A/N: These characters are not mine, I just gave them uniforms and threw them on a soccer field.

And a very enthusiastic THANK YOU!!! to my beta, chiisai-kitty, for looking over this chapter before and after she went on a freakin' road trip!!! But I added some little things afterwards, so any remaining mistakes are mine.

When I got home and Gran asked me how I was, I said I was fine. But that was a lie. I was absolutely elated. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside – and not just because I was wearing his oversized jacket or absolutely stuffed with Italian food

SPOV:

The referee blew his whistle, and the game was over. I immediately stopped sprinting for the first time the whole night and allowed myself to catch my breath. I put my hands behind my head and concentrated on breathing deeply, innnn…outtt…innnn…outtt…. As I was doing this, I looked around me and saw my other teammates standing still as well. A glance towards the sideline proved futile, as I couldn't make out Eric's expression from across the field. It didn't matter though – I already knew tonight was going to be a long night.

*~*~*

Earlier that day…

"How was school, Sookie?" Gran asked as I rushed in through the door. She knew today was a big day for me, so she already had a glass of water and a granola bar waiting for me on the kitchen table, something she always does before important soccer games.

I walked over to where she was sitting in the living room and gently kissed her on the cheek, saying, "Honestly, Gran, I can't even remember. I'm just glad I didn't have any tests today, because I've been so focused on tonight!"

"I know dear, and you seem as tense as rubber band wrapped around a slingshot. Why don't you come and sit with me a bit? Take some time to relax, because from what you've told me you won't have a lot of time to do that later on."

I obliged and plopped myself down next to her on the couch. "What did you do today, Gran?" I asked after I took a long sip of water. It was calming to listen to her talk about who she saw at the local grocery store and what she bought. Tara called halfway through Gran's stories to ask me to bring her soccer bag to the fields, since she was staying after to hang out with Eggs, but besides that little blip I had ten minutes of non-soccer and non-Eric thoughts for the first time all day. It was relaxing.

Gran's cuckoo clock squawked that it was 2:30, so I politely excused myself to get ready for tonight's game. Even though the game was at home and didn't start until 5:30, Eric wanted us to be at the fields by 3 so we could watch the JV game and get some warm-up time.

Nevertheless, I knew that I needed to start getting pumped up for the game well before its starting time, so the first thing I did when I entered my room was put my iPod on the dock and start playing my warm-up playlist. It was a guilty pleasure of mine that I downloaded from a surprisingly sweet burned CD that Jason gave me when I was made captain. I remembered that he said he listened to these songs before games and he wasn't joking when he said that he seriously believed that doing so made him a better player. I didn't buy into that hooey, but I still liked to hear the songs before big games. In typical Jason fashion, they were all rap/hip-hop hits that contained bad words and explicit and derogatory lyrics about women that a sane person wouldn't want their younger sister listening to, but the beat and the dirty nature of the songs just got me excited and made me feel like a bad ass.

So with "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" blaring, I quickly changed out of the simple jean shorts and plaid button down shirt that I had worn to school and into my white and blue soccer uniform. After I was done, I pretended to brush some dirt off my shoulder, laughing as I imagined what Tara would do if she saw me do that – she'd probably roll her eyes and mutter something under her breath about crazy-ass white folks.

Humming along with the songs (because I didn't know all of the words, and if I did I most definitely would not be saying them out loud while in the same house as Gran) and moving my hips to the booming bass line, I shimmied around my room, selecting my white soccer socks out of my soccer drawer and picking up my bag. I brushed my hair in a high pony even though I knew I would probably re-do it many times before tonight's game. A quick glance at the digital clock on my night stand informed me that it was now 2:45, and I really needed to get moving if I wanted to make it to the fields on time, let alone make it so that I could have some alone time with Eric.

During the time I had spent upstairs goofing around, Gran had moved into the kitchen, where she was preparing water bottles for me and Tara, softly humming along to the Johnny Cash song on the radio. Once she saw me, she giddily clapped her hands together before giggling, "Oh, Sookie dear, I simply cannot wait for tonight! You are going to play so well!"

"I certainly hope so, Gran," I laughed, "but what time are you going to be there?"

"Jason's picking me up at five, and then we're going over to the field right after that. Oh, that reminds me, I have to remember to bring an extra lawn chair for him."

"Don't worry 'bout it, I'm going to the shed anyways so I'll take it out and put it on the front porch, mmkay?"

"Thank you, dear. Now, come here and give your Gran a kiss before you run off to be the soccer star that you are."

I kissed her on the cheek and hugged her deeply before I left. She saw me off the front porch, and as soon as she was out of earshot I plugged in my iPod and resumed playing Jason's so-called "BAMF PLAYLIST."

