Hook, Line + Star-Crossed (Atlanta Strikers #2)

Prologue

Pods, Prudence + Pursuing the Reckless

Luca

Six months ago. Vegas.

I hear her shuffle in her seat as she sits down.

God, please let this one be normal.

Then I hear it.

Burp.

Brilliant.

Another drunk one.

For the record—and I want this to be officially noted—I hate reality TV.

I think it kills brain cells and nothing good has come from it since a Kardashian hit the big screen. And yet…here I am.

I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man, sitting in what’s basically a glorified broom closet, filming a show…a joke…that has gone too far.

A Las Vegas rendition of the reality dating show, SightUnseen. Everyone in Cinnamon Grove has been going on about the show where strangers talk through a wall for ninety minutes and sometimes, for reasons unknown to God or science, end up married.

I still don’t fully understand the point of this show or why anyone would sign up without being under duress.

But I promised my best friend that I’d let my nuts hang.

His words. Not mine. He told me I needed to do something completely out of character.

Not for my family or the team, not for the press or to protect some spotless image.

Just for me.

Something fun. Reckless, even.

And somehow, this was what I landed on.

Don’t ask me why. I’m not even drunk. And I’m honestly still trying to figure out how the man on the street made the idea sound so enticing.

If my mother could see me right now, she’d say I’ve brought shame to the entire bloodline. Not because this will air on television, but because Nigerians don’t beg.

Not for love.

Not for attention.

Not for anything.

My father would say, “So you could not wait for God to send you a wife, ehn? You had to go and audition like some unmarriable vagabond?”

This is the same man who could be on fire and still refuse a glass of water, just to prove his faith was enough and he didn’t need a hand from anyone.

That’s the thing about us—Nigerians in general, and Chidubems in particular—we’re allergic to looking desperate. And yet, my father raised my siblings and me to lean on each other for everything.

It’s a strange contradiction: moving through the world appearing entirely self-sufficient and untouched, while being completely tethered to family and bound by loyalty. It’s wired into my DNA. It’s in the way I move, and coincidentally, the way I love.

Part pride. Part upbringing. All instinct.

Even though my mate, Croix, is an absolute menace and no sane person should ever take life advice from him, I can admit when he’s right. He’s only ever looked out for me.

I am uptight. Painfully so. I treat rules like gospel, and I haven't had a proper good time since my buddy’s stag night six years ago.

So here I am.

On a blind date.

In a pod.

In bloody Vegas.

Hoping—praying—the next woman I speak to isn’t too drunk or pitching her OnlyFans in the first five minutes.

So far, the bar is on the floor.

Every woman I’ve spoken to tonight has either been:

Too drunk to form full sentences,

Trying to guess where my accent is from and always guessing incorrectly, or weirdly obsessed with OnlyFans.

I agreed to this as a stupid stunt while a few of my buddies were too busy gambling. But I actually thought I might meet someone interesting. Someone with a voice that made me curious. So far, all I’ve gotten is disappointment…and possibly an airborne disease.

As I prepare for my next date, I take a breath and sit up a little straighter. Maybe this one will be different.

“Forgive me for burping,” she says, the first thing out of the gate.

At least it’s original.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply.

“Too late,” she fires back, punctuated by another burp.

I frown. “What?”

“Why do people say stuff like that? ‘Don’t mention it’—when it’s already been mentioned. It’s like when someone trips and falls, and somebody yells, ‘Be careful!’ Like, no shit, but I’m already down.”

I blink. Okay.

She’s been more engaging in her first thirty seconds than the last three women combined. Definitely interesting. But I can’t tell if this is the alcohol talking or if she’s just…like this.

Please let her be like this.

I like…this.

What might surprise you is, I actually believe in this sort of thing. Not the cameras and the staged confessions, but the idea that love can blindside you. That something real can start in the most unlikely of places, even through a bloody makeshift wall.

I was hopeful, I won’t lie. That optimism took a hit after the lovely Ms. Saint Lucia, the ethical sex worker. But this one with the smart mouth and the sharp wit? She’s got me curious. And that’s not something I say lightly.

I clear my throat and try again. “Hi. I’m Luca.”

She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” I say, trying to keep it light.

She smiles. I can hear it. “Actually, I said forgive me. Not sorry, Luca.”

I already like the way my name sounds in her mouth.

“Then I guess it’s my turn to apologize.”

“Guess it is.”

“Tell me your name so I can do it properly.”

“No.”

I blink again. “No?”

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

Oh, I like this one.

“Fine then,” I say, turning on the best Bridgerton charm I can muster. Lowering my voice. “Forgive me, Ms. Mysterious,”

She snickers. “Makes me sound like a super hero but, I’ll allow it.”

I continue with my apology. “Be that as it may, I’d do anything to be back in your good graces.”

There’s a pause. A breath. Then barely audible, she says, “Oh shit.”

I grin.

Game on.

“Have I earned your name yet?”

She laughs.

“What’s funny?”

“I just shook my head like you could see me,” she confesses.

I lean forward, elbows my on knees, smiling into the void. “Which way were you shaking? Up and down or side to side?”

“Well, I haven’t told you my name yet, have I? What do you think that means?”

She likes control. She tests. She pushes to see if you’ll chase.

I may not marry her, but I’ll play this game with her all night long.

She doesn’t wait for my reply. Just keeps going. “Where did you grow up?” she asks.

It’s clearly her show now. And as much as I like control, I let her lead.

“You don’t want to guess? Most of the others tried to guess.”

She almost sounds offended. “Do I sound like the other women to you?”

“Absolutely not,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Good boy.”

My breath catches. This woman.

“I grew up in London. Born in Nigeria.”

“Yoruba or Igbo?”

My eyebrows raise. “How would you know to ask that?”

“My childhood best friend was Nigerian. Her mom was Yoruba, dad was Igbo. So it’s a habit—whenever I meet someone from there, I ask.”

“There are more than two Nigerian tribes, you know?”

“Yes, hundreds,” she confirms. “But those are the most common where I grew up.”

“Igbo,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Though, my grandmother on my father's side was Yoruba, so I grew up honoring and experiencing traditions from both."

She's quiet and it's driving me insane with curiosity. "You’re learning all about me, and you still won’t give me your name.”

“Ask me something else,” she demands, and so I do.

“What brings you joy?”

She laughs. “Wow. Bringing out the big guns, eh?”

I shrug, knowing she can’t see it. “I don’t know how to do surface. When I go in, I go deep.”

Yes, I heard it too and I did it on purpose.

She clears her throat.

“Old people.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Old people,” she repeats, firmer this time but still cheerful.

“You’re gonna have to explain why the elderly bring you joy.” I pause. “Please, Ms. Mysterious.”

Did I just say please like a good little submissive?

She snickers, and I can tell she’s cute. There’s no way she’s not the most adorable creature I will ever lay my eyes…or hands on.

“I’m a nurse. Nurse Administrator. And on slow days, I like to visit the geriatric floors.

I sit with them and let them tell me their stories.

The lives they lived. The people they loved.

The things their families probably take for granted.

I’ve traveled to a million places through their memories.

Allowing them to share, but actually taking an interest in them, does something for both of us in those moments. ”

Bloody hell.

She’s real.

And I feel it—clear as day.

I don’t even know her name, but I’m already gone.

Bloody fucking hell.