Chapter 21
Twenty-One
We’re only five minutes into the second half of this game when the few rain clouds overhead turn into a freak hailstorm. Bits of ice and sleet hit my face, arms, and legs. And then—the lightning strikes.
The center official blows his whistle to stop play, and in an instant, Maggie and the other two refs run onto the field. They only confer for a few seconds when the main official waves both arms overhead, then makes a thumbs-down motion toward the benches. He’s signaling a pause in the game.
Over the intercom, the announcer sounds. “Delay of game. We need everyone off the field, out of the stands, and indoors. No one will be permitted to stay in the stadium.”
The hail smacks down on us like bubblegum raining in a candy shop.
Everyone rushes to remove themselves from the stadium.
The men on the field file into the tunnel and then into the first men’s locker room.
It’s crowded, Summits and Red Tails and officials all crammed into the same space together.
Never mind that each team has its own locker room—the center official wanted to count heads.
The thought jars me. “Where’s Maggie?” I ask Callum. But he’s on a call with Fran. He shrugs, at least acknowledging that he’s heard me.
I charge over to one of the officials, checking his phone for how many miles away the lightning is now. “Hey,” I say to the older man.
“I don’t know how long the delay will be. I’m searching—”
“That’s not it. Where is Maggie—er, Margaret? Where’s Ref McCrae?” I ask.
The man peers up from his phone. “I would assume the women’s locker room.”
“By herself?” I ask, just as another bout of lightning strikes.
The man looks around our crowded space. “If you ask me, she’s the lucky one.”
But—alone. The weather turned so quickly. And there’s lightning. And hail. And the size of that hail. They might as well have been walnuts. She could be hurt. She could need something. And she’s alone.
I push past body after body, making my way to the exit. No one seems to notice or care in this crowded space as one man slips out the door.
I might be offended if I weren’t so grateful.
The women’s locker room is just across the hall. I tap on the door, but when no answer comes, I push it open and step inside. It’s like walking into a church, or a library, or maybe an abandoned villa. Silent. The opposite of the away team’s locker room at the moment.
“Maggie?” I say quietly into the void. My accent seems to reverberate off the walls.
I trek carefully around a set of lockers. This woman will never agree to be my friend if I walk in on her half-dressed. Though I might not mind. The woman has exceptional legs.
I walk past the first set of lockers, almost convinced she isn’t here, and then I hear something. “From daytime zoomies to love pawing, we explore the mysterious inner world of our feline friends…”
Still in her uniform, she’s wet from the storm, sitting on the ground, knees up, legs on display, phone in hand. And are those tears on her cheeks?
Is she crying?
For a second, I consider that they could be rain droplets. But then she sniffs and wipes away a newly fallen tear with the back of her hand.
Not rain droplets, then.
“Oh,” I say, stopping in my tracks.
The one word lifts Maggie’s eyes up to mine. Her brows furrow as she takes me in, then she swipes away the rest of the moisture on her face.
“Sad episode?” I ask, referring to whatever she’s listening to.
“What?” She blinks from me to her phone and back. “No.” She clears her throat and pauses the melodic voice talking about “feline friends.” “What are you doing in here?”
“I came to check on you.”
Her chest deflates with an exhale.
“You’re alone.”
“I’m the only woman on the field. I’m usually alone in here.” She sets her phone in her lap. “You haven’t changed.”
“Neither have you.” I motion to her wet uniform.
She sighs. “Yeah. I was trying to distract myself from a text.” Her cheeks puff with air. “It wasn’t working.”
“Was that a podcast?” I ask—it feels safe enough.
“Yeah.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, her face sheepish, as if she’s sharing her deep, dark secrets with me. “I like cats. But my dad is allergic.”
Cats? Huh.
Slowly, as if I’m approaching a wild animal, I walk over to where she sits. “Do you mind?” I ask, motioning to the ground next to her.
“You really shouldn’t be in here,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her tone.
“I’ll take that as an invitation to sit.” I plop down next to her, my arm brushing hers. Her skin erupts in goosebumps. Either she’s chilled, or she isn’t as unaffected by me as she likes to claim. She is wet, though. We both are. “Are there any blankets in here?”
“There’s towels,” she says, motioning to a closet.
I lift from my seat and bring back an armful. Shaking open the white folded linen, I lay it sideways across her lap, then another and another, until she’s covered from foot to waist.
She clears her throat, glancing back at her phone. “Thanks.”
Sitting once more, I don’t bother to put an inch of space between us. “So, why has a text message made you emotional?”
“That’s really none of your—”
“Asking as a friend.”
She peers down at her makeshift blanket. “I’m not sure we can be friends, Lucca. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. Remember?”
“Actually,” I say, bobbing my head once in her direction. “I do like you. And I’m confident that, given a little time, I’ll be fighting you off with a stick.”
She rolls her eyes and grunts out a curt laugh, but I think my humor translates as intended.
I lean back and cross one ankle over the other. I don’t know this woman well, but I’d place bets on what would get her upset like this. “Is Wyatt okay?”
She blows a tired sigh from her lips—her pink, plump, a little pouty, very nice lips.
Hmm, I’ve never noticed that before. “Yes. Wyatt’s fine.
” Her eyes shut, and she rubs at the space between them with two fingers.
“My sister is an alcoholic. She’s in recovery.
But now, she’s dating this bartender and—” She blows out a puff of air, not finishing her thought.
“You’re worried.”
“I am.” She pulls in a breath. “He’s asked her to go away with him.
For a weekend. She hasn’t even told him about her struggles.
But she’s actually considering it.” Maggie shakes her head, peering at her hands in her lap.
“Lindy says he’s decent. And maybe he is.
But he doesn’t even know that he can’t drink around her.
He doesn’t realize that he can’t offer her a glass of wine or take her to a party where there’s an open bar.
He just—he can’t. She’ll—” Her voice cracks, and she cuts herself off.
“She’s come so far. And Wyatt’s never known that Lindy. I’ve made certain of it.”
And like magic, all of Maggie McCrae’s puzzle pieces come together. “She got pregnant, and you quit the U-23 U.S. team.” That’s what she said. But now, it makes so much more sense.
“I had to. You don’t understand. She—”
“I get it, Maggie. More than you know. And I utterly respect your selfless decision.”
A shaky sigh falls from her chest. “I shouldn’t have told you all that.”
My fingers twitch with the desire to touch her again, to feel her skin beneath my fingertips. “I’m glad that you did.”
She huffs out a quiet breath. “Why?”
“Because I’d still like to be your friend, Maggie. And friends talk to each other.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t have a comeback for me.
“Thanks for the yellow card,” I say.
“It could have been a red,” she says, peering over at me.
“Oh, I am very aware. It was a sincere thank you.”
She nibbles on that lip I’ve suddenly decided to inspect. “Thank you. For defending me today.” She clears her throat. “It was nice. Unnecessary, but still nice of you.”