Maybe it was because of the lyrics in "Stronger" or maybe it was because I just was really energized, but I arrived at the fields in record time. There were still more cars in the parking lot than I would have cared for, and I could see Tara's car parked next to Eric's. Fuckity-fuck.

Triple fuckity-fuck once I saw Eric sitting down with the rest of the team – I knew I should be glad that he' bonding with the team that he technically is the coach of, but I always enjoyed our pre-practice talks, one of the few times when we could just be our true Eric-and-Sookie selves. Not today, I guess – on the day I needed to be alone with him the most.

I felt an odd combination of guilt and anger and happiness when I walked towards the team, and I wish I didn't know why. I felt happy seeing Eric interact with the team like he'd known them all his life. But at the same time, I was angry to see Eric hanging out with the team during a time when I usually hung out with him1 v. 1. Then of course I felt guilty about feeling angry that Eric was doing his job.

"Hey, Sookie!" Eric called out, carelessly waving his short sleeve-less arm in greeting. Well, okay, now I just felt horny. I had never realized how nice Eric's arms were…probably because I was too buy gaping at his chest or his abs or his eyes or his mouth or his hair or…shit, I had a hot boyfriend! He looked like he could be Mr. January on a calendar or something; I could just see him "making love to the camera," lying on a bed smirking with one very muscular arm tucked behind his head on the pillow and one hand carelessly resting on the sheet that was located just below his exposed abs. Sigh.

Whenever I went to the gym, I always focused on running or strengthening my legs – why work on your arms when you play with your feet? Lazy, but true – my arms were just plain old arms. I could tell Eric wasn't of that mindset. His proportionate body type, coupled with his height and heritage, made him look like a gorgeous 21st century Viking, but without a weird beard.

While I was too busy ogling Eric, the rest of the girls said "hi" to me. I forced myself to look away from Eric – look away, damnit! – and smiled at everyone. "Hey guys! What's up?"

"We were just going to play 'Zoomy Zoomy.' You want in?" Amelia asked. Despite the whirlwind of emotions I had just experienced, I managed to giggle at how Amelia could always be counted on going ape over silly fourth grade games like Drip, Drip, Drop or 'Zoomy Zoomy.' A deep rumble told me that Eric was thinking the exact same thing as me, so I snuck a peek and was rewarded with the sight of Eric winking at me. Sigh.

After taking a second to compose myself, I responded, "Sure thing, Amelia. I mean, you of all people should remember how much I like that game." Amelia and the rest of the team broke out in giggles, and Eric slipped on a confused look and raised an eyebrow at me.

Answering his unasked question, I said, "Last summer we raised enough money to go to this soccer camp on the Gulf Coast, and so our whole team went and stayed in a couple cabins for two weeks. Except we had an odd number of girls, I think it was that we had twenty-one people and each cabin fit ten people, so I stayed with a team from New Orleans. And I was fine with that, until I realized that all they did when they weren't playing soccer was this game. I got so, so sick of it by the end of the week that I wanted to sleep outside of the cabin and not give a fuck about the camp regulations, so it's a bit of a sore spot for me. Amelia, as I'm sure you've figured out, doesn't really feel the same way– she even organized a camp-wide game!"

"Damn straight. Wasn't enough to make the Guinness book of world records, though," Amelia pouted.

Everyone laughed, and I continued, "All right, so here's how you play 'Zoomy Zoomy.' You sit cross-legged in a circle, and everyone is assigned a number, except for someone who's assigned to be Zoomy, and starts hitting their thighs twice and then clap twice – to the beat of like, thigh thigh, clap, clap. And the Zoomy person starts it, and while she hits her thighs, she says, "Zoomy Zoomy," and when she claps she says a number twice, like "five, five." And then the person who is five says her number, "five, five," when she hits her thighs, and then some other number, like "ten, ten." And so on. When someone screws up, like if they don't talk in rhythm with the beat or if they say a number that no one's assigned to, then they're out of the game."

"So then how many people did you get to play at camp?" Of course Eric would see that competition as the most relevant information.

"Three-forty-five," Amelia said proudly

"Wow. Well, I know we don't have that many players, but I'd like to play," Eric said.

"Mmkay, so I call dibs on Zoomy!" Amelia shouted as soon as Eric finished, throwing her hands in the air. She ran over to an open spot, ran around in a circle like a little dog, and sat down Indian-style. "Who's with me?"

Everyone flocked over to her to form a circle, and Eric walked over with me. He murmured, "Hey Stackhouse."

"'Sup Northman. Sorry I didn't come earlier today."

"No worries. There'll be other days." He peered down on me with a small smile on his face, one that I returned.

