Chapter 1
Present
He stands away from everyone and at the edge of everything.
Like always.
This ballroom is filled with people, every nook and cranny overflowing with glossy gowns and dashing tuxes. But he’s managed to find one corner, one tiny corner, by the exit to the grounds. He stands there, leaning against the wall, sporting a tumbler of whiskey. That he hasn’t drunk from, I bet, or taken more than a few sips of. He’s not a big drinker.
As he watches people.
As if he’s here to observe and not participate.
He’s separate from all this nonsense and frivolity. He doesn’t care for it. It doesn’t move him or inspire him.
He rejects it.
This charity event New York City FC threw together.
I don’t blame him.
Even though such events have been the norm for me growing up, I have also never liked them. They’re too stuffy for me. Too fake, too artificial, with practiced smiles and rehearsed dialogues. As an unofficial theater minor in college, my love for fake is big but not this big. So I understand his disdain.
Besides, I don’t think he has very many things common with the rest of the men here.
Well, except for the clothes.
He’s wearing the same shiny tux and a crisp white shirt underneath like the rest of them. His dark brown hair’s combed and styled exactly like the rest of the guys. And his wing-tipped shoes are polished to perfection.
He still stands out, though.
Because I know him.
While everyone here would break all the rules the first chance they get, he will follow them no matter what. While people here will talk about the weather or soccer stats, he can probably hold a conversation about history and politics; I’ve heard him do both on more than one occasion. When he does deign to speak, that is. While a weaker man would succumb to temptation, I know he’ll stick to his one cigarette per day come what may.
Oh, and I also know he’s cold.
So, so cold.
Not that I care about any of those things I mentioned above.
I don’t.
In fact, I’m not even really watching him right now.
Nope.
It’s just that he’s in my line of vision.
And every time I look up from my drink—a white wine—my eyes inevitably pass by him. So it’s a passing glance, is what it is. Any second now, I’m going to pass him by and look at something else.
I am.
It’s going to happen.
“Isadora?”
I jerk, sloshing my wine dangerously close to the rim, and turn to the voice beside me. “What, I’m sorry.”
It’s my mother.
Which I knew, of course.
I knew I was standing with my mother. I knew I was getting a drink with my mother, which is why the drink is a tame white wine instead of something tequila based.
I knew all that.
It’s just that as soon as I spotted… a certain someone by those exit doors across the ballroom, I kinda forgot.
Which was stupid.
Because now my mother is looking in the same direction as I was just now as she asks, “Who are you looking at?”
“No one,” I reply quickly.
A little too quickly maybe because my mom’s eyes come back to settle on me.
I look like my mother. There’s no question about it.
We have the same honey-toned skin and jet-black hair. The same nose, the same bow-shaped lips. The same almond-shaped eyes. Mine are gray, though—I get them from my father—and hers are dark brown. They border on black when she looks at me, however.
Because her gaze fills with displeasure.
Always.
No matter what.
When I was young, it was hard for me to understand why my mother was like that. Strict and stern and always unamused by me. No display of emotions. No overt expressions of love. Just a bunch of rules and annoyance about me being too loud or too rambunctious. As I grew older and started to know more about where my mother came from, I realized that maybe it was because she grew up in a different culture. A culture that values traditions and obedience and structure.
I mean, if we think about it, Aarti Arora Holmes—Arora is her maiden name—has never done anything unconventional. Well, except marry my dad—an American—and move from Punjab, a state in the northern part of India, to a different country. But even that was because my dad’s family had been friends with my mom’s, and my grandfather—he’s deceased now—thought it was a good match.
So since I was none of the things that her culture valued, my mother just didn’t know how to deal with me except be angry and reprimand me at every turn.
But then I grew up more.
And realized that’s not the case either.
It’s not the culture that has made my mother the way she is. It’s just her.
Because my biji, my mom’s mom, is exactly like me. Or well, I’m like her. She’s free-spirited and fun. She doesn’t care about the rules or being good. So maybe that’s the problem. That I’m like her mom. Whom she doesn’t like very much either.
“Are you sure?” my mother asks after a few seconds of silently and suspiciously studying me.
I fidget. “Yes.”
Another few seconds of tense silence. “Let’s go over it again, shall we?”
And my gut clenches.
Because even though my mom will never love me, I love her. I want her to approve of me.
I want her to accept me for who I am.
Just like the dream of becoming an actress despite my mother’s wishes, it’s a dream I’ve had since I was a little girl. That one day my mom will realize how much she loves me, despite me being the way I am, and we will live happily ever after.
