her kneecaps. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and she tucked a strand of it behind her ear as she stood behind the goal line, her hands on her half-bent knees, her eyes trained on the game.

"Gillian!"

Loker turned and saw a well-built man who seemed to be in his twenties, with dark hair poking out of his Duke baseball cap, waving at them from the center of the sideline. He motioned for them to come over.

"Gillian! What are you doing here?" The stranger smiled, leaning in to hug Foster. Loker thought he could have asked the same question, among others.

"Oh, you know, I just need an extra hand around the office," she said, Loker catching a smile on her face that matched the stranger's.

Pulling out of the hug, the man reached a hand out for Loker to shake. "Peter Foreman, sports medicine." He nodded towards Foster, "You work for her?"

Loker was barely able to reply when a group of players rushed past them, eliciting even more noise from the crowd. He saw a girl pass the ball to her teammate, and Loker couldn't help but pity the vertically-challenged goalie as the tall, Scandinavian-looking girl swiftly kicked the ball towards the goal.

His eyes followed the ball as it sped through the air, heading for the top-right corner of the net, when suddenly a pair of gloved hands came out of nowhere and plucked the ball out of its path. Loker didn't have time to wonder how the goalie could have possibly jumped that high—she ran to the edge of the goalie box and drop-kicked the ball, which flew so far that it almost reached the opposing team's goal. The crowd roared as a forward raced towards to ball and kicked it in.

"She's amazing, isn't she?" Peter turned to Foster, then back to the game. "She's had a perfect season so far—not one ball has gotten past her." Loker cocked his head so he could study the man who cast another glance towards the goalie. No dilated eyes, no other signs of arousal—just pride. Either this mystery girl wasn't his girlfriend, or there was something really, really wrong with their relationship.

"Do you go to all of her games?" At Foster's inquiry, Peter shrugged.

"She went to all of my games when I was in little league. Besides," he flashed a grin, "treating beautiful women for injuries comes with its advantages."

Foster scoffed at his statement, shaking her head and smiling despite herself. Then, she raised her head as something caught her eye.

"What's she doing?" She pointed towards the goalie, who took off her large, yellow shirt and handed it to a teammate before running to the center line.

Peter gave a mouth shrug. "Oh, sometimes they let her be a forward for the last play. Depends on how far ahead they are."

Loker looked up at the old, battered scoreboard to see that there were only fifty-seven seconds left on the clock.

"Let her?" Loker interjected. He almost felt like he wasn't allowed to speak, but that wasn't the kind of thing to stop him.

"She hates playing goalie, but she's good at it, so she ends up getting stuck there most of the time. Oh," Peter put a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, "this is where it gets good—don't blink!"

Loker followed Peter's gaze to find the former goalie, who was speaking via body language to a red-head. She pointed to the ball, then herself, then used her other hand to point towards the red-head. Then, she took the finger that was still pointed at her own chest and stretched it out towards a spot on the field near the opposing goal. Finally, she took the hand pointed towards the girl and made it meet her other finger, creating and imaginary triangle between herself, the red-head, and the goal. The red-head nodded in response, and before Loker could make sense of it all, the mystery girl was off.

He watched, half-stunned, as she quickly maneuvered past at least seven opponents and managed to steal the ball like it was just there for her to take. With a powerful kick, she passed the ball to the red-head, then took off towards the goal line. As everyone ran towards the red-head, the former goalie sprinted to the place she had previously pointed to, about twenty feet away from the opposing goal. With a wave of her arms, she signaled for the red-head to kick the ball high in the air, which the brunette mystery girl caught with her upper sternum, dropping it to her feet. Now, with four seconds left on the clock, she made a final sprint towards the goal. By this time, two or three defenders were coming at her, trying to block the shot, but they couldn't match her speed. Without stopping, her right foot connected with the ball, sending it sailing in the air, whizzing past the opposing goalie's head and into the net.

The crowd went nuts. Loker hoped Foster was the kind of woman who kept Excedrin in her purse.

After the teams formed two lines and shook hands, Peter flagged the brunette over to them.

"Gillian!" She screamed into cupped hands, breaking into a run. She made herself calm down when she glanced at Loker. "Or is it Dr. Foster today?"

Foster smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "Good goal, Chris," she said, as proud as Loker had ever seen her. The soccer player gave a humble shrug.

"It didn't matter, we were already up by six."

"Still, it was pretty impressive, wouldn't you say, Loker?" Loker swallowed at being put on the spot. Upon closer inspection, he found that Foster's friend was older than he had originally thought (she looked at least as old as Torres), and that she was somehow even more attractive for her lack of height. The glistening beads of sweat on her glowing, make-up-free face only seemed to enhance her simple, natural beauty. Loker gulped again.

"You girls are hot, I mean, the way you move out there, you're so flexible. The things you could do . . ." He was going to go on, but Foster shot him a look that shut him up.

"Yes, well . . ." Foster sent her eyes down and away, clearly embarrassed by Loker, which puzzled him. Usually, she had a thicker skin. "Christine, I was wondering if you knew about Silas Kasim?" The goalie's eyes lit up.

"Know him? I took a class on him. He's one of my favorite contemporary writers, after all," she said, as if everyone should know who her favorite authors were.

"Great, then we're going to need your help." Foster was beaming. Loker wondered what she was so happy about. She seemed giddy—even for Foster. Everyone at The Lightman Group knew that Foster had been frustrated with the case Silas Kasim was involved with. He was a recluse, the only lead in a series of dead ends, and when he had refused to let anyone in uniform set a foot on his property, the FBI had decided to hand the dirty work off to them.

"You want me? To help you on a case?" The brunette looked like a six-year-old that had just been allowed to play with the big kids. The shock was obvious on her face when Foster nodded yes, but then her face fell. "Well, Peter and I usually go for pizza after the game . . ."

"It's okay, Chris," Peter said. He nodded when she asked him if he was sure. "We'll do it later, or tomorrow. Besides, that gives me more time to try some pick-up lines on these fine women." Both Christine and Foster rolled their eyes at that. He put a hand on the soccer player's shoulder.

"Call me when you're done, and I'll come and get you, okay?" When she agreed, he grabbed his things and walked off, though not before he shook hands with Loker a second time.

"I don't have professional clothes or anything, just jeans and a t-shirt," Christine admitted.

Foster gave one of her assuring smiles. "I'm sure whatever you have will be fine."

"Well then, just give me ten minutes to change, and I'm all yours."


A/N: Don't worry—Cal's coming soon! I promise!