We sat next to each other – coach and player, Northman and Stackhouse, 12 and 13.

"Lucky number thirteen," I sardonically muttered under my breath.

"Very," Eric whispered back, gently brushing my bare knee with his rough one before Amelia started the game. I hoped no one else noticed that Eric picked me almost every chance he was called, which happened a lot more to him than it did to me. As time went on and more people started showing up, the game just got bigger and bigger, and soon it was time to start the JV game. Amelia proclaimed herself to be the winner, and everyone was too busy watching the game to care.

Eric had made his way over to the sideline to hang out with his new friend, Chow, who was the JV coach; despite the fact that Chow used to be the resident hottie soccer coach – thanks to his sleeve tattoos and exotic Asian looks – until Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Handsome came in on the scene, the two were quickly becoming good friends. They certainly made a pretty picture with their longish locks, aviators, and tight ribbed tank tops, and I wasn't the only gal to pick up on that. Not only could I hear my teammates talking about them, but I could also hear their mothers gossiping about the coaches as well. Welcome to Bon Temps. Like Eric, Chow was new this year. Bill hadn't exactly warmed up to Chow – he kept saying he liked the former JV coach better – but Eric was just proving once again that he was not Bill.

After the first half, Eric and Chow did that weird fist bump, half hug thing that guys always do, and strutted across the field to join us; I could practically hear the pocket mirrors being opened and lipstick caps being unscrewed. He cocked his head over to the side of the bleachers, and we trailed behind him like he was laying a trail of Starbursts for us to follow.

Instead of motioning for us to sit like he usually did during group huddles, Eric cleared his throat and said, "I'm glad you guys knew enough to put all your gear on already. I forgot to tell you that earlier, but I'll expect you all to have shin guards, socks, and cleats on by the beginning of half time whenever JV plays before us. Once again, you guys have both surprised and amazed me with your awesomeness. Well…okay, awesomeness isn't really the best word, but it'll do. Because awesomeness is what you have, and awesomeness is what you will demonstrate later tonight, of that I am sure."

He stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, and smiled faintly before furrowing his brow and continuing, "Play time is over for us, though. Listen up – we have about forty-five minutes, and then, bam, it's game time. Forty-five minutes. That's all. That's like, what, math class for you guys? So it's like math class is your last class of the day, the only thing standing between you and the end of school, when you're free. Think of it like that. 'Cause now it's time to focus. That means no more boys, no more camp games, and no more gossip. Just you, me, and a soccer ball. So now I want you, while it's still half time, to take a warm up jog around the field and then – awh, hell, just take the run so we can get it over with and then I'll tell you what you're going to do while you all stretch afterwards. Go!"

We eagerly complied, and soon enough we were standing in front of Eric like before, only this time we were breathing a bit more heavily.

"Great. Great. Okay, so now I want you guys to stretch it out. Take some time to do this, make sure you're not tight or sore anywhere that you shouldn't be. I'd rather spend a few extra minutes before the game than have to stop the game to carry you off the field. So why don't you guys do that, and I'll resume talking. I'm thinking we do a Zoomy Zaamy or Drip Drip Drop or whatever kind of circle you guys always arrange yourselves in, and I'll be standing in the middle."

After we formed a circle around Eric and were stretching, he walked around the interior of the circle and began talking again. "I want you guys to listen to me. Forget about the game that's playing now. Forget about the referee whistles and the yelling and the parents on the sideline talking. Forget about the sound of the other team warming up. Just listen to me. Just listen to me and concentrate on stretching."

By this time Eric was standing in front of me, and of course now was the point in my stretching ritual when my legs were spread apart and my hands were planted on the grass and my head was down and my butt was up. I wasn't even looking at him or tracking where he was walking until I saw his familiar Puma cleats stationed right near my head. Without moving my head I looked up, way up, and was instantly taken back by the fiery passion burning in his bright blue orbs – it reminded me of what the blue flame looked like in the chem. lab I finished last week. He looked as hungry and powerful as his speeches had been today. Nervous that he hadn't said anything in about twenty seconds and the team was supposed to be focusing on him, I raised an eyebrow and pointedly mouthed, "yes, coach?" to try and get him back on track. His eyes widened and he subtly nodded before taking a couple steps back and continuing his talk.

"Um, right, so just take another minute or so to get loose, and then what I want you guys to do is grab a partner and a ball and just start hitting long balls while spaced about twenty yards apart. Halleigh, I'll start warming you up with some goalkeeper drills. "

I nodded at Tara, my partner in everything, and she went off to find a soccer ball for us to pass with. Since everyone was finding some space or a ball, I figured it'd be okay if I snuck a peek at Eric – the sight I saw kind of made me wish I didn't. Eric hadn't moved like the rest of the team, as he remained in the same spot he was in when he forced himself to move away from me. He was massaging his temples with his eyes closed. After shaking his head like a wet dog, he removed his hand, popped his eyes open, and looked around for Halleigh. Once he found her hovering near the soccer bags, he started throwing the ball at her at different angles and speeds.