I wave all these thoughts away and reply, “Yes.” Then, “Uh, only one drink.”
She eyes the glass in my hand. “Just one.”
I swallow, clutching the glass tighter. “No dancing on the floor if no one else is dancing.”
“Good.”
“No laughing too loud or talking too loud.”
“What else?”
“No”—I clear my throat—“making a scene like I usually do. No attracting attention to myself.”
“You’re not an animal in the zoo,” she reminds me. “You don’t want a bunch of people staring at you.”
Even though this isn’t the first time my mother has said something like this, my cheeks still burn with embarrassment. In her defense, though, I have done every single thing on her list of rules.
I have gotten drunk at parties.
I have danced when no one else was dancing. One time, I actually got up on the table and started slow dancing. But only because everything was just so boring and lifeless, and I wanted to have a little fun. I have also laughed too loud and talked too loud. And yes, people have stared at me and the next day, I have ended up in gossip magazines and websites.
Embarrassing the shit out of my mother and my father.
“Keep going,” she says. “There’s more.”
I know there’s more.
This last one is somehow harder to say.
Because it’s also the one I’m the most famous for.
Or infamous for.
But I know my mom won’t stop looking at me like I’m a criminal if I don’t say it. “No other m-men.”
Her jaw moves back and forth.
Of course in displeasure.
While my mom can still tolerate me being all brazen and inappropriate, too unpredictable for her liking, what she absolutely cannot tolerate is the reputation I have with men.
The reputation I’ve more or less cultivated myself.
This time, though, I have a defense for myself.
And it’s that I didn’t know.
I had no clue that I was cultivating a reputation for myself if I flirted with my bodyguard to go to a party. I was just thinking about the party at the time. I had no idea that if I batted my eyelashes a little at the bartender so he’ll let me taste whiskey for the first time, I was painting a target on my back for being too easy; I was just thinking about the whiskey and how I wanted to try it even though I was thirteen. Or the time when I was failing my science class, so I thought why not be nice to Mr. Sanders. Why not smile at him and laugh at his unfunny jokes so he’ll give me a passing grade. Which he did. He also tried to get me alone in a classroom one day and when I refused, he went to the principal about my inappropriate behavior.
I’ve explained all this to my mother multiple times. I’ve explained each and every situation to her, but she always says that it’s my fault. That I shouldn’t have smiled or flirted or batted my eyelashes. She thinks it’s a girl’s responsibility to keep guys in check. And girls who are irresponsible like me are sluts.
“Not when the whole world is watching, Isadora,” she adds, coming closer and grabbing my elbow. “Is that clear?”
I jump. “Yes.”
She digs her nails into my skin and insists, “Not when every eye is already upon you.”
I gasp at the pain. “I won’t…”
But my mom isn’t happy with that.
She pinches my flesh, her eyes harsh. “Not when you’re so tied to the team.”
Tears sting my eyes then.
From the pain. The burn.
From the way my heart’s pounding in my chest. “I’m not… I won’t do anything.”
“You’d better not,” Mom says. “I mean it, Isadora. I won’t have you embarrassing this family. Especially when the season’s starting and everyone’s watching the team. Everyone’s talking about us. And if we end up in the media for anything other than the team winning the championship for the second year in a row, I’ll make you regret it. Is that very”—she twists my flesh—“very clear?”
I can’t stop my grimace then.
I can’t stop myself from squirming and trying to get away from her.
“Mom, you?—”
She doesn’t let up, though. “Answer me, Isadora.”
A lone tear slides down my cheek. “Y-yes. I won’t do anything. I won’t screw up. I won’t embarrass you or D-dad.”
She grits her teeth, studying me, probably trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth. “Good. Now go clean yourself up and find your table.”
So I do that.
I escape.
I go clean myself up, wipe my tear off, freshen up my lipstick. Then I go find my table.
I’m seated with other players and their wives and girlfriends. And even though my conversation with my mother has put a damper on my spirits and my skin burns where she pinched me, I’m still happy to see them.
There’s Tempest Thorne, wife of one of the players Ledger Thorne; Bronwyn Littleton, girlfriend to Conrad Thorne, the team’s head coach; and Meadow Brooks, Riot Rivera’s—another one of the players—fiancée. And they’re all friendly and warm, and immediately draw me into a conversation after their initial greetings. Apparently, they’re all talking about the last time they had sex.
“You’re kidding,” Bronwyn, or Wyn, says to Tempest, her eyes wide.
“Nope,” she answers, an impish grin gracing her lips.
