Two Luke #2
Abigail’s face falls completely at that, spurring me into action.
Glaring, I shove Rodriguez and Marino out of the way. “Give her some fucking space, you assholes.”
“Jesu Christo, Wolfe,” Marino says in his thickly accented English, rubbing his hip like I’ve hurt him.
“Go fucking cry about it,” I snarl. “I’m surprised you’re not rolling around on the floor.”
Marino affects a wounded expression, and disgust ripples through me. Not at him, though, at myself.
I shouldn’t care. It’s true. Marino is the biggest drama queen on the team. Tap him on the shoulder and he’s down, trying to get the refs to call a foul. Every damned game.
Guy’s as much of an actor as the woman standing in front of us.
Doesn’t matter, though. I’m the asshole. My entire reputation on and off the field is built on that.
It’s who I am.
And it makes other players think twice before they fuck with me.
“What the hell, Wolfe?” Rodriguez asks. “We just wanted to meet the beautiful Abigail Hunt.”
“I don’t mind,” Abigail says, and I realize she’s signing things for them.
I rip the white stretchy cloth out of her hands, fury firmly holding me in its grip.
“Do you make anyone else sign your fucking briefs?”
“Hey, if he wants to wear my name on his ass, that’s his business.” Abigail gently extricates the briefs from me, handing them back to Rodriguez with a grin. Her fingertips brush across my knuckles, and the surprise contact takes me aback enough that momentarily I lose track of what I was saying.
“I will tattoo it on there for you,” he says sincerely, a shit-eating smile on his face. He grabs her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, and my vision goes red.
“Show some respect,” I say. I might not care about Abigail, no more than anyone else, at least, but this behavior is low. “What would your grandmother think of this, Rodriguez?”
Rodriguez manages to look slightly chagrined. “I didn’t think you cared about my grandmother, Wolfe,” he tells me. “I didn’t think you cared.”
I pause, then bark out a reply. “I don’t, but I sure as shit know she wouldn’t want you handing your fucking briefs to a woman to sign.”
“Sorry, Wolfe,” Rodriguez murmurs, and there’s something like hero worship in his eyes.
Probably aimed at Abigail.
“Don’t apologize to me.” I nod at Abigail.
“Sorry, miss,” he tells her.
Abigail shoots me an amused look, but there’s blatant relief in it, too.
It makes me feel like maybe, just fucking maybe, I did something right.
The remaining players crowded around her mutter, casting me dark looks, but they also listen, giving her some space. Marino gives me one last withering stare before finally leaving her in peace.
I turn back to her, unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry,” I try, the words sticking in my throat. I don’t say that a lot. Feels fucking weird.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” She shrugs. “It’s my job. Comes with the territory.”
I give her a long look. “Signing that jackass’s underwear is not part of your job.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and her smile—that brilliant, sunny smile—finally melts off her face. “So, what, I’m supposed to say no? And then he goes and sells that story to the press? I can just see it now: ‘Diva Hunt Refuses to Play Nice with Soccer Team.’ ”
I grunt. “You thought of that just now? That fake headline?”
“Oh, that’s the kind of thing that’s on repeat in my head twenty-four seven. Gotta keep one step ahead.” Her smile has a brittle quality to it now, her eyes glinting with some emotion I can’t name.
I don’t know what to say to that. Seems completely at odds with how…sweet she is. How innocent she seems.
After my dad left, though, I felt the same way. Her comment takes me right back to that very moment. Like if I could just be perfect, be good enough on and off the field, he would come back.
I inhale slowly, swallowing the memory, shoving it back down where it belongs.
I gave up on anything vaguely resembling perfection a long time ago.
“I’ll show you the field. Let’s go.” My voice is gruffer than I mean it to be, but it doesn’t have anything to do with her.
Not this time, at least.
I finish up the tour as fast as possible, letting her walk the field, trying not to ogle her lovely long legs or act like that fucking asshole Marino.
I should’ve asked her to take off her stupid shoes.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, but the thought of one of the guys seeing her bare feet sits wrong with me for some reason.
Her heels sink into the turf, and I keep waiting for her to fall, or complain, or do something annoying—to give me a reason not to like her.
Anything so I don’t have to feel as guilty about lying to her.
But she only carefully takes off her heels, holding them in one hand as I watch in silence.
I don’t know what to fucking say to her. I don’t know if she even knows what she’s looking at. I don’t care, either. I’m not about to explain soccer to her.
If this goes well, it means that we have one date and she decides she never wants to see me again, and I can tell John and Charles I tried and figure out a different way to get back to Seattle and my family.
“That’s all,” I say once we’re back inside. “You’ve seen the main offices and know the general layout now. Any questions?”
I don’t really care if she has questions, and it’s clear from my tone of voice.
She shakes her head, watching me carefully.
“What do you like to eat?” I finally ask, her silence in the past few minutes after her admission about always keeping ahead of the press making me feel…
uncomfortable. Like she shouldn’t have said that, like it’s a peek behind her relentless good mood at something more real. “Where do you want to go tonight?”
“Why do you want to go out with me?” she asks.
My heart seems to stop, my stomach sinking.
“What do you mean?” My mouth somehow forms the words, completely detached from my brain.
“You haven’t really been very nice to me. So, why?”
I grunt. She’s not wrong. “You’re trying to learn more about pro sports, right?
I can help.” There goes my promise to not explain soccer to her.
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t help her, but I’m starting to feel like that conviction flew out the window as soon as I saw her mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief.
She lifts an eyebrow. “You want to help…me?” Abigail’s disbelief hangs heavy in the question.
I can’t say I blame her.
“Fuck.” I rake a hand through my hair. “No.” Shit, shit. I need to fix this.
“Uh—”
“I think you’re pretty,” I rasp, interrupting her. “I’m not good with people.” To my utter surprise, both of those statements are true. “You made me laugh.”
I don’t laugh easily, but this woman disarmed me nearly immediately.
Abigail tilts her head, studying me. “Why should I go with you? You haven’t exactly been a peach to hang out with.”
Why? How the hell do I tell her a why when my reasons are completely fucked?
All I have ever wanted was to play pro soccer. It’s all I know how to do. I’m not ready to quit my dream. I can make this work, then get home to my mom.
I can’t let Abigail Hunt and the deal with the owners slip through my fingers.
I should have been nicer to her. Too bad I’m not nice.
She’s still watching me, a careful expression on her face.