Chapter 5
Five
Three games down and one to go.
I throw on my warmup kit, feeling free for the first time in years, when Lucca Cruz plants himself in front of me. “You showing up today, Graveyard?”
“Excuse me?” My brow knits, and I glower at the six-foot-two Brazilian. It’s so easy to conjure a grimace.
“Where’s your aggression, man? We haven’t seen it in two weeks.”
The muscles in my chest and arms tense. “I’m doing my job. Like always.”
He tilts his head, wrinkling his nose as if my answer is questionable. “Not like always. I’ve barely noticed you on the field.”
“Hey.” I shove my teammate’s shoulder and Lucca stumbles backward, chittering out a laugh.
He nods and has the gall to look pleased. “There it is.”
With a slap to my back, I peer up at Zevulun Hayes—the biggest guy on the team and yet, unlike me, he’s never in danger of getting a red. “Lucca’s right, man. You’ve been off. Everything okay?”
“I had two assists on Tuesday. So … what’s the problem?”
“You just aren’t playing normal—for you,” Callum Whitaker says. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, man. I get it. There was a time—”
I throw my hands up. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not off. And I’m not blowing games.” I glare at Callum. “I don’t need a lucky charm. I’m playing clean soccer. Good soccer.”
“Ouch,” Callum says, his nose wrinkling. His losing streak is over—so I’m not sure why he’s taking the comment so personally.
“I have no idea why we’re having this conversation,” I grumble.
Why my teammates feel the need to attack me when all I’ve done is help us win the last three games is a mystery.
Sure, I usually end games with a card—occasionally two.
But clearly, I can play without that aggression just fine.
And if it’s going to get me into my cabin and away from an apartment building full of Red Tails, then so be it.
“We’re just checking on you—” Zev says, his mouth still open as if he’s got more to say.
“I need to grab some tape from the trainer.” Then, standing, I part the sea of Red Tail players and storm right on through. That’s right. I’m Moses, and these Red Tails are in my way.
“Is that why he’s softening up?” I hear Lucca say. “His ankle? Did he hurt himself?”
I keep walking. I don’t respond to the outlandish accusation that I’ve played soft. Or that my ankle is weak. I don’t need any tape. I’m getting out.
I pass Coach just before I exit the locker room. “Warming up in twenty minutes,” he says, glancing at my one hand on the door.
“I’ll be back.” I pause before exiting though. “Last game of my two weeks, Coach.” I tilt my head in a knowing nod. “No cards.”
Jacobson groans out an exhale, giving me one curt nod. He made a deal. He’ll talk to Baxter, and before the end of the month, I’ll be out of that loud, overcrowded building and in the solitude of the woods.
I walk until I reach the concourse. Food vendors, restrooms, and fans.
So many fans.
And while I’m not in my jersey, I am in my warmup kit with the team logo on the chest. It’s going to get me noticed.
I stop, nodding to Stan, the security guard posted there, not yet leaving the safety of this restricted tunnel to the main level just yet.
I just need to walk. To clear my head. And the crowd of people at my right is much less busy than those to my left.
I lower my brows, screw up my face into a very unapproachable sneer, and dare my way right, into the smaller crowd.
Head down, I march in the opposite direction of the team store.
I pass the unfavored booth of overcooked, overpriced hot dogs toward the women’s restroom and the single-file line there.
So far, so good.
And then—
“Roman?” a female voice yelps.
I’m not surprised at someone identifying me. Most, if not everyone here, is a fan of the Red Tails. But that voice—and the familiar way she said my name. It’s not just someone recognizing me. This person knows me.
I whip my head around to the line of women waiting to go into the bathroom.
A petite blonde in round glasses with wide green eyes and a hand slapped over her mouth stares at me.
I know those eyes.
I was punched in the arm by my best friend for commenting on how pretty those green eyes were once.
My senior year—she had just gotten contacts, and for the first time, I could see her bright green eyes without the glare of her glasses.
I spoke up about it, and Brice hit me so hard that my shoulder had a bruise for a week.
That girl from so long ago is all grown up. The woman standing before me has evolved.
Stella Everly.
Ivory skin and green eyes. She looks too much like her brother, like my best friend, to be anyone else. For the first time in nine years, my heart of ice melts—just a little. For Brice. For Stella.
Without a whole lot going on in my brain, I lock my eyes onto hers.
And then, I’m walking. I can’t seem to stop myself.
The women in front of her and the women behind her blur.
Stella is here. Sure, she’s all grown up with curves she didn’t have at fifteen and hair that’s grown out of that unfortunate freshman year cut.
Shiny blonde tresses stretch down her shoulders in golden waves.
She’s still sporting round, metal-rimmed glasses.
Her cheeks are pink, and while she’s currently covering her mouth in shock, I imagine her lips just as they were when we were teens: pink and plump.
And then I promptly imagine Brice beating the thought right out of me.
The thought makes me smile.
Huh. I can’t actually remember the last time I smiled.
I peer at Stella, surprising myself again.
Because I see Brice when I look at her—and while it hurts to see my best friend through the eyes of his sister, it hurts a lot less than I thought it would.
In some ways, it’s like the pressure that’s been pressing on my chest for nine long years has finally eased up.
“Stella,” I say, feeling that foreign smile on my face.
It’s like an alien creature crawled onto my mouth and forced the corners upward—because it’s not like me, not anymore.
But I also can’t help it from happening.
My saving grace is that all my teammates are back in the locker room, not witnessing this spectacle.
Stella’s hand falls from her mouth, and those lips are just as I remembered—which only makes my grin widen.
