Keeping Score

by Brittany Kelley

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Love is on the line, and this goalie is playing for keeps, in this steamy soccer romance from Brittany Kelley, author of Relationship Goals.

Michelle Oxford lives and breathes soccer. After an injury that ended her dreams of going pro, she snagged the next best thing: a position as the director of operations for the LA Aces. And even if it’s not quite what she imagined it would be, it’s still better than cutting out soccer altogether.

The only problem? Carefree, wonder boy goalie, Tristan Gold.

Tristan has wanted more than just friendship with Michelle since the moment he laid eyes on her, but nothing would kill her career faster. When she loses a bet, the team gleefully insists she has to take lessons on “being chill” from Tristan himself.

They couldn’t be more different, but Tristan’s always met her perfectionist tendencies with good-natured goofiness, so she reluctantly agrees. The more time she spends with him, the more she likes what she sees . . . and Michelle starts to think that with him by her side, she could do just about anything—even saying goodbye to the future she thought she always wanted.

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

One

Michelle

There is not enough coffee in the entire city of Los Angeles to deal with everything on my to-do list.

My calendar sprawls across the dual monitors anchored to the cheap faux-mahogany desk, and every meeting seems to be marked in red.

Urgent.

I'm not sure how to prioritize the list when everything on it has been flagged as important, and I stifle the now-common urge to scream.

I start to rub my eyes, then lower my hands for the tenth time this morning, because I'll be damned if I'm going to any of my meetings today with mascara all over my face. Plus, I spent fifteen minutes "relaxing" with under-eye patches on this morning, and if social media has taught me one thing, it's to not tug at my eyeballs if I want to try to keep picture-perfect skin as long as I can.

Here in LA, perfect under-eyes matter more than I wish they did. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's not just LA, either.

Still, the last thing I want is to give anyone a reason to offer up their skin-care routine or dermatologist or cosmetic surgeon unasked.

Most of the front office staff are friendly and well-meaning. The rest? Well, they are anything but. If the number of times I've had to swallow how I wanted to respond to their blatant disrespect or tiny slights counted toward my nutrition goals, I would never have to eat.

Cool indifference.

That's what I have to project. I wear it like armor, like a uniform.

Sure, it might get me called the ice queen behind my back or, even less original, a frigid bitch.

But I get shit done.

I chant the words to myself mentally, rubbing my fingers over the warm gold heart charm I wear around my wrist. A gift from my mom when I graduated college, it's one of the few nice things I remember her owning when I was growing up. Wearing it now, even though it's definitely not stylish, reminds me of how hard I've worked, how hard she worked to get me here, and how much I owe it to both of us to keep working hard.

I press at my temples, staring at the calendar and wondering just how this frigid bitch is going to get any of this shit done.

Through coffee all things are possible, of course.

I reach for my forty-ounce tumbler of home-brewed hot coffee, my nails scraping against the LA Aces logo as I grab on to it like a lifeline.

I've needed a lot more caffeine since the owners, as shitty as they were, resigned.

The club's been thrown into chaos.

I don't do well with chaos.

At all.

I like my life structured. Predictable. Planned in my calendar at least a month in advance, preferably an entire financial quarter in advance.

I definitely do not like all of my meetings being marked urgent. I didn't have much of a social life before the shit hit the fan and the press got hold of the shady dealings of the LA Aces' former owners, but now?

Now, I pack an overnight bag when my calendar looks like this, because I never know if I'll make it home to sleep or not.

A lump forms in my throat and my eye threatens to twitch as I recall all the ways the team's new owner is keeping me running from task to task. The way he's second-guessing all of my judgment calls, asking for long written reports about why I do things the way I do them, along with self-evaluations from the last several years of my performance reviews.

Plus the performance reviews of the entire front office staff.

Yeah. I have a lot on my plate, and someone who wants to tell me exactly how to chew and swallow every single bite. And then give me feedback on how I used the damn fork.

I much prefer to maximize my time sleeping, even if it's on the shitty couch against my office wall. Much better than dealing with traffic.

It makes sense, though. Mark Adely, the new owner, wants to make sure everything is aboveboard and that he's running a tight ship. But it's been my ship to captain for so long that it grates to have him micromanage me.

