“I’m not sure.”
I see it—
Even though I can’t actuallyseeher, Ifeelit: Sloane behind the glass rubbing her temples.
The girl insists. “You don’t have an ideal type? A… picture in your head?”
Oh, I do.
I’ve memorized her down to the last impossible detail.
But I can’t say “Sloane Heart” unless I’m ready for public execution.
“I like… ambitious people.”
The candidate lights up like a lighthouse.
And every part of me wants to turn that light off. Not because she isn’t lovely—she is—but because…
I don’t want any of this.
The next day is identical and completely different.
The girl is gorgeous. Confident. Warm. Open.
She’d laugh with me.
She’d look good next to me.
Good in a photo.
In a reality show.
In a contract.
But nothing inside me moves.
“Are you always this serious?” she asks gently. “Or do you loosen up only when you play?”
I try. I really try.
I smile.
I talk about soccer.
I talk about the match.
I try to swallow everything down, to make this whole thing work.
Because technically… this is my fault.
I put myself here.
But do I really want to say yes to someone for this reason?
Do I really want to commit to someone because the club is forcing my hand?
Do I really want to drag one of these candidates into something I don’t mean?
