12. Chapter Twelve #2
I’m smiling and feeling a bit grateful when the stadium erupts. A deafening roar shakes the glass of the box as thousands of fans chant in unison: “Fragilé! Fragilé!”
I look up at the Jumbotron, confused by the sudden surge of energy. “Someone scored a home run?”
The entire box breaks into laughter.
“A goal. Yes,” Marlow responds, shaking her head with an affectionate roll of her eyes. “Every time my husband scores, the crowd yells that. When he first joined the team, someone played a prank on him and told the reporters his name was Fragilé because he’s Italian. It stuck.”
“So, a goal is what they score in soccer?” I ask, trying to lock the terminology into my brain while figuring out how it relates to the movie A Christmas Story.
“Correct,” Marlow confirms. “Soccer or fútbol, depending on who you’re talking to.”
“I see.” I don't really see, and I have zero interest in absorbing any more sports jargon today, but I nod politely anyway.
Noticing the slightly glazed look on my face, Marlow laughs. “Don’t worry. If I hadn’t accidentally married a soccer player on a reality TV show, I wouldn’t know this much about the game, either.”
The coincidence is almost too much to handle.
Marlow and her husband, Declan, also met on SightUnseen in Vegas.
However, the episodes featuring me and Luca—the man I only know as Luca Chillmonger—won’t start airing for another few weeks.
For now, our secret is safe. Nobody here knows that I’m part of the same “accidental marriage” club.
Well. Nobody accept Tatum. And Croix. Both who know how to keep a secret.
But if Luca decides to pull out of this thing, they may never have to know.
The match continues in a whirlwind of cheers and whistles, but I’m barely present.
I smile and nod through a whirlwind of talk about upcoming galas, boutique baby showers, and school charity events, all while maintaining the perfect “on” face.
My brain is already fried from forty-eight-hour weeks at the hospital training my replacement, followed by grueling late-night sessions with my business manager to ensure Aspen & Oak is airtight.
By the time the final whistle blows, I’m running on fumes, but Tatum, Eslin, and Marlow are now pulling me toward the player tunnel to meet the team. We emerge into a high-energy corridor filled with men who are impossibly sweaty, ridiculously focused, and riding the adrenaline high of a…tie?
I hear a booming, melodic Irish voice cut through the noise just as a pair of strong arms scoop me up.
“Pen! My lucky charm!”
Croix spins me around like I weigh nothing, his laughter vibrating against my chest.
“Hey, Corner-kick Croix,” I say, breathless as he sets me back on my feet.
“How’d you enjoy your first soccer match, then?” He’s beaming, his face flushed from the exertion.
“It was incredible. Loud, confusing, and totally cool! You were amazing out there.”
“Thanks for coming, Pen. Seriously.” He looks at me, his expression easing into something sincere. “I know our friendship has been a bit of a maze, but having you here, like this…it feels right, doesn’t it?”
I nod, touched by the sentiment. “It does. Like things are exactly as they are supposed to be. And I’m so happy to see you doing so well.”
“Who knew a breakup would be good for my game?” he jokes, winking before leading me toward the press room.
He parades me around, introducing me to players as they file in and out of interviews. I’m doing my best to play the “supportive bestie” until someone steps out of the media room and stops the world on its axis.
It’s him. Luca.
“Chillmon—”
“Oh, brilliant!” Croix exclaims, waving him over. “Luca! Get over here, Lad.”
I freeze. Luca stops dead, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he schools his features.
“Aspen, this is Luca,” Croix says, throwing an arm around Luca’s shoulder with terrifying excitement.
“My closest and oldest mate from back home. And Luca, this is Aspen—my absolute best female friend in the world. I’m so glad you two have finally met.
Now that the secret is finally out of the bag,” Croix jokes.
Luca lets out a sharp, nervous laugh. “The secret. Right. You mean the girl you were dating but refused to name? That secret?”
“The very one,” Croix says, his face beaming with a clueless, high-energy grin.
“The one you proposed to,” Luca continues, his voice tight, “and when she said ‘no’, came home—”
“Okay!” Croix cuts him off quickly, waving a hand to silence him. “We don’t need to rehash the old details. The point is, we’ve both moved on, and now we can all be friends.”
The silence that follows could crush a car.
“Nice to…uh, meet you,” Luca stammers, extending a hand that I know. Vividly.
“Charmed,” I squeak, my voice two octaves higher than normal. I take his hand, my grip like a dead fish. My eyes widen in a silent, frantic plea: Don’t you dare say a word.
“You look…familiar,” Luca says, his posh accent tripping over the lie. “Have we…perhaps…met at a conference? Or an arcade, maybe?”
This absolute asshole is playing games. I’m standing here sweating through my clothes and he’s joking. Actually, is it sweat? Because damn, he looks even better than I remember. The lighting in this corridor is doing things for his jawline that should be illegal.
Chillmonger my ass.
“No. All Black girls look alike around here,” I say through gritted teeth, my smile as sharp as a scalpel.
Croix lets out a bark of laughter, completely oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting violently beneath his feet. “See? I told you she was funny! We’ve all got to get dinner soon. We’ll be like the cast of Friends!”
The urge to yell “Pivot!” is welling up in my throat because we seriously need to pivot this conversation before we find out just how much like the Chandler and Monica debacle this actually is.
Except in this version, the secret isn't just a hookup.
It's a legal marriage, a reality TV contract, and enough potential drama to burn this stadium to the ground.
Luca and I both let out a synchronized, hysterical burst of laughter that sounds more like a pair of hyenas having a breakdown.
“Yes,” Luca chokes out. “Friends. Exactly like that.”
The awkwardness between Luca and me is mercifully shattered when a PR rep flags them down, dragging both men toward a waiting camera crew.
As they walk away—shoulders brushing, laughing like the lifelong brothers they are—I feel like I’m about to actually vibrate out of my skin and leave my physical body behind.
My world hasn’t just collided. It’s undergone a total nuclear meltdown, and I’m standing in the fallout wearing charcoal leggings and a fake ass smile.
I lean against the cold concrete of the tunnel, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm that definitely isn't medically sound.
I watch them: Croix, the man who has been my emotional anchor and the human equivalent of a weighted blanket for the past few months, and Luca, the man I legally bound myself to in a neon-lit chapel.
One is the past I finally moved on from, and the other is a future I'm currently waiting on a “yes or no” email to confirm he likes me.
The weight of the secret feels like a physical heat in my throat, which is weird, because I'm pretty sure my blood has turned to ice. How the hell am I supposed to look my best friend in the eye and explain that his “best lad from back home” is the same man I’m currently tied to by the laws of the State of Nevada?
Tatum comes over just as cameras and microphones are shoved into the boys’ faces. “Sweetie? You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Haven’t I?” I whisper under my breath.
Because how do I tell Croix that I’m secretly—and very awkwardly—Mrs. Luca fucking Chillmonger?