Meadow addresses Tempest as well. “Here? You”—she lowers her voice—“did it here?”
Tempest takes a sip of her drink and nods.
“At the event?” Meadow keeps going.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Then, “Hey, listen, okay. I have not one but two six-month-olds. Twins. And they both have a killer radar. They somehow always know when Mommy and Daddy are getting busy. So we need to get creative.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Mommy wants a large family and Daddy has promised to give her everything she wants. Besides, Mommy always has a hard time keeping her hands off Daddy.”
She looks over at the daddy then.
With wild dark hair that curls at the ends and cascades over his brows in a fringe, and a face that seems carved from stone with the most beautiful angles, Ledger has to be one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life. And his handsomeness only increases by the fact that every few seconds or so, his eyes find ways to stray over to his wife even though he’s engaged in a passionate discussion. It makes me feel like he wants to make sure that Tempest is still there.
Or that she is safe.
Or maybe both.
It’s very sweet.
“Where?” Wyn asks, fascinated.
“Why, you want suggestions?” Tempest smirks.
Wyn blushes. “I mean, kind of.”
At this, I chime in, “No way.”
Wyn turns to me. “Why not?”
Now I lower my voice and all the girls lean in. “I don’t think your man would go for something like that.”
At this, Tempest bursts out laughing, causing Wyn to swat her arm.
While Meadow and I simply look at each other in confusion. Then Meadow goes, “I think Isadora’s right.”
I nod. “I mean, look at him. He looks so controlled and professional.”
We all do.
Conrad Thorne.
Along with being the head coach of New York City FC and Wyn’s boyfriend, he also happens to be Ledger’s oldest brother. When I first heard that, though, it was a big surprise. Because they look nothing alike.
On the outside, I mean.
If Ledger has dark hair and dark eyes, Conrad has dirty-blond hair and navy blue eyes. While Ledger, also known as the Angry Thorn—his soccer nickname—perpetually looks thrumming with a violent energy that he can unleash at any second, Coach Thorne is more reserved. I’m not fool enough to think he’s a cool guy with zero temper issues, but where others may resort to violence, Conrad Thorne appears as if he will wither you away with just one look.
And so again, I can’t imagine him getting busy in a public place.
“I bet he only does missionary,” Meadow murmurs and then claps a hand on her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that about Coach Thorne.” Then, turning to Wyn, “Oh my God, I meant no offense. I swear.”
It just makes Tempest laugh harder.
And rolling her eyes, Wyn swats her arm again. “Stop laughing.”
Tempest wipes the tears of mirth from her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just…” She wheezes some more. “It’s just really funny that they think he won’t jump at the chance to do dirty things to you in a public place.”
Wyn shrugs, a small, secretive smile on her lips. “I like it. They all think he’s grumpy and colorless. That he’s so serious”—her eyes shift to him—“but he’s not. He has colors. He has nuances. He’s my muse.”
As if Coach Thorne heard it, he swings his gaze over to his artistic Wyn. And his navy blue eyes smolder in a way that for the first time I can actually see why Tempest was laughing at us. Because I do think Coach Thorne would jump at the chance to do dirty things to Wyn in a public place. In fact, he may clear out this ballroom with one of his legendary stares just so he could be alone with her.
“What are we all laughing about?” a new arrival, Jupiter, asks.
She’s a redhead and is so stunning that I can’t. She’s not a wife or a girlfriend, but she’s been hanging around the tables, dropping in for a chat here and there. Because she’s good friends with the other girls—Meadow and Jupiter grew up together, in fact—and she’s working the event as one of the waitstaff.
I’m extremely new to their girl group, but from what I understand, their gang is much larger, with a few more girls who aren’t here tonight, but most of them went to high school together, called St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers, a girls only reform school in the neighboring town of St. Mary’s.
Their friendship is the kind I would’ve loved to have when I was in high school. They’ve all been through a lot and have supported each other through thick and thin. And if I’m being honest, I’m a little envious of that kind of love.
Tempest pulls Jupiter down and whispers in her ear, probably telling her what we all have been talking about. When Jupiter’s all up to speed, she gives Meadow a look first, then me before rolling her eyes. “Children.” Then, “Trust me when I say, they both set our school on fire with their longing, pining gazes.”
“Shut up,” Wyn mutters, swatting Jupiter instead.
Oh yeah, Coach Thorne—before he was the head coach for New York City FC—used to be a coach at St. Mary’s. Which is where they fell in love. They should probably make a movie about it. Actually, they should make a movie about all these girls’ love stories.