I forced myself not to think about why Eric looked that distressed, and concentrated on hitting the ball back and forth with Tara. After a while, Eric stopped his routine with Halleigh and yelled, "Quickly now, I want you to get in a group of six and play 5 v. 1, with that one person wearing a pinny and playing a demented game of monkey in the middle. Once you get the ball, the person who forced the bad play is in the middle. Get to it!" Given the number of our team, someone could help Halleigh practice and Eric was free to roam around and observe the various soccer games. On the outside, he looked calm and composed, but I could see by the way he kept squaring his shoulders and running his hands through his hair that he was more nervous for the upcoming game than he wanted to let on.

After some time had passed, the JV game ended (they won!) and Eric hurriedly motioned for us to pick up our bags and walk on the field together.

It just so happened that Russell Edgington decided to walk his team across the field at the same time Eric did – I could feel the tension even though I was about forty yards away from the source. I took the time to check out Edgington, who looked even creepier he did in the famous Soccergate photo or as I remembered him looking last year when I scored the final goal against the Shreveport Sluts, as Amelia had taken to calling that team.

He was a good foot shorter than Eric, but what he lacked in size Edgington made up for it in rottenness. Although he had a striking combination of bitter chocolate eyes coupled with red hair, his features were lined with ferocity, especially when he was yelling at his team to hurry up like they were a pack of mules, like he was now. He was also wearing a tacky and flashy black and red track suit made out of that shiny, swishy material found in awesomely bad soccer videos from the '80s. He just looked like someone you'd be embarrassed to know.

Eric, in a stunning contrast, was actually walking and positively interacting with his team on the way over; he was deep in strategy talks with Halleigh, and even though he was on the other side of the walking blob that was our team I could see him wildly gesturing with his hands and nodding enthusiastically. Eric had managed to obtain a "Bon Temps Soccer" light blue track jacket that had "Coach Northman" embroidered on the chest, and he was wearing that over the tank top and jeans he had before. Sure, he was fitted a little more casually than Bill, who always insisted on wearing a blazer and stiff khakis no matter the temperature or weather condition, but I was sure that just meant Eric would be freer to move up and down the sidelines.

I wanted to roll my eyes at how dramatic something as simple as walking across a soccer field became, but I really couldn't because I was supposed to be talking to Tara about what plays we should run on corner kicks. I just hoped that this apparent flair for the dramatics wouldn't continue into the game. As I nodded and "uh-huh-ed" my way over to the sideline, I was hit with a wave of nervousness and anxiousness that I hadn't felt before a soccer game in a while. If this was a big game for me, with all of the college scouts sniffing around me, then it must have been a mammoth-sized game for Eric; he has to feeling what I was feeling times a million. After all, this was the first time he'd seen Edgington since the injury – this was Eric's chance to say, "You might have crippled me, but you haven't broken me."

Now I finally understood what Eric meant when he said that we'd have to be his legs and feet. I wanted to win for Eric – something that, quite frankly, scared me because I'd never wanted to win a game just because a coach told me to. Then again, I'd never had a coach like Eric and I'd never felt what I felt for Eric for anyone else. Yeah, that might have something to do with it.

The referee called for captains, so Tara, Amelia, and I confidently made our way over to the half line. I recognized one of the Shreveport captains, Bettie Joe Pickard, from last year; she had injured Ginger and laughed as the poor blonde had to be carried off to the sidelines – I wasn't Ginger's biggest fan, but even I wouldn't do that. The referee performed the coin toss, and it turned out that we would start with the ball. We walked back to the bench and informed Eric and the rest of the team.

Eric nodded before announcing the starting lineup – he put me in my usual spot, center forward. Immediately afterwards, the national anthem was sung and the starters were announced; when my name was called I high-fived the remaining girls on the sideline, ran to midfield and shook the hands of Edgington, the referees, and Eric, and ran to the field and high-fived the rest of the starters.

While waiting for the Shreveport girls to do the same, I looked at the bleachers and was amazed at how filled it was. Usually this many people came to our games during the playoffs, but to have so many fans about three weeks into our season was heartwarming. Maybe it was because of our game against Shreveport or they heard about Eric and wanted to check him out or maybe they heard about his rivalry with Edgington – whatever the reason, I was glad so many people showed up to support us.

