Chapter 20
Twenty
I texted Maggie two days ago.
See you in Denver?
I added that question mark just so she’d write back. I saw the referee listing. I know she’ll be there. Still, I asked.
What kind of woman ignores a solid question mark?
I thought about texting again. I thought about telling her to tell Wyatt that I’d wave to him. I thought he’d like that. I also thought that sounded like a desperate man begging a woman to write him back.
I’ve never been desperate in my entire twenty-six years of life. Not the first seventeen years in Brazil and not the last nine in the States.
If I text a woman, she wastes no time writing me back.
Until now.
Until Maggie McCrae.
Fine. That’s fine. I need to focus up anyway. Our game starts in less than twenty minutes, and being left on read for the first time in my life has got me a little… distracted.
Still, Denver has always been a solid place for us to play.
Because Tesoro soccer fans are the best. Despite the high altitude or the fact that it’s more than a sixteen-hour drive, we always end up with a decent fan section.
Can’t let them down. Not when we have a good chance for the Next Gen Cup this year.
I allow myself one glance Maggie’s way and race onto the grass to warm up.
“Let me guess. She left you on read. Eh?” Zev says.
“Excuse me?” There’s a bite in my tone, and I take a breath—calm and collected.
“You said you texted her again. I take it by the longing look you just gave her, she didn’t write back.”
“I didn’t look at her longingly. Lucca doesn’t long,” I say with a grunt and one more peek at Maggie. I don’t think she’s noticed me yet.
Zev smacks a hand to my back. “I don’t know. He might.”
“You long,” I say in retort. It’s not my best comeback, but it’s all I’ve got this minute.
That and I’m wondering why I told Zev about texting Maggie in the first place.
Right—because I am an extrovert who needs his teammates.
I tell them most things, and I truly expect them to do the same.
When they don’t (ahem—Roman), I force it out of them. It’s a good system.
Zev only laughs at my comeback. He’s not exactly opposed to longing for Rosalie.
“What’s up?” Callum says when he sees my face. I’m not sure what it’s telling him, but something.
Zev lunges, stretching his legs. “Oh, nothing. Lucca’s just talking about himself in third person.”
“Bro,” Callum says, his face scrunching. “Again?” He shakes his head.
Roman jogs over, a ball at his feet. He passes it to Zev, but looks at me.
“She hasn’t responded,” Zev tells him.
“Not a word?” Callum goes still. “That’s never happened to Lucca. That’s not like Maggie, either.”
“It is when Lucca’s the one texting,” Roman says. And then my friends all snicker at my expense.
That’s fine. Let them laugh.
Still, I’m not ashamed that I texted Maggie. Or that I’ve changed my mind about her. At least, I think I changed my mind.
We are twenty minutes into the first half of this match when I know for certain—yep, I do not dislike Maggie McCrae anymore. Not even a little.
She’s called a foul on me, one that gives possession to the opposing team, and I’m not even glaring at her. I’m not arguing. I’m just moving on. Some might say it’s big of me. I just call it character growth.
And then—
“What kind of call is that?” screams a man in a Red Tails jersey from the lower half of the stands, a corner section of the stadium that Maggie is right next to.
Just like she ignored me with all the fouls I questioned, she ignores this guy, too.
“Talk about home field advantage!” the man screams again.
“You just gonna give it to the Summit?” He’s on his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth, and bellowing from the second row.
Where’s security? But then, people yell things all the time; it’s not like he’s moving toward the field.
Security may have bigger fish to fry at the moment.
“Yo, ref!” he yells again. “Stick to something you’re good at—like baking cookies!”
“Whoa!” I move toward the sidelines. The Summit player holds the ball over his head; he hasn’t thrown it in yet, and as I approach, he pauses.
I see his hesitation from the corner of my eye.
But I’m focused on that second row. “You can’t talk to her like that!
” I step over the line and yell back at the man in the stands.
“Lucca!” Maggie hushes, one whole yard away from me.
“You need to apologize.” I point to the guy in the stands who has finally decided to shut up.
He motions to himself, looking left, then right, as if he doesn’t know that I’m talking to him.
“Yeah, you. The jerk with the knock-off jersey.”
His face falls with my insult.
“You cannot speak to her like that.”
“Lucca, enough,” Maggie huffs, closer now. “You can’t talk to the fans. You know that. Get back on the field.”
I turn my gaze to Maggie, who’s moved right next to me. I snatch her wrist between my thumb and finger. I’m not sure what I intend to do with her hand, but I feel her pulse racing beneath my touch. “He can’t talk to you like that.”
“I’m a referee.” She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull out of my grasp. “I’m used to being disliked. Now, go.”
“She’s a pity hire!” the man yells. He’s over his initial surprise at my retort, and he’s ready to argue.
“Excuse me?” I say, letting go of Maggie and stepping up to the ad wall just below the stadium seating. My heart pounds in my chest and my nostrils flare. “You’re an idiot. You have no idea. She knows more about soccer than you could ever hope to. You should be the one baking—”
Maggie’s hand on my arm stops my next words, and then—she’s raising a yellow into the air and talking into her headset. She’s carding me.
“Go cool off, Lucca,” she says, her touch gentle. “Sit down. I can handle myself.”