13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Pen, Croix and Star-Crossed
Luca
Three months ago.
This is incredibly inconvenient.
Since Vegas, my life has been a series of training camps and international travel.
Between the matches and the rigorous schedule I’ve kept with Justice Trager, our team captain, who is currently grooming me to take his place, I’ve barely had a moment to breathe, let alone process the fallout from Nevada.
With the weight of the captaincy looming, I’ve had to be brutally honest with myself.
Did I really want to introduce a new element of high-octane drama into my life?
Reality TV and a “what if?” marriage are a lot to carry, even if the feelings behind them felt terrifyingly real in the dark of those pods.
I told myself I’d have more time to explore the implications and weigh the risks before I ever had to face her again.
Because, in all honesty, I’ve known exactly who she was for a week now. Apparently, a red-headed kid and his mother fell on hard times and decided it was time to try to sell the footage.
Last week, the calls started. A journalist began pestering Croix, asking for comment on the rumors that he’d proposed to someone and been shot down.
Apparently, there were camera phones recording the exact moment he dropped to one knee, and as his best friend, I was there for the frantic aftermath.
I stood by as he leveraged his entire reputation—and a significant amount of cash—to keep a pack of hungry vultures from airing the footage of his public rejection.
Watching the grainy video of my best mate being turned down was difficult enough. But when the camera finally panned, the face of the woman on the screen delivered a blow that nearly stopped my heart.
It was her. My “Ms. Mysterious” from the Vegas pods.
The woman I’d spent months trying to track down was the very same “Pen” Croix had been pining over for the last half-year. Seven days ago, the two halves of my life didn’t just collide. They shattered.
The realization hit me with questions of loyalty I’ve never had to face.
On one side stands Croix, a man who is more like a brother than a teammate, someone who would take a bullet for me without blinking.
On the other is the woman I barely know, yet legally bound myself to on a random night in Vegas.
The same woman who has occupied every single one of my thoughts since the moment we lost touch.
I’ve spent my life treating principles of loyalty like an oath, but how do you choose when your heart is claimed by your best friend’s heart?
Croix has always maintained that one of the greatest betrayals of his life happened back when we were in secondary school.
A friend of ours, Brett Tollworth, slept with his girlfriend while we were away at a soccer match and the girl left Croix for him.
He’s been guarded about his inner circle meeting the women he dates ever since.
A protective instinct born from that old wound.
But this situation defies all logic. How the hell were we supposed to know?
It’s his fault for keeping her a secret for so long.
If he had introduced us months ago, we could have avoided this disaster entirely.
I never would have allowed myself to fall for her.
I never would have let myself touch her, and I certainly wouldn't have nearly ruined my reputation flying back and forth to Vegas like a madman trying to find her.
That search is exactly why I’ve been stalling the producers.
I needed time to breathe, to think, and to decide if I truly had it in me to walk through this kind of fire.
I knew then what I know with terrifying certainty now: giving in to her, even a fraction, will consume me.
Our love won’t just be a spark; it’ll be a blaze that ruins me and Croix, both.
And then…bloody hell. She had to look like that. Better than I remembered. I thought I needed more time to weigh the cost, but the second we came face-to-face, the clocks stopped. I don’t want any more time to think. I just want forever with her.
The rest of the evening is nothing but press junkets and a tense team debrief in the locker room.
It’s been a grueling day, both on and off the pitch.
But as the adrenaline finally begins to slow and I make my way toward the stadium exit, I spot Tatum.
She’s leaning against a pillar, watching my approach with a look that is far too knowing.
She actually looks a bit squeamish as I close the distance between us.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low enough to stay beneath the hum of the departing crowd. “That woman you were with earlier. Aspen.”
Tatum’s grin is slow. “Right. You two know each other, I’ve gathered?”
I nod, the lie of our first meeting in the press room still tasting like ash in my mouth. “Yes. We do know each other. What’s her last name?”
“Does Croix know yet?” Tatum asks, her playful expression shifting into something more serious.
I shake my head, the gravity of the mess sinking in. “No. And I will tell him. I have to. But I need to speak to her first. Tatum, you have to understand how impossible this situation is.”
“I do,” she says softly. “But I also know how secrets can ruin a friendship. Especially a friendship like yours and Croix’s.”
“I get it. Truly. And I will tell him,” I insist, my patience wearing thin as the urge to reach out to Aspen grows. “Her name, please? A social media handle? A phone number? Fucking blood type. Anything.”
“Okay! Okay!” Tatum laughs, putting up her hands in surrender. “I’m only sharing this because I know for a fact she wants to talk to you, too.”
She pulls out her phone and taps it against mine, the digital transfer of information chirping with a finality that makes my chest leap.
“Here is her contact information,” Tatum says, her voice dropping into a sharp, warning tone. “But word to the wise, Luca. Start slow. She’s got a lot on her plate right now. You either approach her with absolute certainty, or you don’t approach her at all.”
“Thank you. I understand,” I say, taking the warning to heart.
The hesitation that was eating at me yesterday is gone. As messy as all these complications are, the second I was back in her space, the fog cleared. I want her. I need her. And I will figure this out.
My whole career is built on handling high-pressure plays and finding a way to win when the clock is ticking down. I’m a leader. I was built for this. I can build a life with Aspen and find a way to make things right with Croix. All I need is a plan.
I spend the rest of the evening playing the part of the composed future captain, going for drinks with Croix and the rest of the team.
I honestly don’t know how I’ve been doing it—laughing at their jokes and dissecting the match as if my personal life isn't an active fucking volcano preparing to blow. Now that I know for certain who Aspen is, and what she still means to me, every look at Croix is like a blade to the gut. The guilt is a constant, gnawing reminder of the line I’m about to cross.
Everything in me wants to pull him aside and lay it all out right now, but I can't. Not yet. I need to know where her head is first. I need to know if that night in Vegas still feels as real to her as it does to me, and if she’s actually willing to risk as much as I am for this. For us.
Finally, the group disperses. The back-slapping ends, and no one else is vying for my attention or hounding me for my predictions for the next match. I walk to my car, barely able to restrain myself from doing what I’ve been aching to do all night.
I pull up her contact. I stare at the blinking cursor for a long minute, my thumb hovering over the glass. Then, I type.
Luca: Hello, Ms. Mysterious.