Chapter 15
Fifteen
I have spent the first half of this game doing my job.
That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m getting paid to do.
That should be enough. And yet it feels as if there is a bee buzzing in my chest, constantly stinging me with Wyatt’s name.
He brought up Lucca again today. He asked me to talk to him about his birthday party.
He looked at me with those big baby blues.
Seriously unfair. And I caved. I told him I would do it. For sure. Today.
So no, just doing my job is not good enough today.
And yes, stupid Lucca was right. I did warm up on his end of the field to talk to him. But then he had to be so smug and so cocky and so annoyingly smiley. He practically forced me to lie and tell him he was wrong.
Truly, did I have another choice?
Ugh.
I did. I could have taken the opportunity to say, “Yes, you overzealous pretty boy, I do need to talk to you,” and then I could have asked about Wyatt’s party.
But if the universe gives me the opportunity to stick it to Lucca Cruz, I sort of feel like I have to do it.
Like it would be denying a grand gift if I didn’t. Like it’s my utter responsibility.
And now my nerve ends are buzzing with Wyatt’s hopes, the ones I’ve yet to fulfill, making me feel like I might be covered in hives.
When a Philadelphia player goes down and our center ref pauses play to call out the medical staff, I take a look around the field. My breaths are heavy, and they stop altogether when I see Lucca—two yards from me.
“For Wyatt,” I whisper to myself. Then I walk down the sideline until I am directly across from that big dumb hottie. I clear my throat, but Lucca keeps his eyes on the Liberty player. The ball is at his feet, and I use it as an excuse. “Cruz,” I say, my tone authoritative. “Toss me that ball.”
He peers over at me, but instead of kicking me the ball, he flicks it up into his hands and walks it over, keeping it beneath his arm. “You wanted me?”
“I—I wanted the ball,” I say. This man is infuriating. And completely into himself.
His dark brows lift in question—he isn’t buying it—but he holds the ball out to me.
I clear my throat and take it from his hands, my fingers grazing over the warmth of his skin and my nerves continuing to sting. Ugh. Shut up.
“So, Lucca.” I grind my teeth. This question goes against everything inside of me.
If I didn’t love Wyatt like I do, I could never do this.
There isn’t another soul on the planet who could compel me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and spit out the words.
“My nephew wanted to invite you to his birthday party.” Invite sounds a little better than come as the main attraction.
Besides, what would Lucca do with that title?
He’d probably have it embossed on a badge and wear it with honor.
“Your nephew wants to invite me?” he says, his stupidly pouty lips turning upward.
“Yes,” I hiss, my teeth gritting. “My nephew.” I scan the field. I am still on the job. And I’m somewhat breaking the rules while I’m at it. “Remember him? Short, blond, trips a lot?”
“You don’t want to invite me?”
My gaze snaps back to Lucca. “No. Not me. I would never ever invite you to anything. But for some dumb reason, Wyatt likes you.”
Lucca crosses his arms. “Can’t say I blame him. I’m a likable guy.”
“In your own world, I’m sure you are.”
“When is this party?”
I heave out a sigh. “Next Saturday. My mom’s place.”
“Aw. You purposely chose a day I don’t have a game. Smart, McCrae. Good thinking.”
I drop the ball in my arms, stopping it from rolling off with my right foot. “I didn’t choose the day. Wyatt chose. Come. Don’t. I don’t care.” But that isn’t exactly true. Wyatt would be insanely thrilled if Lucca showed up. And utterly disappointed in me if he didn’t.
But then, without hardly any thought, he says, “I can make it. I like your nephew. Text me the details.”
My heart patters, growing more uncomfortable by the second. “I’ll text Callum. I neither have nor do I want your number.”
Our center official blows his whistle. Play is starting up again. And it’s starting on my end of the field, Red Tails possession. I glower—just a little—and toss the ball back to Lucca.
He grins at me. “I knew you wanted to talk to me,” he says with one single tap to the ball. A Philly player comes up behind him, both contesting for the ball. An inner force compels me, and I raise my flag in the air, signaling possession for the opposing team.
I don’t look at Lucca, and no one questions my call. It really could have gone either way. And if Lucca weren’t such a hotshot, I might have let it go.