“What about you, Meadow?” Tempest moves on to her, breaking my thoughts. “Do you think Riot and you would do it in a public place?”
This time, Jupiter cackles knowingly and Meadow swats her arm. “Oh yeah, they so totally would.”
“Shut up,” Meadow mutters, her cheeks flushing. “Well, I don’t think… I… He…”
Surreptitiously, we all look at her beau, Riot, and sigh.
He’s busy in a discussion with Ledger and Coach Thorne, his dark hair mussed up and long, almost kissing his eyebrows. I think of all the men at this table, his hair’s the longest right now—even longer than Coach Thorne’s, who’s famous for his long-ish hair. Not to mention, his skin is the most tanned too, owing to his Latin heritage. And hence glows the most, inevitably drawing your eyes toward him.
God, he’s handsome.
Like all the other men, his eyes check in on Meadow as well. Actually, he checks in on Meadow the most. Because they just started going out. They got engaged right away, though, because they’ve known each other a while; Meadow used to be Riot’s daughter Sophia’s nanny. In fact, she just got a wedding dress; she invited me along to go shopping. See? Friendly.
And I corroborate Jupiter’s statement. “Oh yeah, totally.”
Wyn chuckles. “Yup.”
Tempest laughs too. “Yeah, that was a silly question.”
Meadow blushes and ducks her eyes.
“What about you?” Tempest settles on me. “Would you guys do it in public?”
I mean, I should’ve expected it.
I should’ve been ready for it, the question.
As I’ve mentioned before, that’s the good thing about these girls. Even though we’ve only met a handful of times, they’ve all been very good to me. They’ve all been welcoming and inclusive. So them posing this question to me while going around the table, so to speak, is normal.
But for a second or two, my brain shuts down.
For a second or two, I don’t know what to say.
What words to use.
What gestures to make.
What should I do exactly?
Which is so unusual for me.
Because I’m good at lying. I’m good at acting.
It’s just that… They’re all so friendly and the more I get to know them, the more I find that I hate lying to them. And that’s what I’m doing, aren’t I? I’m lying about certain things.
I’m saved, though, when the room explodes with applause and their attention diverts.
Thank God.
Instead, we all focus on what’s happening on the raised platform, which serves as the makeshift stage where my dad has begun his speech. He talks about how much money he’s raised for the team via charity events and his campaigning during off-season. Followed by how he built the team that’s all set to be on its winning streak, all by himself.
I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel bad for the team.
For the people who actually do the work.
Like the players and the coaches.
I’ve never been interested in soccer, but I can imagine how hard they work. How disciplined they have to be in order to achieve this level of excellence.
But my dad’s always been like that. He cares about himself, his money, his status, his reputation. And my mom, who’s sitting up front, is a perfect match for him. Despite being from two very vastly different cultures, my parents are actually happy together. Or as happy as they can be with their suppressed emotions and negativity.
When my dad’s done talking about his achievements, he dedicates the last ten seconds or so to the coach of the team. Meaning he introduces him by the name and welcomes him on the stage, and that’s about it.
Applause breaks out once again as Coach Thorne takes the stage. While my dad described his cleverness in much detail, Coach Thorne is succinct and to the point. He rests all the success on his players’ and his staff’s shoulders. He praises them for their dedication and hard work during the off-season, and talks about how they need to keep doing what they’ve been doing because the new season’s upon them. When he’s done, he welcomes the next person: the captain of the team.
The captain of the team is just as succinct as his coach was. Who also happens to be his brother, by the way; yeah, there are a lot of Thornes and they’re all affiliated with the New York City FC. Only his speech is laden with the F-word and a couple of jokes of the dirty variety. Which earns him copious amounts of laughter and a side-eye from his big brother, who’s back at the table we’re all sitting at. But when his speech is over, the laughter and applause and whistles that break out can probably be heard throughout New York City. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that people were relieved that he was leaving.
But I do know better.
They’re not making this ruckus because their captain has left the stage.
They’re applauding because of where he’s going.
They’re jubilant because of who he’s striding toward. All purposefully and determinedly.
Toward his girlfriend.
And when he reaches her, he leans down and offers her his hand, and the applause that I didn’t think could get any louder does. So much so that I don’t think I can hear my own heartbeats anymore. I don’t think I can hear my own thoughts.
Maybe that’s why it takes me a second or two to realize that he’s offering his hand to me.
That people are clapping and cheering for us.
Because I’m her.
I’m the girlfriend.
Me.
Isadora Agni Holmes.
Shepard ‘The Wrecking’ Thorne’s girl.