Chapter 10
Ten
She isn’t just the official who makes me crazy. She’s Maggie, the girl with gold flecks in her brown hair, freckles sprinkled over her cheeks, muscles that shape and define her legs, and one wicked left foot. The woman is a beast.
And it’s possible I’ve become a little obsessed with her story.
I just can’t figure it out. What kind of person gives away an amazing opportunity like playing for their national team?
Who has that kind of skill and chooses not to use it?
It confuses me and enthralls me all at the same time.
It’s dug itself so deep into my brain, my head isn’t going to be able to rest until I learn a little more.
While my team completes a warmup drill, I wander over to the sidelines, where Maggie sips from her water bottle. She laughs at something one of the other officials says and then stretches her back. She’ll run miles in this game. She’s warming up, like all of us, just like I should be.
“Hey,” I say as I bend down and pretend to tie the laces of my cleats. When Maggie doesn’t respond, I clear my throat and, a little louder, say again, “Uh, hey.”
I peer up, squinting in the sun to see her face.
She looks behind her, that light brown ponytail whipping. “Are you—” She looks in the other direction. “Are you talking to me, Cruz?”
I choose to move past that question and ask another. “How’s Wyatt?” I stand—my shoe didn’t actually need tying anyway.
Her brow furrows, and she sets one hand on her hip. “Are you asking about my nephew?”
“Are you going to answer all my questions with a question?” I say, my tone automatically irritable.
It’s a habit with this woman. I swallow down my annoyance.
I’m attempting to be civil with her. I simply have some curiosities.
If I can get a few answers to my questions, I’m guessing I’ll be able to sleep again.
I can go back to disliking her as much as she clearly dislikes me.
I won’t have to watch her recorded games or wonder what in the world she’s doing with her life.
Her jaw clenches, and she holds her head high. “He’s fine.”
An answer. It pleases me more than it should. “I hear you used to play.”
“Is that another question? It sounded like a statement.”
“I just—”
“Cruz!” Coach Jacobson stands in the center of the field, in the heart of our warmup—the one I’ve skipped out on. He stares at me, and I give the man one curt nod.
“Ah, later, ” I say, but Maggie has already moved on. She’s sipping from her water bottle and stretching her legs, now three yards from me.
And I know as much now as I did last night.
I spend the next twenty minutes warming up with the rest of my team, but my head fills with question after question. Maggie’s a sideline ref today. That will make it easier to finagle a possible conversation. I peer over at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Lucca,” Roman yells, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”
“Always,” I tell him.
He nods, and we wait for the game to begin.
The first half is close to over when a Chicago Forge player goes down, holding his leg.
Zev was a good foot away from the man. He’s either faking or he’s got a cramp.
Either way, play stops for the moment. McCrae stands at the sideline, to the right of the box, eyes on the man.
The center ref has him covered for the moment.
Which gives me the exact opportunity I need.
I backpedal until I’m a mere one yard from her. “How long did you play competitively?” I ask.
She blinks, her eyes skirting away from the man down at center field to me. “Was that directed at me?”
“Why is that so hard to believe? You question this a lot. Do most people avoid you?”
She gives me a deadpan stare, still not answering, her gaze returning to the player on the ground.
“You were on the U-23 U.S. team,” I say. “Why’d you leave?”
“How did you—” She swallows, shooting a glance my way. Then she smooths out the surprised wrinkles forming over her forehead.
It’s a look that makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand. “You were good.”
“Did you google me, Cruz?” she hisses in a whisper.
“I was curious after that rainbow flick. Nobody flicks it high enough to be able to head it.” I set my hands on my hips and peer out at the field and the men waiting there, stealing a glance her way.
“Am I supposed to be flattered that you’re impressed with me?” she scoffs, for once looking at me relentlessly.
Yes. Yes, she should be.
“It was a nice move. That’s all I’m saying.” Only, that it’s not. I have a lot more to say, and even more to ask. “So, retirement?”
