Chapter 3
Luca
Iclose my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the steaming hot water run over me as I shower after our game. It’s been two weeks since I heard from Angel. I messaged her a couple of times through the app, but she hasn’t replied. I’m worried I came on too strong begging her to meet me.
It’s not even about the sex, as hot as it is.
There’s something about her that relieves all the pressure from Dad, my coach, school, soccer.
When I’m with her, thinking about her, messaging her, I’m not Luca Whitford, Beckford’s golden boy.
I’m just me. No spotlight. No bullshit. I’m just a guy talking to a girl who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.
A thud on the shower divider causes me to jump, and my eyes land on Theo Walters, my best mate and a massive pain in my arse.
“Drinks at Carter’s,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “The Beckford U bar? On game night.”
“C’mon, mate. You need to blow off steam. You’re wound tighter that Coach Rourke’s hamstrings.”
“Gross, man. I don’t need that visual.”
He laughs. “You’re coming out with me, brother. The bar will be packed with Banshees, and your boy needs a pussy or two to sink into. I need my wingman.”
“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?” I mutter.
Theo leans over the divider and ruffles my hair. “Because our dads are besties. You’re stuck with me now.”
I shove him away from me. “Let me shower in peace.”
“Not until you promise me you’ll come for a few drinks.”
“I’ll think about it.”
His grin widens. “Thatta boy.”
I roll my eyes, but thankfully he turns off his shower and heads to the changeroom.
The water does nothing to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I’m sick of the constant pressure to live up to Dad’s expectations, Coach Rourke’s expectations—hell, even my teammates’ expectations. Everyone wants something from me, and there’s nothing left for myself.
When I talk to Angel, everything goes still.
She doesn’t care about my goals or assists. She doesn’t even know I play.
Sighing, I shut off the water and grab my towel. I’m not in the mood to hang out in a bar filled with Beckford Wolves fans, and worse, the Beckford Banshees—groupies who only want to sleep with the players. But Theo’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not going to let me off the hook.
Sure enough, when I head out to the lockers with my towel wrapped around my waist, he’s hovering in front of my locker.
I shove him away, grabbing my jeans and slipping into them before shrugging into my maroon Beckford hoodie.
Theo arches a brow. “You’re not gonna make an effort?”
I ignore him, checking my phone.
Nothing.
No message.
Swallowing down my disappointment, I glance at the smug face of my best mate, and I know he’s going to get his way.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, slamming my locker shut.
Carter’s is worse than I expected—packed wall-to-wall with drunk guys, half-naked women, and bad decisions. I follow Theo through the bar, clutching a glass of whiskey I don’t even want, my eyes flicking towards the door as I plan my escape.
We join a couple of teammates at a table, and it’s not long before the girls come.
Three Banshees, dressed in jerseys and denim cutoffs, despite it being the end of winter. They’re pretty enough, but I’m not interested.
“Great game tonight, Luca,” one of them says, her hand landing on my bicep like we know each other. We don’t.
“Thanks,” I say politely, removing her hand.
“The ref should have given number eleven a red card for that slide tackle. You hit the ground pretty hard. I bet you’re sore.”
I’ll give her props for trying, but I’m not biting.
Taking a sip of my drink, I shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
The girls giggle, the sound grating on my nerves.
“We’d be more than happy to help you recover,” her friend suggests, running her fingers up my forearm.
These girls are bold as hell. I only wish their attention wasn’t fully focused on me.
Shifting away from her, I take another mouthful of my drink. “I’m good.”
Theo snorts and throws his arm around my shoulders. “Get in line, ladies. He’s emotionally unavailable… or maybe he’s having equipment failure.”
Our teammates laugh, but I just shrug him off me. I’ll take their ribbing. There’s only one girl who has my attention.
Unfazed by not getting a rise out of me, Theo hooks his arm around the closest girl and pulls her onto his lap. “If you’re looking for someone to help, ladies, I copped a knee to the groin in the eighty-eighth minute. I could use some TLC.”
She doesn’t waste any time wrapping her arm around his neck and shoving her tongue down his throat. I avert my eyes as her friends start up a conversation with the other guys, and I’m given a reprieve as the attention is moved off me.
I order another drink, but the alcohol sits heavy in my stomach. This is not my scene. I’m not into meaningless hook ups.
When Theo’s hand slips into the Banshee’s shorts and he starts getting her off at the table, I’m done. Ignoring my teammates’ protests, I leave my drink and exit the bar.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open the Euphoria app and type out a message.
@PhantomMenace: At least tell me I’ll see you at the club.
I wait a couple of minutes, but as expected, I don’t get a reply. Exhaling a frustrated breath, I close out of the app and order an Uber.
The house is quiet when I get home—too quiet. The kind that makes you realise just how loud your head is.
I can’t deny it’s a blow to my ego that she won’t meet me outside the club.
I’ve never had a shortage of girls throwing themselves at me, but this girl is the only one who has my head all kinds of messed up.
We had a connection from the night we met, and I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to explore it.
Why she won’t take a chance. We could be good together.
Kicking my shoes off at the front door, I make my way upstairs to my bedroom. The bathroom door opens as I pass, and I almost run into my stepsister.
Willow Hepburn.
Her blonde hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and her eyes widen behind her glasses when she sees me. She’s only wearing an oversized Simple Plan T-shirt, and my eyes drop to her tan thighs.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, barely above a whisper, before disappearing into her bedroom across the hall from mine.
I shake my head.
Typical.
I don’t know what it is about her, but everything she does gets under my skin.
We’ve barely said two words to each other in four years, but every interaction with her has involved her rolling her eyes or muttering something under her breath.
She doesn’t even know me. Ever since Dad moved her and her mother into our house, I’ve felt like a stranger in my own home.
They’re just another reason I can’t wait to finish uni and get out of here.
Clenching my jaw, I continue to my room, closing the door and dropping onto my bed. I need out of Beckford. This house and this town are suffocating me. No one knows who I really am.
I’m starting to wonder if even I know who I am.