But in this crowded bar, egged on by strangers and fueled by the best beer that traitor Samuel Adams has to offer, suddenly, it matters.
She matters.
I put my hand on her cheek, cupping her jaw slightly to better the angle of my mouth on hers. I feel, rather than hear, her sigh into my mouth and every shred of self-control I have threatens to leap out the window.
No, this is crazy. It's only a kiss. Lips on lips. Mouths parted. Breath intermingled. Tongues entwined.
But just like that, it's done and there's cold air where her mouth should be and if it weren't for the applause in the bar startling me back to reality, I'd be tempted to do something stupid, like pull her back to me and never let her go.
That would be terribly foolish.
I barely know her. Certainly not enough to have anyfeelingslike this.
It's not feelings about her. It's the beer and the adrenaline and the stress of it all. Yes, that's all it could be.
Against my better judgment, I pull her back to me.
I can almost feel her smile against my mouth. She's probably laughing at how ridiculous I am, practically jumping her bones the first chance I get. I don't want her thinking I'm a user, like Trent the Tosser. "Right, now that that's over with, shall we get our Uber?" Without looking at her, I take her hand and lead her toward the door.
I'm on my phone, ordering the car, which is convenient so I don't have to talk to Ophelia at this instant. I'm not sure what I'd even say.
The nondescript Toyota pulls up, and I open the door for my bride. She cocks her head slightly at me but then slides in without saying a word.
My phone pings.
Kenley: I hear you'll be joining us … tonight.
Xavier: On my way now. Think this is a good sign?
Kenley: It's not a bad one.
Xavier: How can I seal the deal?
Kenley: Keep your nose clean, and show up. And agree to midfield.
I groan.
"Is there a problem?" Ophelia asks quietly.
"They're looking to move me to midfield."
"Okay. What's wrong with that?"
I look at her. She's going to be seen in public, at least a little, and I get the very real, very distinct impression that Ophelia does not know much about my livelihood. "How much do you know about football? Er, soccer."
Her expression can only be described as sheepish. "That you can't pick up the ball with your hands, and that most soccer players have really good butts."
"That's it?"
She nods. "And I only learned the second fact since you came to stay with me."
I will not think about the fact that she's noticed my posterior.
"Right, well, there are three lines, and then the keeper. Forwards, midfield, and full-backs." I can already see her eyes glazing over. "In simple terms, forwards are the offense, full-backs are the defenders. Sometimes they're just called defenders outright. That's the position I play. Left full. And midfielders play both positions. It's a lot more running."
"Who scores?"
"The forwards usually, but occasionally the midfielders."