Her head whips to me. “Lucca,” she growls between her teeth. “We’re both working.”
“Sure.” I bend and stretch at my waist. “Still, that Forge is on the ground, whining like a sissy, am I right?” I chortle. “We’ve got time—”
“Lucca,” she growls, the word low and just audible. “Go away.”
“It’s not like we have anything else to do. You might as well give me an answer.”
And then, completely out of play, the woman raises her flag and holds two fingers to the headset at her ear. “Caution for dissent.”
“Caution for—” I whip around to the center ref, who’s standing next to the man on the ground, along with a medical team, but he’s looking right back at me. “Did you just—” I clamp my mouth closed and whip my gaze toward the field.
The center official walks toward us, hand in his pocket.
“No, Maggie, you didn’t,” I say, but she has. She’s calling a foul on me for arguing. For some odd reason, I feel completely betrayed. We aren’t friends. Never have been. It isn’t the first unworthy foul that’s been called on me by this woman.
“Whoa—” Callum runs up beside the referee. “We weren’t even in play. Sir, can we get an explanation?” As our captain, he’s allowed to ask. I’m not. It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to say. I can’t stop staring at the woman who’s thrusting this upon me.
“Clock’s running, and apparently so is Cruz’s mouth,” the man says. “Tell your defender to keep his mouth shut around my sideline ref.”
“Maggie,” I plead again, as if she might listen, as if she might save me.
But per usual, the woman stares ahead. She doesn’t bother looking at me as the center ref’s hand goes up, card in hand.
Game’s over, and I’m still in shock. “I can’t believe Maggie did that,” I say. I’m standing in the locker room with nothing but a pair of sweats on. It’s warm in here.
“Seriously?” Zev says, seated on the bench in front of me. “You can’t? Because just the other day you were saying—”
“I know,” I groan. It’s not like it’s unlike her. So why do I feel this way?
“Lucca.” Roman wraps one arm around my neck. “You go from having nothing nice to say to her or about her to wanting to learn about her life. She was caught off guard. She was waiting for the bomb to drop.”
“No one can say the problem is me. I tried,” I say, and it’s possible my pride is a little hurt. Instead of an answer, I got carded. “So much for moving past our grievances.”
“Do you actually want to?” Callum asks, fully dressed and ready to go. Roman is dressed, too. These guys are always in a hurry. They’ve got to get home to their wives. At least Zev’s taking things slow.
“I’m curious. And I’m not so stubborn. I’d be willing to change my tune—if she were.”
Callum’s brows lift. I think I’ve surprised him.
Or maybe he doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe myself.
My dislike for McCrae runs deep. But things have changed.
At least, a little. I just want a few answers.
Just so I can sleep at night. It has nothing to do with those gold flecks in her eyes or the freckles on her cheeks.
“You guys are all coming tomorrow night. Right?” Roman slips into his jacket. He’s quick to change the subject and ready to head home. I’m not even dressed yet. I need to sort through this Maggie thing. And my best friend is leaving me.
“Rosalie and I are planning on it,” Zev says.
“Us, too.” Callum gives Roman’s shoulder a friendly smack.
That’s right, tomorrow… “Stella’s art show, right?” I say.
“Are you bringing a date?” Zev asks, a smile on his face. He’s been a little punch-drunk since he and Rosalie became official. It took her a minute. Something to do with her ex, Robert the vampire. Or maybe Fran said he wasn’t a vampire. I don’t remember.
“Ahh—” My instinct kicks in with a yes. But I stop it.
Sure, I like having a date, especially now when I go out with the guys and they all have serious commitments on their arms. My charm, looks, and overall Lucca wit usually make finding a date easy, too.
But the wheels in my brain are turning. I struck out talking to McCrae on the field.
Maybe if I weren’t in a soccer uniform, she’d be more willing.
“I’m not sure.” I lick my lips and turn to Callum.
