5. Eden
EDEN
FOUR MINUTES EARLIER
It’d been torture waiting to come down for dinner the last twenty minutes. Dad and Tina had been chatting with the other coaches and their wives, no one seeming to be in a hurry to get downstairs.
Downstairs—where I knew a certain blond-haired man with those sexy black glasses was going to be.
Then Nat, returned to us by Johnson’s sister, had tugged on my hand.
“Eden, I need to go to the bathroom. Do you know where it’s at?”
She’s old enough to handle her business herself, but in a strange location, I felt obligated to escort her.
Finally, when we made our way back to our parents, they’d been ready to go down.
“Perfect timing,” Dad observed.
Now, as we take the steps to the first floor, one by one, my anticipation rises.
Luckily, I don’t have to wait long before it’s satisfied. Once we stroll through the door into the ballroom, I spot Connor within a matter of seconds.
Our eyes link, and whoosh—it’s like I can’t look anywhere else.
In the meantime, my dad has been greeted by Landon. I’ve never officially met him, and have only seen Rawley from afar once, but they’re very recognizable as famous members of the Waves.
“Glad you could come, Del. Congrats on your new position. We’d have missed you in the locker room.”
“I’m really looking forward to it.”
Dad moves on to where Rawley stands next to Connor, as Tina comes forward to shake hands with Landon. Connor tears his eyes away from me, his smile dropping into his normal stoic expression.
“Del—or Coach Del, I should say. Thanks for coming,” Rawley spouts enthusiastically. “What table are they at, Landon?”
“Eight,” Connor responds.
“Huh, good memory,” Rawley remarks before looking at me for the first time. He twists back to Connor, eyes narrowing.
Hmmm, what does he know?
“We appreciate being included in this special day,” Tina says as she stands back by Dad.
“Johnson wanted his whole Waves family here,” Landon replies, before the wedding planner makes a gesture in his direction. “If you don’t mind heading to your table,” he continues, “We’re about to start.”
“Of course,” Dad acknowledges.
I’m dying to say something to Connor, and I sneak a look at him, finding him toggling his eyes toward me too.
But it’s Dad who speaks up instead.
“Connor, I’d love to talk to you about your post-graduation plans later.”
He flashes a genuine-looking smile at my dad. “Yes. Sounds good.”
We separate into our groups as we head to table eight. Though while I walk away, I glance at Connor one more time.
The gray suit he has on is doing him every favor. Cut perfectly along the shape of the muscles in his arms and legs. And that ass—yeah, that’s a soccer ass even if he’s been playing football.
Takes one to know one.
“Ah, some familiar faces here,” Dad jokes to the people already at our assigned table. Even I recognize them—Dad’s old teammates, members of the kicking team, now players he’s coaching.
There’s the punter, Ernie, with his wife, whom I’ve met before; and Jeremy, the starting placekicker who took Dad’s spot when he retired. As well as a new guy, who doesn’t look much older than me, sitting in the seat next to mine when I find my place card.
We share greetings across the group, and he introduces himself to me.
“Hi, I’m Scotty. Second-year kicker, first year with the Waves.”
“Nice, welcome.” I know I’m representing my dad, so I gear up to make competent small talk. “Where did you play last year?”
“Miami. So not too far away. I was just on the practice squad, though.”
I’ve been around Dad long enough to know that NFL teams don’t carry more than one kicker in the final fifty-three-man roster, saving the remaining spots for other positions.
Any backup kicker is kept on the practice squad, so it’s not a knock on his talent that Scotty was on one his rookie year.
Some teams don’t even maintain a backup at all.
It’s tough competition to have an official position.
“Well, if you had to move, only a four-hour distance must have made the transition easier, at least.”
“Definitely,” he replies, as the servers come around to place bread on tables.
Maybe thinking I’m distracted by the bread, Scotty dips his eyes in a not-so-subtle glance at my chest.
Ugh. So much for pleasant dinner company.
