Chapter 11 #2
It’s not until I’m stepping onto the blacked-out bus that the irony hits me. Really? A “stealth” vehicle? After that plane? What are we trying to hide—the team logo the size of Texas? Someone clearly didn’t think this one through.
I shake my head, smiling to myself as I walk past the rows of mostly filled seats.
Thiago’s voice rings out from the middle of the bus, animated and loud as always.
Rogue sits beside him, silent and brooding, the contrast between the two almost comical.
I catch the slight twitch of his scowl as I pass, and I don’t know why, but it makes me smile wider.
I slip into one of the last open seats toward the back of the bus.
My phone is in my hand before I even sit down.
It’s time to switch gears into work mode, get some content posted, and pretend I’m not completely thrown by the six-foot-four brooding Irishman who sat next to me on a plane, looked after me and my migraine, had a normal conversation, agreed to post a picture I took of him to his social media, opened my overhead bin like it was his job, and walked behind me like it meant something.
By the time we pull up to the hotel’s private entrance, I’ve got a rough draft of our “Strikers Take H-Town” post queued up and ready to go.
Once I finish uploading the last few clips to the team’s story—videos of the players stepping off the bus, their duffels slung over their shoulders, that confident swagger of athletes about to dominate—I finally get the green light to head to my room.
I swipe the keycard and push the door open, greeted instantly by that crisp hotel air-conditioning and the quiet hush of soft lighting over sleek wood floors.
The room is gorgeous. Modern. Neutral tones with hints of navy and gold.
A plush king bed takes up the center, perfectly made, the pillows stacked like little clouds inviting me to dive in face-first. There’s a welcome note on the nightstand from the hotel with a tiny bag of snacks and a water bottle.
I drop my carry-on and backpack at the foot of the bed and head toward the window.
The view stuns me into stillness.
I press my hand to the glass, staring down at the Texas-shaped pool a few floors below, the water glinting under the bright sun.
Just beyond it, the Houston skyline stretches across the horizon like an old friend.
Towering buildings, glass and steel glowing golden in the light, and the faint sound of traffic humming beneath it all like a familiar lullaby.
My heart tugs a little. This city raised me.
Every street corner has a memory—high-school nights with Marianna, late-night tacos after concerts, heartbreaks, dreams, the version of me that once thought she’d never leave.
If I had just a few more days here, I’d make the rounds.
Stop by that old bookshop near Westheimer.
Drive past the house we grew up in. Sit at my favorite spot on Buffalo Bayou with a coffee and just be.
But we’re flying back tomorrow evening after the game.
If I have enough time to grab dinner with my family, I’ll consider myself lucky.
No room for nostalgia when the season’s breathing down our necks.
At least I’ll get to see Marianna today.
She’s meeting me at practice, and we’re grabbing dinner after.
It won’t be long, but I’ll take what I can get.
Tomorrow at the game, I’ll see my parents.
I can already hear my dad shouting from the stands in his retro Uruguay jersey like it’s the World Cup.
It’s not everything, but it’s something.
I unzip my suitcase and pull out what I need for the night: sleep clothes and my makeup bag.
I hang up tomorrow’s outfit—my jeans, white sneakers, and the jersey I’ll be wearing.
This one’s number 7, Dupont’s. JB is new this year, but he is already making a name for himself.
I try to rotate who I wear each game, partly for the content and partly because …
well, it matters to them. Technically, no one ever asked me to wear a jersey at all, but this makes me feel like I am a part of it, part of the club, part of the grind, part of the family.
I drape the clothes on the hanger and hook it on the wall rack, then take my toiletries into the bathroom and line up what I’ll need for the night.
After that, I zip the suitcase back up and slide it against the wall out of the way.
I kick off my shoes by the door and take my jeans off, letting out a sigh as I cross the room and climb into the giant king bed.
The duvet is soft and crisp, the kind that practically begs for a nap.
I draw it up over my legs, prop a pillow behind my back, and sink into the mattress for a moment of peace.
Then I grab my phone off the nightstand and send Marianna a quick text with my location pinned.
ME:
This is the hotel. Practice kicks off in 2. See you soon?
ANNA:
I’ll be there in an hour!
I’m just about to set my phone down when it buzzes again.
ANNA:
Also … is it okay if I bring a plus one?
I grin.
ME:
Sure. As long as your plus one knows how to behave around soccer players while I’m working.
ANNA:
I’m sure they’ll be fine
I close my eyes for a second, and all I see is him—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the quiet way he looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice.
God help me, I can’t shake it. Which is why I need the opposite of Rogue right now.
Something simple. Something safe. So I reach for Veil …
and there it is. A message from @HalfWritten, sent early this morning.
@HalfWritten:
I hope you have a good weekend.
I’ve got a pretty busy one ahead, but please know I’ll be thinking of you.
The softest smile blooms on my face. God. How can someone I haven’t even met already make me feel like this?
I type back.
@OneLastLine:
Hey you.
I hope your weekend goes smoothly. I have a busy one myself as well, but I’ll get to spend some much-needed time with my sister, so I’m definitely looking forward to it.
I hit send, then those three bouncing dots appear. My stomach does a full somersault.
@HalfWritten:
You caught me at the right time.
Glad you’ll be doing something that makes you happy this weekend. I’ll be working through most of it, but … distractions aren’t always a bad thing.
I bite my bottom lip. My thumbs hover for a second before I reply.
@OneLastLine:
Hopefully thinking of me won’t be too much of a distraction … I hear I can be pretty hard to get out of your head.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
@HalfWritten:
I’d say you’re impossible to get out of my head, but I think I kinda like it.
My cheeks heat, and something warm unfurls low in my chest, equal parts thrill and terror. God, if words on a screen can do this to me, what would the real thing feel like? Then the next message comes through.
@HalfWritten:
I’ve got to go for now. I can’t wait to talk to you again.
I press my phone to my chest for a beat, then reply.
@OneLastLine:
Me too.
Stay safe, okay?
I tuck my phone under the pillow with a fluttering chest and a stupid grin. Whoever he is … he’s starting to feel like something I really don’t want to lose. Dangerous how quickly impossible starts to feel inevitable.