Then it was time to meet at our bench for one final pep talk from Eric. Instead of wiggling or being raised, his eyebrows were furrowed and all scrunched up as he said, "I know that you're waiting for me to give a movie-worthy pump-up speech like I've done in the past, but I can't. You're here now, you're going to play, and you know what to do. So I've only got one word for you to chew on: intensity. Intensity on the field. Intensity in your heart. Intensity in your body. Intensity in your brain. We've worked so hard to get here, just give it all you've got. Play your heart out. This is it. This is what we've practiced for. This is what we play for. This is what we play for. Now everyone put your hands in … 'This is it' on three. One, two, three!"

We all cheered and then the starters ran onto the field. I took my spot and anxiously waited for the referee to blow his whistle. Eric might have thought that his speech wouldn't be a good pump-up speech, but he was just stupid wrong.

Then the game started, and I didn't have time to think about Eric or his speech or anything else besides playing. Shreveport was a tough win last year, and even though the game just started I could tell it would be a battle – no, an all out war. Edgington might be a crazy bastard, but he was coaching a pretty damn good team.

The score was tied 0-0 at half-time, although there had been a lot of close calls for both teams. I almost scored a header off a corner kick, but it hit the top of the goal post instead and I heard Eric's desperate roar from the sidelines. Other than that, I hadn't heard a peep out of him; Bill was a silent coach too. Edgington, on the other hand, was ballistic; he didn't scream but rather hissed at anyone who would listen – his team, the other team, and even the referees. As I jogged past his sidelines after the whistle was blown, I heard him furiously ask Bettie Joe Pickard what the fuck she thought she was doing out there, and even I flinched.

It's not like Eric was the poster boy for being cool, calm, and collected, though; he had snapped at Maudette when she asked if she could run to the porta-potty in the parking lot during half time – "Sure, and while you're at it, why don't you just run home? 'Cause I need all of my players to be focused on the game, not their bladder." It was tough love, I guess – I understood and respected what he was saying, but that didn't mean he couldn't have packaged it better.

We all sat down and formed a semi-circle around him, but he just silently paced back and forth. Even though I was exhausted from not being subbed out all half and was trying to make up for it by drinking lots of water, I had to stop and stare at Eric. I had no idea what he was going to say, and judging by the hushed silence no one else did either.

"And here's Eric Northman with the half-time report. Eric, take it away," Tara spoke up after a full minute of complete nothingness. She was just saying what the whole team – including me, the coach's girlfriend – was too shit-scared to say. One side of Eric's perfect mouth lifted in a sad little half-smile and he chuckled a ghostly chuckle.

"Thanks, Tara. Eric Northman here. It's a beautiful day in Bon Temps and…" Eric trailed off, as the rest of our team broke out into surprised giggles. He had even pretended to speak into a little microphone, and he looked much better than he had before.

"Okay, seriously now," he said as the giggles started lessening, "I'm pleased with what we've done so far. Of course, I would have been a lot more pleased if there was a big, beautiful '1' or '2' or '10' underneath our name on the billboard, but it's not like you guys haven't been trying. You just have to try harder to get rid of the goose egg. I'm not worried yet – we have forty-five minutes left and we're going to need every minute of it. Don't make all of those sprints and exercises that I made you do this past week count for nothing. Like I said before, give it all you've got. You're free on the weekend and our next game isn't until a week from now, so you'll have time to rest. I promise."

After reviewing some plays we could use and making some adjustments to the line-up, Eric looked up at me and asked, "Captains, did I forget anything?"

Amelia, Tara and I all looked at each other. Did we all get hit with soccer balls during the game? Eric was asking for our input? With Bill, his word reigned supreme – it wasn't even 'my way or the highway' with him, it was his way only. The rest of the team looked as stupefied as I'm sure I did.

I cleared my throat and said, "Well, I've noticed that they tend to get the ball to the center forward or midfielder a lot, and she always sends a long ball to the corner that forces our outside defenders to basically run a forty-yard dash with the Shreveport offense."

Eric beamed at me before responding, "Excellent point, Stackhouse. I noticed that too. I'm going to push Felicia into center-midfielder, and Felicia, all I want you to do is mark their center midfielder. Tara, as stopper I really need you to keep an eye on their center forward. I know that she usually isn't responsible for the long balls, but I need you to be on her like flies on shit."

"Fitting simile," Tara muttered, but Eric heard her and laughed appreciatively along with the rest of us. He then announced the line-up, and we took our spots on the field.

About seven minutes in, Shreveport scored – one of those shots straight in the corner of the net and you just have to admire it because there's no way that any goalie could be able to save it.

"Shake it off girls, let's get it back!" I heard Amelia shout after play resumed. But it seemed as soon as she said that, she was immediately tackled by one of the Shreveport midfielders. Even though she was on the other side of the field, I could still tell that she had hit the ground and landed weirdly on her ankle.