“What about you? Are you a football fan?” Scotty asks once he manages to bring his eyes back to my face.
“She plays the real football,” Dad retorts from my other side, a hint of a tease in his voice. “Soccer.”
“‘Real football,’ huh?”
“To most of the world, yes,” I reply, matter-of-factly.
“Nice. Like for fun?” His voice is playful. Like it’s cute to make light of my athletic pursuits.
“No, I’m one of the best strikers in the country for my age.” An extremely out-of-character response, but I’m annoyed.
“Striker?”
I sigh, but there’s only so much rudeness I’ll allow myself. He’s still on Dad’s team. “It’s an offensive position. We focus on scoring goals.” A simplistic explanation, but it works for the moment.
“Huh, that’s cool. My family isn’t big into the sport, so I never played.” He’s not done, unfortunately. “So, are there like female pro teams, or something?”
Be nice. “I’m still in college, so I compete at that level. But yes, there’s a pro women’s league called the National Women’s Soccer League, plus others outside the US. And then there’s the national team.” Surely, he’s watched our USWNT dominate the World Cup so many times?
“Got it.” Nope, no sign he has a clue how incredible they are.
Thankfully, our salad plates get placed in front of us then, and we all focus on eating.
Or the others do. I crane my neck, hoping to sneak a peek at Connor. Only when I find him sitting at the head table, he’s already looking at me. Our eyes meet, and he makes a small gesture with his hand.
I cock my head at him, confused, and he does it again. Is he turning something upside down?
He grins, clearly amused at my bewilderment, then touches the name card in front of him.
Oh…
I twist back to look at my plate setting and reach for my place card. Everyone’s absorbed in different conversations, so no one seems to notice what I’m doing.
I make like I’m putting it in my purse as a keepsake, which allows me to turn it over as I pull it into my lap.
And on the other side, it says…
7 p.m., wine cellar.
The rest of dinner crawls by, since I don’t know the bride and groom well, or the table company for that matter.
When Grace and Johnson enter only a few minutes after the name card revelation, we all stand and applaud. I’m like a lemming, just following my tablemates’ lead.
Landon gives a best man speech that keeps everyone laughing, vowing that, “I still owe Johnson a thorough dunking in the ocean for sneaking around with my little sister.”
At the end of the speech though, it’s tears all around. Including for Landon, when he shares, “Only my best friend is good enough for my wonderful sister Grace, and I’m so glad you two found each other.”
Tina’s passing out tissues, but I decline her offer. No tears for me—I’m distracted by thoughts of being alone with Connor.
What will we talk about? Not that we lack subjects to discuss, but there are so many ways this conversation could go.
Our server disrupts these thoughts by placing my dinner plate in front of me—salmon and risotto was my selection. It’s probably exquisite, but I can’t taste anything through my escalating nerves.
Then finally, it’s time. The staff clears the dishes, and the DJ announces he’ll start the dancing soon. Most importantly, Connor leaves the head table down a side door, and my phone says 6:58.
I consider excuses to get out of here long enough to meet him, before pretending to look at my phone again. “Dad, Tina, I just got a text from Bree and she’s having some kind of guy crisis, so I’m going to talk her off the ledge.”
At this point, they’re both relaxed after a glass of wine, and Nat is running around the back of the ballroom with other kids. They accept my lie without a question.
Now for the next challenge, I realize. I need to find this wine cellar.
I stroll through the hallways outside of the ballroom and finally find one that appears promising. It’s empty and seems the perfect place for storage.
The first door I open is just a closet. Shoot.
But there’s another one a few feet further in, and when I turn the knob, I can feel the rush of air from a larger space, the halogen lights illuminating bottles of wine as I slowly open the door.
Something else is visible too.
Connor, leaning against one of the shelves, his arms crossed, a small smile on his face. His jacket is off, and the sleeves of the white dress shirt he had on underneath are rolled up.
“Hello, Eden.”
“Hello, Connor.”
“Close the door.”