My throat starts to tighten at the thought of another restless night on the faux leather monstrosity, and I chug the scalding coffee to stop the tears that keep threatening to fall.

I'm so damn tired.

I'm not sure how much longer I can take this.

A knock sounds at the door, and I nearly choke on my coffee, covering it up with a cough as the door swings open.

"You okay?" Madison Moore, our marketing intern, stands awkwardly in the doorway, a branded team iPad pressed to her chest, the gold Aces logo peeking out from between her arms.

I nod, pointing at the huge tumbler. "Swallowed wrong." A tiny cough sells the lie.

Her gaze slips to the couch in the corner, where the fleece throw emblazoned with the LA Aces colors and logo is neatly folded.

All nice and neat and ready for me to toss and turn all night. Again.

"What's up?" I ask, slightly harsher than I mean to. It works, though, and her gaze snaps back to mine.

"They need you in the press room." Madison bites her lower lip, and I sigh.

"They made you tell me because you're the newest, huh?" I narrow my eyes.

"And because I told them I like you," she agrees. She lifts her chin, a note of defiance in her voice. "You're the youngest woman in any professional sports front office. You're a badass."

I'm caught between wanting to hug her, so badly needing an ally in this place, and knowing that if I show any weakness now, I'm doomed.

A hug would make me cry for sure.

Crying is definitely not on the schedule.

Especially when I'm supposed to be a badass.

"What's the press conference about today?" I stand, grabbing my vat of caffeinated gold. "It's not on my calendar."

Bending, I squint at my screens, clicking furiously back to today's view.

There's no meeting request.

"It's an emergency one," Madison squeaks, then clears her throat.

I hate that I've intimidated her in my effort not to burst into tears. Overcompensating, again.

I don't want to be another micromanaging boss here; I don't want people who report to me feeling like they can't go home and rest.

A deep inhale threatens to choke me, and I grip the massive tumbler in my hand like it's a weapon. "Why can't Briony handle it?" I make myself ask as gently as possible. "Surely our PR director should be the one doing the press conference-"

"She quit." Madison's throat goes blotchy, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

I'm not the only one about to cry.

I have to hold it together. For both of us. For the entire organization. For the new owner, who's depending on me to do things right and won't be afraid to fire me if he doesn't like the way I do it.

Out with the old, in with the new.

It feels like, along with the future of my career, the entire future of the LA Aces rests squarely on my shoulders, and I don't even get to do the part of this job I fell in love with when I was a little girl.

My entire life revolves around soccer, and yet I don't get to be on the field.

Maybe Briony had the right idea.

I let myself have ten more seconds of pity party.

Madison's terrified stare is like ice on my skin.

"Right," I finally announce, pulling myself together as much as I can. "Lead on, then. I assume you have talking points prepped? Any press send questions in advance?"

Madison nearly falls over in relief, and I realize she thought she might have to handle the briefing by herself if I'd said no.

Has the Aces front office really fallen apart that badly in the last few months that we'd throw a new intern to the wolves?

I don't like the answer to my own question, and as Madison begins bombarding me with talking points while we walk, it's all I can do to keep my chin up and mentally gather my armor for the press room.

Two

Tristan

It's good to be wanted.

My arms are full of free shit from random sports drink and athletic apparel companies, all of whom want to work with me. Badly, too, if the Aces' advertising team and my agent are to be believed.

It doesn't matter how far I get-I'll always love a freebie.

Doesn't mean I have to work with any of them, but I'll drink their electrolytes and protein shakes and test out their shin guards. Why not?

Juggling the bags of stuff I'm carrying and shaking my hair from where it's starting to hang in my eyes, I grin as I walk past the press room.

Habit has me peeking through the window . . . well, habit and sheer nosiness. As far as I know, there weren't any conferences scheduled for today, but that quick look tells me the room is packed.

And at the front?

None other than Michelle Oxford, looking fucking gorgeous as ever, sits at the press table. Her thick brown hair shines under the lights, tied in a knot at the back of her neck, and my hands itch with the need to tug it loose.

