Chapter 6: Offside
Andrea Mei was not avoiding Sheik.
At least, that's what she kept telling herself.
But in the three days since that late-night walk back to her dorm, she hadn't texted him. Hadn't sat by the field. Hadn't even passed near the cafeteria when she knew he might be there. Her brain ran constant defense, and her heart? Her heart was acting like it didn't get the memo.
It wasn't that she didn't want to see him.
It was just—something had shifted. And if she acknowledged it, then it might become real.
She wasn't sure she was ready for real.
So when she walked into the library Thursday afternoon and saw Sheik Jin sitting at her usual table—with two drinks and a box of strawberry Pocky in front of him—her stomach dropped.
Busted.
He looked up, calm as ever. "There you are," he said. "I was starting to think I imagined you."
Andrea raised an eyebrow. "You're in my seat."
"Then sit with me and reclaim it," he said, nudging the matcha latte toward her. "Also, I brought peace offerings."
She stared at the drink. "You remembered my order?"
He shrugged. "It's not that hard. You say it like a spell every time we pass the coffee kiosk."
Despite herself, Andrea sat down.
"I wasn't avoiding you," she said, unconvincingly.
Sheik didn't push. "Okay."
They sat there in the quiet rhythm of the library. Someone coughed down the aisle. Pages turned somewhere. Outside, the wind was picking up, the sky hinting at rain.
Andrea leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
"I freaked out," she said finally. "After that night. It felt like… like something was starting, and I didn't know how to handle it."
Sheik was quiet for a beat. Then: "Yeah. I felt it too."
She looked at him, surprised by how easy he made that sound.
He shifted in his chair to face her more directly. "Andrea, I like you. Not just when you're analyzing soccer plays or pretending you don't care when you care so much. I like you when you're overthinking everything. When you laugh at dumb things. When you say what you really think, even if it stings a little."
Andrea blinked.
"I'm not saying we need to name it. Or rush it," he added. "I just don't want to pretend it's not happening."
She looked down at her cup, fingers tracing the condensation. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not," he said. "But it doesn't have to be scary."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Andrea noticed movement through the big window behind him—a familiar figure in a navy track jacket walking past the quad, clipboard in hand.
Coach Mendoza.
Walking beside him was a woman in professional sportswear and two unfamiliar assistants. Andrea sat up straighter.
"Sheik," she said, nodding toward the window. "Is that—?"
He turned. His face stiffened. "Yeah. That's the scout from West Bay."
Andrea's eyes widened. "They're coming to your next game?"
"Next week," Sheik said. "Coach told me this morning. They want to see me play."
"That's… kind of a big deal," Andrea said.
"It is," he said. But his voice wasn't excited.
She studied his face. "You're not happy."
He hesitated. "It's complicated. I should be thrilled, right? But now… every move I make matters. It's not just a game anymore."
Andrea nodded slowly. "Feels like one bad pass could change everything."
"Exactly," Sheik said. "And part of me is wondering—what if I'm not ready? What if I don't want it as much as I thought I did?"
She looked at him—really looked. He wasn't the confident player she saw on the field. Right now, he was just an 18-year-old guy with a weight on his shoulders and too many thoughts in his head.
Andrea reached under the table and brushed her hand against his. He looked down, surprised.
"You don't have to figure it all out right now," she said quietly. "But if you're going to keep second-guessing yourself, let someone else be in your corner."
His fingers laced with hers—tentative, but sure.
"I want that someone to be you," he said.
Andrea didn't pull away.
"Good," she whispered.
Outside, the sky finally let go, a soft drizzle tapping the windows.
Inside, everything felt just a little more certain.