"C'mon Amelia, get up girl," I murmured, not even caring about the reaction of the defender guarding me. "You've had worse, just get up."

But she stayed motionless on the ground, and after what felt like an eternity the referee blew his whistle and motioned for Eric to come on the field. My heart stilled as I realized that not only had Amelia not gotten up, but she also hadn't moved once. Oh, shit.

Fortunately (well, unfortunately really, but whatever) she was able to sit up a little when Eric crouched down next to her, but when she tried to stand up she started sobbing; Eric scooped her in his arms and brought her over to the sidelines. Oh no no no no no, that can't be good.

Tara had yelled for the rest of the team to huddle up, so I was watching all of this from center field. The custom was to always give the injured person some space and not crowd all around her, and so we always held a mini team huddle where the captains would give a pep talk to the nervous players.

"Okay, so things aren't looking too good, but we can fix that! We still have time. Just play smart soccer, don't do anything rash, and play our game. Let's do this for Amelia," I said. The girls cheered. Flashing back to the first time I really hung out with Eric I added, "Scratch that. Let's do this for us. We've worked for this, and we just have to want it more than they do. Let's do it for Amelia and Tara and me and you and Eric. I told him about our Merlotte's after parties, and he said that if it was a good game he wouldn't mind being dragged on the dance floor as long as he had a reason to celebrate. And I think a win against our mutual rival would function as a reason to celebrate right?" The girls cheered again – louder. Well, whatever the reason, I guess.

After someone was subbed in for Amelia, the playing resumed; later on Felicia hit a beautiful shot from about thirty yards out that just skimmed by the goalie's hands and sailed into the net like a water balloon. We all cheered and swarmed Felicia to hug and high-five her; after all that fuss, we pretended to be airplanes and spread our arms out and ran in zig-zag patterns, a team tradition after we saw it in a soccer movie.

The kick-off started, and both teams struggled to take shots on net in the remaining minutes. Every second, every run, every pass, counted more than it had in the past; the pressure was building with every moment as the players and parents and – in Edgington's case – the coaches became louder and louder. I loved it though. As Eric said, this is what we play for.

After nearly scoring – the ball went over the net and I could practically hear Bill's soft Southern drawl telling me to keep my head down when shooting – I glanced up and saw that there was three minutes left. F. U. C. K. I threw all my energy into the game, making runs and getting open as much as possible. But because of the time and my reputation, Edgington made sure that I was double-teamed and really wasn't much use to my teammates.

Luckily for me, I was much faster than the goons acting as my shadow, and I was able to break free just in time for Tara to send a ball coming my way. It flew over my head and was making its way down to the corner, and it was just a flat out race between me and the defender. I sprinted as hard as I could and made it to the ball first, dribbling it quickly in front of me like one of Eric's many drills that we had gone over during the past week. The thud of the pounding footsteps behind me, the shrieking – yes, shrieking – of Edgington from my right, the heightened cries from the spectators – everything disappeared and it was just me, the ball, and the terrified-looking goalie with her hands tense and ready to catch anything I kicked at her. Recognizing her stance, I fake-kicked and made like I was going to shoot the ball, but in reality I just pushed it a little to the side. However, the goalie mistakenly dove to the right side of the net, and I easily passed the ball to the left side of the goal.

Then all of the sounds caught up with me – the referee's whistle announcing the validity of the goal, the sounds of cheers from anyone wearing the blue and white colors of Bon Temps, the "Oh my God!"s and "Sookie!"s from my teammates, the lion roar that I just knew came out of Eric's beautiful mouth. I did it. I fucking did it. We were winning now, 2-1, with thirty-seven seconds left on the score board, probably a little more with injury time. All we needed now was to contain, to play keep-away, to kick it as hard as we could out of bounds when we were under pressure. I reminded my team this as we aeroplaned (yeah, that's a verb for us) our way back to our side of the field.

Everyone did as I said, and Tara booted the ball out of bounds in the last five seconds. The screams coming from the field and the sideline and the bleachers were louder than the final buzzer.

The referee blew his whistle, and the game was over. I immediately stopped sprinting for the first time the whole night and allowed myself to catch my breath. I put my hands behind my head and concentrated on breathing deeply, innnn…outtt…innnn…outtt…. As I was doing this, I looked around me and saw my other teammates standing still as well. A glance towards the sideline proved futile, as I couldn't make out Eric's expression from across the field. It didn't matter though – I already knew tonight was going to be a long night.

