Chapter 11
Eleven
I lean against the kitchen counter and peer down at my phone. Wyatt’s already off to school, and Lindy’s sleeping in. She doesn’t have to be at the grocery store until ten today.
“Huh,” I say out loud.
“Huh, what?” Mom asks as she washes the dishes. I make breakfast for Wyatt every morning I can—just like Mom used to do for me and Lindy. But Mom insists on at least doing the dishes. I keep reminding her that she should be enjoying the life of an empty nester. The least I can do is the dishes.
“Just a text.” I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “It’s nothing.”
“Wanna talk about it? A ‘huh’ usually warrants a conversation.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and pull my phone out once more. “It’s just this girl, Fran—she invited me to an art show tonight.”
Mom pauses her scrubbing and peers at me, thoughtful. “And? You don’t like art?”
“No.” I breathe out a laugh. “Of course I like art. I just—well, we’ve never hung out before.”
Mom shrugs, her hands deep in suds. “You have to start somewhere. You should go.”
“Wyatt and I usually hang out on Fridays,” I say, but I’m still looking at Fran’s message. When was the last time I went out with a friend?
Fran: Hey, Maggie! I was thinking about you. A friend of ours has an art show tonight. You should come. It would be fun to see you off the field.
I peer up from the phone to see Mom staring at me.
“What?”
“You know what?” she deadpans. “You and Wyatt hang out every night. It would be good for you to go out.”
“I went out a couple weeks ago with Lindy and Brent.”
Mom chuckles. “Why must you say his name like that?”
I shrug and bite my inner cheek.
“Besides, that doesn’t count. That was Lindy’s date, not yours.”
She’s right. It absolutely does not count.
Never would I ever go out with Reggie—the Diet Coke hater with out-of-control eyebrows and a tall-women fetish—ever again.
And truthfully, it has nothing to do with the Diet Coke diss or the crazy brows.
He was rude. And he stared at me like I was an Amazonian woman.
I press my lips together.
“You should go, dearest.” My mother is seventy years of wisdom and goodness. I would be a complete idiot not to listen to every word that leaves her mouth.
“But she’s a Red Tail player’s wife. It could be a conflict of interest for me to be seen with her.”
Mom nods, understanding. She’s followed me and my career for two decades. She knows soccer almost like I do. “They’re semi-pro, though. Right? Last I checked, you still hadn’t accepted that promotion to ref in the major league.”
“Yes, but still pro. There are still expectations. And you know why I haven’t accepted that promotion. It means so much more time away from Wyatt.”
“I know that, darling.” She dries her hand on a rag and cups my cheek. “I also know there are expectations for a referee in the pros. But you and I both know those expectations are more relaxed in the minor league. Be cautious and smart. But don’t miss out when you so clearly want to go.”
“Clearly want—”
“You wouldn’t be talking about it otherwise.” Mom’s hand slides down until she’s holding my own. “You have sacrificed a lot for your family, Maggie.”
I shake my head, still in her hold, my throat aching suddenly.
“You have. I know it. Daddy knows it. So does Lindy. You and Wyatt are the only two oblivious to the fact.” She grins, and it’s contagious. I grin, too, all the while my eyes fill with tears. “It’s okay for you to have a life, baby girl.”
“Is it?”
She lifts on her toes, as my mother is three inches shorter than me, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Yes.”
“You don’t think it would be a horrible conflict of interest?”
“Are you going to suddenly become biased and change the way you ref? All because of an art show?”
“No.” I search the ground. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Go out with your friend, Maggie. If you feel like it’s swaying you one way or the other, revisit the situation.”
I swallow. “It might not hurt anything.”
“Not at all. And last I checked, this Fran wasn’t a soccer player. You’re meeting her there, not the Red Tails.”
It feels like a stretch, like justification. But also true. And she’s right, I do want to go.
This small pop-up gallery for the community of Tesoro is packed with Red Tails.
Like, does every single Red Tail love art?
Pottery, to be more exact? How in the world did this happen?
I came here to meet Fran, all while insisting I’d be lucky if I ran into any Red Tails at all, assuring myself that I wouldn’t be socializing with them, and now every last one is here.
Ugh.
Including… Oh, heaven help me. Saint Lucca Cruz.