“You said Fran knows Maggie. She has her number?”
“Yeah. So?” Callum’s brow furrows.
“Tell Fran to invite her to the show.”
“Why?” Callum says, his tone full of skepticism. “Is this about revenge? Or winning over the one girl who doesn’t like you? I think I like her too much to be involved with either of those scenarios.”
“Come on. I’m not going to torture her. Promise.”
Callum huffs, but he doesn’t appear to be giving in.
And sure, I’ve hated on Maggie for a long time.
I’m not even sure I’m done disliking her.
But I don’t want her to come to Stella’s show for torture’s sake.
I want to be able to ask the woman a question without five-year-olds distracting us or without getting carded. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get an answer.
“You’re obsessing,” Zev says.
“Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look like I don’t care. “I’m not obsessed.” And there’s more than one way to get what I want.
“I’m pretty sure only an obsessed man would say that.” Zev laughs.
I ignore him and pull my phone from my locker, then rest my back against the metal door. The cool steel presses into my skin, cooling my traps and spine.
I pull up one of my group text threads and type.
Me: Hello, ladies. I need a little help from my favorite female friends.
Fran: I’m all ears.
Rosalie: Love you, Lucca, but I’m not doing anything illegal for you.
Stella: I’m with Rose. I can’t have my baby in jail.
Me: Nothing like that.
Stella: Also, I refuse to pretend I’m into you. Happily married with a baby on the way—in case you forgot.
Me: You think I need any woman to pretend?
Fran: He’s right. Women love him.
Rosalie: Gag. Has Zev left the stadium yet?
Me: All your men are still here. But they’ll be running home to you soon. Now… my favor…
Fran: Listening. And most likely willing.
I knew I came to the right place.
Me: Maggie McCrae.
Fran: LOVE her!
Stella: Do I know her?
Rosalie: The female ref that often officiates for the Red Tails.
Stella: WAIT.
Stella: The woman who has beef with Lucca????
Fran: That’s her.
Fran: She’s fantastic.
Stella: That woman has legs like a racehorse. I am mega jealous.
I agree with Stella. Maggie does have nice legs. But that has nothing to do with why I want her to come to the art show.
Fran: Lucca, you know I love a good scheme, but I like Maggie. I won’t be tormenting her with you. Sorry, bud. If you want to torment the blond guy who works at the stadium’s Chick-fil-A, I’m in. I’m certain he gave me a regular Coke on purpose.
Me: No. No. I’ve decided it’s all water under the bridge.
I’m not actually sure that it is. Our history is long and unpleasant. But I do know I want Maggie’s story. My mind won’t rest until I get more information. I also know that Fran won’t help me unless I claim to be done with the feud.
Me: I’d simply like to get to know her. No torment involved. But she won’t talk to me on the field.
Rosalie: Huh. I wonder why?
Fran: Ohhhh. Caution for dissent. I get it now.
Stella: I missed it. I was in the bathroom when Lucca got carded. Do you have any idea how often pregnant women pee? Why do our bladders work overtime when growing a human?
Stella: What happened?
Me: I was asking Maggie a few questions about her soccer history. Friendly questions. That’s all. But she’s touchy.
Rosalie: No, she’s just used to you spiraling whenever you get near her.
Me: Cruz men do not spiral.
Rosalie: Wanna bet?
Fran: Maybe we should move on. What’s the favor, Lucca?
Me: I want you ladies to invite her to Stella’s show tomorrow night. I just need an opportunity to chat with her.
Me: Very friendly. Very polite. Promise.
Stella: I don’t know her.
Rosalie: I only know her through Fran and Zev.
Fran: I’ll do it! I volunteer as tribute! Don’t worry, I’ll get her there.
I can practically see Fran jumping in place, hand raised.
She’s the best.
Fran: As long as you promise to be nice.
Me: Scouts honor.
Rosalie: I don’t think he was ever a Boy Scout.