Feeling like I just ran a marathon – and in my own little way, I kind of did – I forced myself to actually run over to the bench. I was greeted by the rest of my team and they formed this giant, giddy group-hug around me; even Amelia was up and jumping after resting for some time. Although I was surrounded by stinky, sweaty girls, I never felt closer and happier to be on this team as I did now. Once someone pointed out that Shreveport had lined up and were waiting to shake hands, we stopped and straightened into a line, shaking palms outstretched in the anticipation of high-fiving the girls. On our team, the goalie always went first and then the three captains, so I made my way up to the front and was completely taken back when I saw the Shreveport team with their elbows, not their hands, out.

"It's for swine flu, so we bump elbows now, not hands or fists. Just a little Shreveport health precaution," Bettie Joe said by way of explanation; I wasn't the only one dumbly starting at their arms.

I nodded and smiled, while internally wondering why there was any need for little Shreveport health precautions if we had just spent the past ninety minutes pushing and touching and sweating all over one another – soccer is a contact sport, after all. But whatever – it didn't matter because WE WON!!!!!

After we bumped elbows with the opponents – and shook hands with the referees – we resumed our silly squealing and screaming that only deliriously happy teenage girls can do. As I was walking back to the bench, I was tackled from behind by my assailant – an ecstatic Eric who had grabbed my hips and was twirling me around with my legs in the air and my arms gripping his. It was such a childish action, and the fact that it was performed by such an adult-looking guy made me laugh. He laughed back and the rest of the team – the ones who weren't standing with their mouths open, that is – laughed as well.

"Stackhouse, you fucking rock!" Eric roared as he put me down. He then gave me a huge bear hug – not a romantic one, but one a coach would give to a player who just saved his very toned ass by scoring the winning goal in the last thirty seconds.

He let go and I was finally able to look at his face; if I thought his eyes sparkled or shined or glistened or glowed before, than I would have to buy a thesaurus because his eyes were currently doing all of that and more. He was laughing like a maniac and it was contagious because I felt myself bubbling with giggling.

"Stack-house! Stack-house! Stack-house!" Eric cheered loudly, and the rest of the team quickly joined in. Eric lifted me up in the air and briefly twirled me around like a makeshift ballerina before setting me down and clapping his hands in time with his makeshift chant.

After the chanting finally died down, we made our way back to the bench; everyone was chatting and giggling about what would happen next at our Merlotte's after-party. I looked over my shoulder and stopped walking when I saw Eric shaking hands with a very sour-looking Edgington, who wore a plastic smile that just looked stupid compared to Eric's ginormous shit-eating grin. I pretended to tie my shoelace so I could hear what Edgingotn was hissing, which was, "Congratulations on your big win, Northman. Can't wait to see what the score will be next time when you don't have the number-one forward in the state on your team."

Eric opened his mouth to retort but Edgington just nodded and slithered away before any words could come out. Fucking coward, how dare he ruin Eric's much-deserved celebration! Eric looked like he wanted to stuff a soccer ball up Edgington's ass, so I quickly made my way over to where Eric was standing and just hugged him before he could say anything about it being coach-player time.

I mumbled into his heaving chest, "Forget that asshole, Eric. He's just mad because your team ate his team for dinner and he doesn't have a legitimate excuse to tackle you without getting arrested. Okay?"

Eric breathed heavily, and I felt my cheek rise up and down. Eric squeezed me a little tighter, like I was his Sookie-sized comfort blanket, and released me, saying, "You're right, Stackhouse. And tonight's only the beginning. I'm way too happy to concentrate on anything other than our win and your fuckawesome soccer skills. C'mon, let's head over."

He slipped a hand around my shoulder and brought me closer to him, so close that my arm was squished until I remembered to put it around his back. We walked like that, doing our own version of the two-legged race without actually having a bandana tied around our knee, and by the time we reached the sideline Eric was cheering all over again. Two of the girls snuck around him with our water cooler splashing around, and before I could detach myself from Eric they poured the water all over him. Except that given his height and the amount of water in the heavy container, they really only made it up to his shoulders, but my entire body – sweaty head included – was soaked.

The rest of the team started laughing again – and this had to be some kind of record because we had been laughing continuously for at least ten minutes – and after exchanging grins Eric and I joined in as well. The laughing stopped when Eric zipped off his jacket, and was standing soaking wet with just his jeans and a now-see-through white wifebeater. Oh my god, I couldn't think of any way he could look hotter, what with the indents of his sex-pack – sorry, six-pack – and pecs clearly shown in the wet fabric and droplets of water streaming down his muscular arms.

I was wrong – Eric shucked off his beater and was shirtless – abs and muscles and skin for all to worship for a couple glorious seconds before he bent over and pulled a navy "LA Galaxy" tee shirt out of his bag. I think I liked him better glistening with water and in soaked jeans than I did in his swim trunks, but that might just be because all I could think about was how sexy Eric currently looked. Seriously, if someone had right then and there asked me what my name was, I probably would have responded, "Eric's chest" – if I managed to make any noise at all.

