Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
The bench in the locker room grows hard beneath me. I bounce my heel over and over again, staring at my phone, waiting for a reply. Not from Maggie—she sent one more message after she cut me off on Monday.
Maggie: This won’t work.
None of my replies or pictures of Nanners stirred anything out of her. So once again, I’ve asked for outside help. And I’ve given up on my friends. They are useless when it comes to women. However, their significant others are much more helpful.
“You look nervous,” Tru says.
“Lucca doesn’t get nervous.” Wade peers from Tru to me.
“He’s fine,” Zev says, slapping a hand to my back. “Go find your warmup kit.” He tells the others. His fingers squeeze my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I pause the bouncing of my leg. “Like you said, I’m fine.”
Then finally, my phone pings with a text.
“Excuse me.” I walk to a lonely corner of the locker room. I’ve got time. We don’t warm up for another hour. I breathe and take a minute for this text.
One more ping before I can pull out my phone.
Fran: So, you’re going through with it?
Rosalie: Oh boy.
I’m assuming the girls all sit together in the stands, like normal, but still we’re discussing this in our group text.
Fran: I think it’s a good idea.
Me: I think it’ll work.
Stella: It’s risky, Lucca.
Rosalie: It’s insane. You remember who pays you, right?
Me: I do.
Stella: I’m not even certain what’s going to happen…
Me: You’ll see.
Rosalie: What does that mean?
Rosalie: Are you sure she’s even interested in you?
Stella: She’s right, Lucca. You could cause a whole lot of trouble for yourself. Is it worth it?
Fran: ARE YOU TWO SERIOUS RIGHT NOW? IS LOVE WORTH IT? IS THAT WHAT YOU JUST SAID?
Me: She’s interested. And she’s worth it. Wish me luck.
I wait until the last ten minutes of the game. We’re up two to nothing, and the United look like trash. They’re barely completing a pass. That’s when I go down.
I hold my leg and moan. Maggie’s on the opposite side of the field, and I don’t even attempt to look her way. I haven’t all day. My acting skills are exceptional.
Roman jogs over where I lie. “You okay?”
“Cramp,” I lie.
I can just see Callum from the corner of my eye as he waves the center official over. I’m tempted to peek at Maggie, but I won’t break my cover. I’m going to be in a load of trouble for this—might as well make it count.
I tell the official I need a sub, and Callum and Roman, along with our trainer, help me off the field.
The trainer treats me with cold spray, water, and a quick massage. “I’m not feeling anything,” she says.
I shake my head like I don’t understand it. “You’re a miracle worker. It’s already feeling better.” I nod to the cold spray next to her medical bag.
And now, I wait. I know the drill. The fourth official—the one who stays on the sidelines at the halfway mark of the field—will monitor me until he’s confirmed I can go back in. His entire job is supporting the on-field officials with equipment and substitutions. I just have to wait patiently.
He’s looked me over; he’s spoken with the trainer. He’s got one hand on his headset lying on the bench, the other offers a simple thumbs-up, asking if I’m ready. I shake my head no. I force my face to cringe and reach for a bottle of water. “I need a few more minutes.”
His eyes back on the game, he nods, taking his hand from the headset. He never wears the communication device unless he’s the one communicating. I’ve been counting on that.
I sit for only a minute before sliding the man’s wireless headset from the bench and into my lap. Then I stand and walk back toward my team. I slip the thing onto my head and listen. There’s a slight buzz, but the game is in play without intervention from the referees.
“Maggie?” I say into the headset, understanding that all three refs on the field can hear me.
“John?” She’s looking at the center ref, her tone confused.
“Nope.” I’m going to run out of time unless I can give myself a little more of it. “Fourth official,” I say.
“Sam?” And now she’s looking in the direction of the bench. Her eyes dart to the clueless man whose headset I’ve stolen.
“Sure,” I say, doing my best to speak in an American accent. “You need to take Lucca Cruz up on his offer.”
A small “eep” sounds from inside my headset. She knows it’s me.
But as long as the other refs don’t, I have time.
“Cruz, number three, has been subbed off the field,” a low, commanding voice says in my ear—one of the other two officials.
“That is correct.” I just can’t keep the Portuguese lilt out of my tone. “But McCrae needs to listen to him.”
“Sam, is there something wrong with your headset?” the man says.
It’s now or never. So, I bellow some Milo Vega’s pop-soul lyrics into my headset. “My friends think I’m crazy—”
“Sam!” the man yells.
But I ignore him. I keep going. “But I know she’s somewhere out there—”
“Who’s on this line?” another man says.
I make it through three more words before I hear what I need to hear.
“Okay!” wails a frustrated Maggie. “Not another word! Stop!”
She said okay. That’s pretty binding. Right?
I casually walk Sam’s headset back to the bench he stands by. His expression tells me he knows something is happening, but he’s not sure what. Play hasn’t been stopped for my little display. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll get away with it.
It’s a quick thought. A na?ve one. The other sideline official, the one on my side of the field, races over to where I now stand next to Sam, yanking a red from his pocket.
After my ejection from the game and waiting out my time in the locker room, I spend the next two hours in a “discussion,” a very loud discussion, with Coach. I’m suspended from the next game and, apparently, if I do anything like that again, I will be wearing different colors next year.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to feel guilty.
Back home, I clean up Nanners’ latest mess—how did she get into my bread box?—and lie on the couch with my devil kitten curled up on my chest.
Me: Hey there.
Maggie: Hi, crazy. How much do you regret your life right now?
Me: Regret? I don’t believe in regret.
Maggie: Well, I’m guessing it believes in you.
Me: With a clear conscience, I can honestly say I have no regrets today.
Maggie: Lucca—be serious. How much trouble are you in?
Me: No more than a regular red card.
Which isn’t one hundred percent true. My other red cards never came with a threat of getting transferred.
Me: I have to miss our next game, and I had a small discussion with my coach about not taking things that don’t belong to me.
Maggie: You’re going to get both of us in trouble.
Me: Not if you just keep talking to me. Don’t shut me out and make me do desperate things and we’ll be fine.
Maggie: I was trying to do what’s best and easiest for both of us.
Me: Not talking to you will never be what’s best for me.
Maggie: You know, men who always get their way are incorrigible.
Me: I can’t help it if I know what I want. Besides, I would happily go through that charade again if it meant you’d reply to me.
Maggie: Is this friendship truly worth so much trouble?
Me: Absolutely.
Maggie: Fine. You win.
I win? I don’t think so. Friendship is not what I want with Maggie. She’s like sight for the blind. I’ve seen the light. I can’t take that back. I don’t want to.