I’m pretty sure the man went crazy the last time I saw him. I’m not into crazy—on or off the field. So, I called the center ref over before something even more insane happened.
Lucca’s eyes sweep over to me—immediately. Why?
I turn my back on him, peering at a five-foot-tall vase to my right. It’s tall. And pretty. And all at once, I’m more than just a little interested in the etchings over the hardened clay. If I can’t see him, maybe he’ll stop looking at me.
But I feel more than see Lucca draw nearer.
I itch at the hairline at the nape of my neck and take one little peek.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath. He’s closer than I thought.
As in, he has moved two feet away from me to admire the sculpture next to the vase I’m getting up close and personal with.
Where in the world is Fran? She talked me into this. She and my mother. Which of them is going to get me out of this mess?
I inwardly groan, reminding myself that I’m a grown-up girl who can get herself out of messes. In fact, there’s another vase, and all at once, I really, really want to inspect it. It happens to be conveniently placed clear across this room. Yards and yards away from Pretty Boy Cruz.
Without bothering to look back at Lucca or make eye contact with any other Red Tail in the room, I cross the carpet to the other side to look at the blue vessel that has a rim and mouth that wave like the ocean in a storm.
It’s lovely. A little hypnotizing. Or maybe that’s because I’ve been staring for a full two minutes in the same spot, not allowing my eyes to search anywhere else. When—
“Do you like this one?”
I gasp and slap a hand over my heart. Lucca. When did he walk over here? I zoned in on this vase and clearly let my guard down.
He smirks at my surprise. Of course he’d laugh at me. Why would I expect anything else?
I give him the smallest of glares—one that says, Leave me alone, dummy. Then, I walk away, without a word. But before I can make my way back to vase number one, Lucca is right on my heels.
I spin, facing him, and stopping him in his tracks and one whole inch from my body. He’s too close. All I can smell and see is Lucca. I press two fingers to his broad chest and step back, putting space between us. “Are you following me?”
“Yes,” he says, not even attempting to deny it. The man has lost his pretty little mind.
I shake my head, swallow, and lift my eyes to his. “Why?” I spit out. “Why would you do that?”
“I thought we could talk. You didn’t want to talk on the field and—”
“We were working!” I hiss. “We were in the middle of a game. I was refereeing. You were supposed to be playing. And you suddenly wanted to chit-chat?”
“I did. I thought we could have a civil conversation, but you weren’t very cooperative.”
Again, not what I expect from cocky, arrogant Lucca. I scoff out a lifeless laugh. “Civil? You have to be kidding. Since when do you have anything polite to say to me?”
He shoves both hands into the pockets of his slacks. The man annoyingly knows how to wear a pair of pants. “That move you did,” he says, ignoring my question, “on the Little League field—no one rainbow flicks and heads the ball. That’s power. That’s professional skill.”
“Are you telling me that you’re pestering me even more than normal, all because I showed you up on a kid’s soccer field?” I groan out a loud and tired sigh. This man is exhausting.
“Whoa,” he huffs out. “Show me up? You did not show me up. It was just a nice move. One that got me thinking. That’s all.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I turn to walk away.
But Lucca—full of surprises tonight—catches me by the hand. His fingers grasp the end of mine, and yet I feel it in my toes. “I think you do have time. You aren’t at work. You aren’t with Wyatt. You’re wandering around, looking at art.” He shrugs. “We could wander together. Talk while we look.”
This is a trick. Lucca Cruz doesn’t want to wander. Not with me. This man has never liked me, and while I’m supposed to be unbiased as a ref, if I’m being honest, I’ve never liked him either.
“Actually, I’m meeting someone. There will be no wandering. No talking.”
I don’t care that his handsome face falters a little. Lucca Cruz is the epitome of a ladies’ man. His charm can deceive desperate hearts all over America. But I’m not desperate, and Lucca’s charm won’t work on me.
“Maggie!” a feminine voice calls out to me.
Fran. Thank the heavens above. She’s here.
“Hi,” I say, my heart pattering in my chest. I turn until my back faces Lucca. I don’t want her thinking I’ve let this Don Juan seduce me.
“You made it!” Fran says.
I lean in closer to her, wrinkling my nose and whispering, “Is this a soccer event? I thought we were at an art show.”
