“In that case, two, please,” she states, her smile turning soft. “April’s back in town for a few days, and I’d love to take her.”
I pause, raising a brow. “Wait, your sister’s name is April? I knew about May.”
June laughs, shaking her head. “Yep. April, May, and June. My mom was obsessed with spring.”
“The Spring Fling Sisters,” I say, grinning. “That’s beautiful.”
“Most people call it cheesy.”
“Only people who never had a sibling they actually like,” I shoot back. “Anyone who says that just wishes they had that kind of bond.”
She giggles, cheeks pink. “I’ll tell them you said that.”
I sip my coffee. “Marianna and Bri will be at the game too. We’ll have to introduce everyone.”
Our eyes meet. The same idea hits us at once.
“Wait,” June says, leaning forward. “That means we’ll have four extra people we trust in the stadium. We could have them help us with content, like the interns did last time.”
We start rapid-firing ideas, building the plan out loud.
“Okay,” June says, fingers flying across her notes. “Two people covering the fans before the game and during. One handling the VIP section, and maybe one helping me with tunnel shots and sideline behind-the-scenes while you handle the posts during the match.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I say, grinning as the energy between us ramps up. “Do you think April and May would help us out? I can’t pay them, but I can totally bribe them with cocktails and a girls’ night.”
June laughs. “Consider it done.”
“We’ll need to figure out who we’re assigning to the VIP section,” I add, tapping my pen against my notebook. “It has to be someone who’ll behave.”
June snorts. “Then May’s probably our best bet. She doesn’t give a crap about anyone famous. She won’t get starstruck.”
I laugh. “Perfect. She’s hired.”
The plan for this week’s game feels solid now. Everyone is confirmed. April, May, Bri, and Marianna will be here to help, and the buzz in my chest hasn’t stopped since. But beneath it, a whisper of nerves hums too—because fairytales don’t last forever, and mine is about to meet the real world.
June and I grab our cameras and make our way to the practice fields.
She’s chatting about the trend she’s filming today, something involving the players and a viral dance, but all I can think isI’m going to see him. I’m going to see him. I’m going to see him.
The moment we push through the glass doors, the warmth hits my cheeks. The sun is high, the air thick with freshly cut grass and the sharp sound of whistles. Practice has been going on for hours; the guys are in various states of exhaustion. Some still running drills, others on their knees, laughing and talking between plays.
I scan the field, spotting familiar faces—Reyes, El-Sayed, Silva, Petrovic, Dupont, Tanaka, Rivas, Khan. Thiago’s in the net, Holloway firing shots his way, both of them trading playful insults.
But no sign of him.
Before I can dwell on it, Luca Moretti catches sight of us. He jogs over, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, grin wide asever. He stops right in front of June, takes her by the shoulders, and kisses her on both cheeks.
“Ciao, bella,” he says, his accent smooth and warm. June’s cheeks turn crimson, and I can’t help but grin. “Well, hello there, Luca,” I tease.
June is caught somewhere between mortified and flattered. Luca slings an arm around her shoulders and turns to me.
“Forgive me,Catalina,” he says with that charming grin that could sell chaos. “I had to say hello to my seatmate.”
“Of course.” I smile knowingly at June, who looks like she might melt on the spot.
Luca Moretti looks like every cliché Italy ever bragged about—and somehow still makes it work. Tousled dirty-blond hair, a sharp jaw, and eyes the color of sunlit seawater. He’s all charm and confidence, the kind of man who could smile at you and make you forget your own name. Sweat clings to his temples from practice, but it only adds to the effect, golden, careless, infuriatingly handsome.
Before I can tease June further, a familiar Australian drawl breaks in.