She's wearing glasses again, thick black frames that nearly overpower her small face. Michelle only wears her glasses when she's been working too hard.

I know, because one morning I came in and told her I liked them, and she flatly said she hadn't felt like touching her eyeballs. Which made me laugh, because she was just so damn grumpy about it.

She reaches, hand shaking, for a huge cup next to her. A frown tugs down the corners of my mouth, and my brow wrinkles.

Why is her hand shaking?

My body reacts before I have time to think it through. Reaction time is what makes me a good goalie, at least that's what my coaches have always told me, but it only ever manages to get me in trouble where Michelle's concerned.

The door closes quietly behind me, and only a few of the reporters react to my late entrance.

Uh-oh. That's not good.

The local news guy, Eric Klaassen, shoots me a concerned look even as he gives me a nod in greeting.

"It's bad," he mouths, then jerks his chin at where Michelle's drinking from her steaming mug.

Coffee, I realize.

Is it the caffeine making her fingers tremble, or is it the pressure?

Pressure is a funny thing, and something I've been intimately acquainted with for most of my life. Constant pressure either tumbles you like a river rock until you shine, or it grinds you up and spits you out like sand.

Sometimes it's only a matter of time until the grit wears you down.

I drop the canvas totes on the floor as quietly as I can and lean over Eric's shoulder, trying to read the chicken scratch on his old-school Moleskine.

"They're ripping into her," he says. "They're out for blood, and they want a story." His voice is pitched low. "You know they're sharks."

"Aren't you one of them?" I keep my tone light, even though my hands have clenched into tight fists at my sides.

He has the audacity to shoot me an aggrieved look. "The Aces are my team. I have to report on whatever the fuck's going on here, but that doesn't mean I want to see my team beat up."

I nod. "Fair enough."

A clang sounds out in the otherwise quiet room as Michelle sets down her ridiculously large cup. She's up there by herself, alone at a long table surrounded by a bevy of mismatched mics with twice as many eyes on her from the rows of reporters in front of me.

I exhale at the silence.

Quiet isn't dangerous.

Quiet is a sign that whatever she's just been asked, they all want the answer to it.

She takes in a deep breath, the sound amplified through the mic, as she pushes her glasses up on her nose. Her blue shirt's unbuttoned just a bit, but even that small glimpse of skin threatens to undo all of my concentration.

"Thanks for your patience," she finally says, forcing a smile. I wonder if the rest of the room knows how fake it is. That's her I'm-hanging-on-by-a-thread smile, not the eye-crinkling-joy smile or the you-caught-me-looking-at-your-body mischievous grin.

I wonder when I started to classify her smiles.

"I understand there is a lot of uncertainty right now," she says slowly, her gaze roving the room, making eye contact with as many of the reporters as she can.

Electricity crackles through my body when her attention lands on me.

Her eyes slide away again, and I'd do anything to get them back. I want her to look at me, not tremble and shake under the gaze of a bunch of assholes who would turn anything she says into a front-page story if they could.

"I understand that you are all trying to make sense of the shake-ups that have happened here over the past few months."

"We asked if you were up to the challenge of stepping up-" a reporter interrupts, and a muscle twitches in Michelle's temple.

I nearly laugh, because I know that look.

They've gone and pissed her off.

"I'm here, aren't I?" she asks, tilting her head and glaring at the questioner. Ben something or other, from one of the cable sports networks. "I pulled myself away from my desk, where I have been basically living for the last few months, so you could accuse me of running this organization into the ground. Is that or is that not what you insinuated, Mr. Parker?"

I grimace, because getting combative with these guys isn't going to work. Sure, I could tell she was mad, but I didn't think she'd act on it.

She really must be exhausted.

The reporters all lean forward as one: shark senses tracking her like wounded prey.

She stumbles over her next sentence, and my fingernails bite into my palms.

I hate it. I hate how they've decided she's to blame for all the bullshit the team's gone through since our former owners' reckless rule-breaking came to light.

As if she's the one to blame for their mistakes, because she's here cleaning them up.

A reporter interrupts her, then another, and another. I reach into the bag of shit the marketing team handed to me during my monthly meeting with them, shuffling the freebies until I find what I'm looking for.