I complained of a backache… how did he translate that exactly right? Callum Whitaker may be psychic. Who knows? But he is definitely considerate.
Carrying my very thoughtful gift, I walk past thefood vendors, following signs until I find myself in the open stadium. A massive green field, the open sky, and a dead-center seat, and in the veryfrontrow. Cut grass and earthy soil fill my lungs.
And men. Holy smokes, the men on the field are life-size and muscular.Wowzah—I really should have brought Rosalie. There is just this advertising board, merely half a wall separating me from this field and the professional athletes scattered about it.
I set my new cushion onto my front-row seat and fan my face with my hand. Why haven’t I been going to soccer games my entire life? There’s an empty seat at my right and two at my left. At the end of this row is a large, open space with an accessible parking sign on the ground. Callum’s given me all the space possible.
I’m still standing—I can’t bring myself to sit—though there’s no one in front of me to block my view and no one next to me to distract me. I’m looking for Callum, searching through the sea of red jerseys, muscles, and testosterone for the number ten.
“They’re just warming up,” says the man three seats down from me.
I blink away from my search to the friendly face of an older gentleman three seats down from where I sit. “Oh. Okay.”
“You looked a little unsure—just wanted you to know you didn’t miss anything.”
“Thanks.” I smile and peer back at the field. “I’m just looking for my friend.”
“A player?” His tone shifts.
I return my gaze to the man whose brows are now raised in my direction.
“Yeah. Callum Whitaker. Do you know him?”
His mouth turns down in a thoughtful frown. “Not personally.”
A ball flings up onto this advertisement board directly in front of me and rolls over the edge—right at my feet. I pick up the colorful ball—it’s not the black-and-white specs I expected—and wait. A man in a red jersey jogs my way, the number three adorning his shirt.
I lift my arms to toss it to him when the man in my row starts fanning. “Cruz! Lucca Cruz, can you sign something for me?”
The player’s black hair is long on top and combed back. His tan skin is already damp with sweat. He smiles—and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen teeth so white. He’s magnetic. I can’t help but smile back.
“No pen, sir. Maybe next time.”
“Oh!” I chirp, lifting one finger into the air. “I have a pen.”
“Hey, thanks,” says the man, moving an inch closer to where I stand.
I dig into my bag and pull out a blue ballpoint pen.
Number three—Lucca—hops up onto the cement barrier in front of the half wall and holds out a hand for my pen. His brows cinch, and that bright white smile grows wider. “Wait a second. Are you Franny? Cal’s girl.”
I swallow, excited nerves bouncing around inside my body at exactly 6:36 p.m. “It’s just Fran. But yeah, I’m Cal’s…” My eyes dart to my older friend, who’s watching the exchange in interest. “Girl.”
The rest of Callum’s team jogs over—apparently, we are right next to the team’s entrance and exit of this field.Maybe I will see Callum after all. My heart patters, and I search the small sea of men running my way.
I’m still holding my pen out toward Lucca Cruz. My older friend inches a little closer, writing with his pointer finger in the air.
“It’s Matt,” he says. “With two T’s.”
But Lucca doesn’t take my pen. “Hey, Zev!” He waves to another man—Cal’s friend from the diner, a five on his chest. “It’s Cal’s girl. His lucky charm is here.”
Matt takes the pen from my hands and shakes it toward Lucca.
Zev’s eyes lift to me, and he smiles just before waving. “Fran! You made it. Did you get your cushion?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I nod as a few more Red Tails spot me, all waving, all muttering.
“Superman!” Zev yells, and Callum—finally, Callum—jogs over.