While I’ve turned my back on Lucca, he’s slowly inching his way around to stand to the side of Fran and me, making sure he faces us.
Fran loops her arm through mine. “Not a Red Tail event. Just a local art show. The artist happens to be a Red Tail’s wife, though.”
“Is this yours?” I say, glancing around again. The little I’ve seen of the work is impressive.
Fran laughs. “Oh, no. Not me. Roman Graves’ wife, Stella. She’s around here somewhere. We all came out to support.”
“That’s so nice,” I say, but I’m feeling Lucca’s eyes on me.
“Did you find Callum?” Fran says to Lucca.
“I haven’t looked for him.” The right corner of Lucca’s mouth rises in a charming, crooked grin. “I thought I’d make sure Maggie didn’t get lonely.”
I swallow. “I’m not lonely.”
“Well, that’s sweet of you.” Fran reaches out, patting Lucca on the arm like she’s praising a puppy.
“I had no idea that Stella would have me on appetizer duty.” She gives me an apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry, Maggie. I have been refilling trays since I got here.
But I’m hoping there’s an end in sight and we can walk around the show together later. ”
“Oh.” My mouth is suddenly the Sahara Desert. “I can help you with app—”
“No way. You enjoy the evening. Lucca will keep you company.” Fran leans in, giving me a quick hug before taking off in the direction of the food once more.
Fran and I are acquaintances. I thought tonight was the night we’d become friends. But apparently, tonight is the night she ditches me, leaving me with Saint Lucca.
First Reggie and now Lucca? I am never leaving the house again. At least, not socially.
“Shall we?” Lucca says, smiling that obnoxiously handsome smile of his. I bet his teeth are capped.
“Why do you suddenly want to talk to me? Why so friendly, Cruz?”
He pulls in a breath. “You don’t mean ‘Saint Lucca’?” he says, still smiling.
I don’t laugh, though. Yes, Wyatt gave away my sarcastic nickname for Lucca, but he probably took it seriously, as a compliment. He probably believes himself an actual saint. Ugh.
“You surprised me,” he says. “That’s all. I judged a book by its cover. And I regret it. So, now I’d like to read it.”
“Did you just compare me to a book? To a cover? I’m not something you can fill your time amusing yourself with, Cruz.”
“That isn’t what I meant. I just thought we could get to know each other.” His dark brows pull together. “There’s more to your ability than I realized.”
I grunt, crossing my arms and looking past him at a colorful ceramic.
“It’s just, after multiple unfair calls, I decided you were biased, authoritative, maybe a little power-hungry. Control-seeking—”
“Whoa. Do you hear yourself? You say you want to talk in one breath while insulting me in the next. And I’m not power-hungry. I am an official. It’s literally my job to enforce the rules of the game.”
Lucca’s eyes go wide. “You do your job well.”
My cheeks warm. “And I’ve never given out an unfair call.” At least, not on purpose. “You just like the rules bent for you. You’re one of those books that thinks it’s better than all the other books, so the rules should bend for it.”
“But what if I am better than the other books?”
I scoff and shake my head. “I’m not sure why you are suddenly so full of questions, but I don’t see us ever being friends. So, what’s the point in sharing?”
“Please,” he says, a hand on my arm. “Just one chat. I’ll buy you a drink.” His brow lifts, like this should be one tempting offer.
“I don’t drink.”
“Diet Coke?” he says, remembering my order from the date with Reggie.
I nibble on my lip. I am parched, and that bar has a “cash-only” sign while I’ve only got cards in my pocket.
I roll my neck and, in the turn, I see Fran filling trays for her friend.
She waves at me, grinning. I like Fran. And Callum.
I was hoping to spend some time with a friend tonight.
A friend who isn’t my nephew, sister, or mother.
And she said she thought she’d be finished soon.
“Fine. You may buy me one Diet Coke. I will answer your questions for the duration of my drink, and then you need to find someone else to bother.”
Lucca grins like he just won a championship game. Gosh, he’s doing that a lot tonight. “I assure you, I bother no one.” He lifts one shoulder as if amending. “Except for you.”
And yet, I’m the lucky person he wants to talk to. It doesn’t make sense. But a few questions for a Diet Coke while I wait for Fran is a price I am apparently willing to pay.