Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Half a banana cream pie equals one giant sugar crash for my little guy. Lucca helped him, but together they ate the entire thing—in between playing with Nanners. And I just watched them.
It’s late, and thankfully we have fairly decent spring weather.
I’m not running into an April snow shower or rainstorm at least. The roads are dry; the moon is bright.
Yep, conditions are great. So, why won’t my stomach stop turning?
Am I really a ball of nerves over Saint Lucca? That makes no sense.
So instead of listening to what I know my mother would tell me—“Examine your feelings. Feel your feelings. Then let’s talk.
”—I turn on Wyatt’s favorite Elvis playlist. I keep it low, turning on only the front speakers of the car; no need to wake him when he’s sleeping all sugared-up and content.
I sing, eyes on the road, and try really, really hard to not feel a darn thing.
Sorry, Mom.
I distract myself the whole way home. I carry Wyatt inside—who I’m pretty sure has doubled in size since the last time I picked him up—and lay him in his bed.
“You made it back.” Mom stands outside Wyatt’s room.
I slap a hand to my heart, startled, and apparently not nearly as calm as I hoped to be after so much distraction. “You’re up?”
“Well, you aren’t able to wait up for yourself, so I had to do it.” She laughs. “What’d you do to him? Make him run a marathon?”
“That would have been healthier.” I shake my head. “He and Lucca ate an entire banana cream pie tonight.”
“Ah, Lucca.”
My throat tightens. “I told you I was visiting him.”
“You said you were visiting a friend. You didn’t say who.”
“Oh.” I swallow, shrug, and avoid Mom’s direct eye contact. “It wasn’t important. No big deal.”
“Don’t say that to your dad or Wyatt. To them, Lucca is a very big deal.”
“Yeah.” My turn to laugh, but I have to force the sound from my chest and mouth. I don’t want to talk about Lucca. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But apparently my wants don’t matter.
“How was he?” Mom follows me through the hall and out into the kitchen.
“Fine. The same. How was your night?” Yep—let’s deflect.
“Just fine.” She sits down at the table. “I bet he was happy to see you.”
“Happy? Why would he be happy?”
She snickers—and that one small sound is sending out so much implication.
“We’re just friends, Mom.” I open the fridge and peer inside, though there’s nothing in here I want. “I’m not even sure we’re allowed to be friends. We both know I cannot be friends with soccer players. Not with my job.”
She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and grinning. “Oh, I’m pretty sure we both know that isn’t true. You’ve always been fair, no matter the circumstances.”
“Sure,” I say, pouring myself a small glass of apple juice. I’m waiting for wisdom to spill out of her. “But that doesn’t matter. Not to the federation.”
She huffs. “It’s not like they’re going to suddenly investigate your social life.”
I smack the juice glass onto the table. “Why does everyone insist on dismissing what could get me into a whole lot of trouble?”
“Darling, unless there’s something more to this Lucca thing, you aren’t going to get into trouble.”
Something more… Does accidentally kissing the man count?
My thoughts run away, and when I say nothing, Mom stands, walking to the kitchen doorway. She turns to face me. “There isn’t anything more to it, is there?”
I scoff and laugh and end up choking on my own saliva. “Of course not,” I get out.
“Then what is there to worry about? Being biased isn’t who you are, Maggie.”
I’m not sure that’s true, though. I’m very biased toward Wyatt—otherwise, I never would have invited Lucca to his birthday party. I’ve already made choices I wouldn’t normally because of my biases.
Mom heads off to bed and I do the same, leaving my glass of apple juice in the fridge. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. My eyes narrow in on my cluster of freckles. The ones that form a tiny heart. The ones that remind me of who I am.
I love myself. I’m okay with my choices.
And I’ve never been some girl who would fall at the feet of a handsome man—even if that man has a dreamy accent and a wicked left foot. So—
Time to examine your feelings, Maggie.
“Lucca,” I say out loud, while peering at my reflection.
My chest grows warm, like I’m on the beach, the sun shining directly on my skin.
My head clears, and I speak again. “Lucca Cruz.” My bottom lip tremors on his last name, and I find my freckle-formed heart once more.
I let the warmth of my personal sun wash over me, and I pay attention to my body, head to toe.
Just like Mom taught me. My head is clear like a summer sky.
My lips are dry as if in need of nourishment.
My chest oozes with warmth. My stomach may be harboring an acrobat.
My legs are strong and wobbly all at once. How strange.
I pull in a breath through my nose. Feel your emotions, Maggie.
Could I really have feelings for a man like Lucca?
I know with certainty the minute I ask that—yes, I absolutely could. That I might already.
And then, like the devil on my shoulder, the drop-down alert on my phone lights up the screen. I have a new email from the FIFA Referees Committee.
It reminds me that I can feel my feelings all I want. They don’t matter. I’m not allowed to like Lucca. I’m not allowed to date soccer players.
Not if I want to keep my job.