Everyone seemed just as enthralled as I did, but our hypnosis was lifted when Eric put his shirt back on and noticed us staring intently at him.

"All right, who's ready to CELEBRATE?"Eric bellowed, evidently choosing not to comment on how his team was staring at him like, well, he was an unbelievably good-looking probable sex god who managed to fall down to Earth and grace us mere mortals with his presence. Which, in a way, was kind of what he was.

Someone "woo-hooed" (really, I am just on a roll making up these verbs tonight) and everyone snapped out of their lusty trance and started cheering again. We shucked off our sweaty soccer equipment and headed over to the bleachers to salute our cheering fans. Then about five more minutes of screaming and laughing occurred before Eric bellowed, "To Merlotte's!" and the crowd dispersed.

At that time I was talking to Gran and Jason after both of them hugged me – yeah, I was also surprised that Jason actually hugged me! – and congratulated me on my goal. I asked Gran if she was coming to Merlotte's, which she sometimes did, and she responded, "Oh, Sookie, I'm so sorry but I am just feeling a little more tired than usual tonight."

Jason's face fell, as mine did too – I just knew that he had been looking forward to doing a little scoring of his own tonight with one of the bar patrons.

"Don't worry about it, Gran. There will be other times at Merlotte's. Here, why don't you take my keys, so Jason doesn't have to drive you home and then drive back to Merlotte's?"

Jason flashed me a grateful smile and hugged Gran goodbye and slapped me on the back before catching up with some friends. Gran reached out to take my keys, but then suddenly brushed past me with both arms now extended. I whipped my head around and saw Gran snuggled up against a very surprised and confused looking Eric. I smirked – the man's so gorgeous he should be used to women throwing themselves at him no matter what their age is.

After a few seconds, Eric shrugged at me and warmly hugged Gran back, even closing his eyes and patting her shoulders affectionately before she pulled back.

"I probably should have introduced myself before the hug, but my name is Adele Stackhouse, Sookie's Gran, and I just wanted to congratulate you and welcome you into our soccer family. Sookie has been talking about you and this game all week, and I'm so happy for tonight's win," Gran said.

Eric glanced at me before grinning, "I am too, Ms. Stackhouse. Sookie's a great player and I think very highly of her – even more after her goal!"

Gran laughed heartily, and Eric did too. I, on the other hand, looked like Eric ripped his face off and revealed he was a three-headed alien with green skin. Seriously, I kind of wanted him to – could he be any more perfect?

"Ms. Stackhouse, will you be attending the get-together at Merlotte's?"

"Oh, please, Eric, call me Adele. I meant to say that before you got me laughing! And unfortunately I will not be attending the festivities, although I wish I were now. I don't feel up to par."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Eric quickly asked, looking concerned and thoughtful as he reached out and placed a hand on Gran's arm.

"Heavens, no, Eric. I'll be all right. Although now that you've mentioned it, there is one thing you can do for me."

"Sure, anything. What is it?"

"Well, you see now, Sookie just gave me her car to drive her home so she doesn't have any way to get to Merlotte's. Would you be a gentleman and drive her to Merlotte's?"

"I'd love to, Adele. Sookie, are you okay with that?"

I nodded, too shocked at how quickly Gran and Eric had taken a liking to each other to form sentences that didn't sound like they were written by Tarzan (i.e. "Me Tarzan. You Jane). But uh, duh, of course I was more than okay with that.

Eric grinned and said, "Excellent. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you Adele. Thank you for coming to watch your shining Sookie soccer star play."

"I wouldn't miss it for anything – and I especially won't now with you as her coach! Have fun, you two, you've earned it. And Sookie, I'll probably go to sleep as soon as I get home, okay?"

"Okay Gran. Thanks for coming, I'll probably sleep over at Amelia's like always. See you tomorrow."

Gran hugged both of us and walked off, leaving just me and Eric behind. Eric hoisted his bag over his shoulder and flicked his head to the parking lot, indicating that I should start walking with him. I did just that, and we walked together as inconspicuously as possible over to his car. I just hoped that everyone was too busy "woo-hoo"ing to notice the captain getting into the coach's car and driving away.

Hey all, hoped you liked it! Up next: after party at Merlotte's!!! Can I get a "woo hoo" or two? :)

Seriously, though. (insert witty comment about reviewing here: *_________* ) Pwetty please?

I don't say this enough, but thank you so, so much for your pms/reviews/alerts/favorites/reading of this story. Especially if I forgot to reply to yours. Cyber hug!