Her head bobbles in a shake. “Roman? What are you doing here?”
I swallow, coughing out a chuckle—whoa, that’s pretty strange too. “Me?”
She presses her eyes closed. “Right.” She nods toward my kit. “Red Tail.”
“But you—” I motion toward her, realizing I’d really, really like to hug the girl.
It’s Stella. Which leads me to Brice. And the whole Everly family.
They meant a lot to me once upon a time.
While my parents were fighting, divorcing, and griping at the other to keep me, the Everlys loved me.
Brice was like my brother, and his parents welcomed me with open arms—sometimes for extra-long weekends. Like Thursday to Monday.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her.
“My friend got us tickets to the game.” She motions to the girl beside her—one of many that, until this minute, has been nothing but a blur to me. “This is Willow.”
“Hey,” Stella’s friend says. She’s eyeing me, but I’m not really looking. I can only see Stella.
The restroom line moves up and so does Stella. I follow in step just as I hear from multiple blurred fans around us. “Roman Graves?”
Crap.
“I should—” I throw a thumb over my shoulder. If I’m not back in time, Coach is going to kill me anyway.
“Yeah.” Stella nods as the line moves again. “I should go too.” She points into the bathroom entrance.
My heart flutters as if it’s been dead and dormant for years and someone has just shocked it to life once more. “Hey,” I murmur, heart pounding. “I’d love to catch up. There will be interviews on the field directly after the game. Could you stick those out? Do you have time?”
“We have time,” Stella’s friend, Willow, says.
Stella’s cheeks go pink, and her throat bobs in a swallow. “Maybe. We’ll see. I should—” She tilts her head toward the bathroom.
“That’s Roman Graves—” another blurred face whispers.
“Right. Can I—” I step in, needing to touch her, needing to know that she’s real. After all this time, I thought it would break me to see her, to see any of them. I was wrong.
“Oh.” She hiccups, and her cheeks bloom pink.
“Of course,” she says, reaching out to fold me into a quick hug.
It’s like I’m breathing in the lilac tree the Everlys had outside their home.
It bloomed every summer and was the sweetest thing I’d ever smelled.
The scent clings to Stella as if she were that lilac tree’s personal gardener.
It’s a short hug and then she’s gone, disappearing through the bathroom entrance.
“Twenty-one? Roman Graves?” a man now cutting through the women’s bathroom line says. He’s holding a Red Tails hat and a Sharpie.
But Stella is gone, and with her the short-lived light that reset my insides.
I lower my brows, not bothering to make eye contact with the guy. “I have to go.” I start back the way I came. Thankfully, the tunnel I came through is blocked off to the public. I nod at Stan, guarding the entrance in his security uniform, and slip past the barrier.
Thudding sounds behind me, but I ignore it. I’m not signing anything right now.
“Roman!” a woman calls.
Glancing back, I see Willow standing at the blocked entrance.
I pause at the sight of Stella’s friend. She stands just behind the retractable belt that blocks her way, Stan right next to her, one hand out in a stop sign.
“Ma’am.” Stern words leave Stan’s mouth. He isn’t messing around.
“It’s okay—” I say, not recognizing myself today. I clear my throat. “She’s a friend of a friend,” I tell Stan. Walking back to the entrance, I peer at her.
“Did you mean that?” She huffs as if she’s run a mile instead of a few yards. “When you asked Stella to stay behind and talk.”
I shrug. What is it to this girl? “Yes.” I didn’t really think when I spoke. But now that she’s here, I would like to talk to Stella. It’s been too long.
“Because she’s had a hard time.” Willow’s eyes fall to the ground, and she shakes her head. “A really hard time, and she can’t have another letdown.”
My brow furrows. What’s wrong with the Everlys? Scott? Rebecca? “What do you mean?”
Exhaling with a low sigh, Willow sets both hands on her hips. “She lost her job. For one.”
My brow wrinkles more with each word she speaks.
“She was up for this award—the Sierra Clay something or other. Finally, she was getting some recognition for her work. She’s really gifted—”
“I know,” I say. She always was.
“But because of the flood, her piece broke. She was a finalist too. But they refused to do a final judgment on a photo.” Willow’s cheeks puff out.
“The flood?”
“Yeah,” she says, her tone inflecting as if we’re on the same team, arguing the same points.
“She accidentally flooded her entire place. So, her landlord kicked her out. She is currently homeless, jobless, and passionless. She has no sense of belief in herself right now. Oh, and she’s sleeping on my couch. ”
“Stella is homeless?” I say, growing more concerned by the second. Passionless? That doesn’t sound like Stella.
“So very homeless. As in, Jerry, my soon-to-be fiancé, can’t move in because Stella has taken up residence on my couch.” Her hands flap to her sides.
“Is there someone else? A boyfriend—”
“She isn’t seeing anyone,” Willow says.
“Her parents—”
“Oh! That’s not even the worst of it. Her family didn’t get their visa extension. They all had to move back to Canada. Unexpectedly.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes!” Willow says, her tone exasperated. “You can’t even imagine how it’s stressing Stella out. So, if you don’t actually want to see her, don’t—”
“No.” I hold up one hand. “I do. I really do.” My eyes skirt to the ground, and I search as my brain reels with hit after hit on poor Stella.
Stella is homeless. Jobless. Passionless. And now she has to leave the country? Her home.
I know the Everlys are Canadian, and I know they’ve split their time over the years. But Brice said moving was always on their time, their plan. This doesn’t sound planned. This doesn’t sound like going home, but like being asked to leave.
And that makes me angry.