One
I lovethe scent of success. A fresh, earthy smell lifts from the heated pitch. The board reads one to one. But we’ve outplayed the Forge. They have one decent forward and he’s carrying them today.
The brisk February air pricks at my nose as I watch the Chicago Forge forward. He slips past one Red Tail and then another. I charge as he approaches the box, lunging to stop him from getting lucky one more time. We won’t lose to luck. Not today. I can smell it.
But instead of winning the ball, I do the next best thing—the man’s foot catches on my ankle, and he stumbles. He throws his arms out wide before crashing to the ground and skidding across the grass.
Pansy.
I’m inches from the ball when the sideline’s flag goes up.
Of course it does. Little Miss brunette with her pennant of power can’t miss her moment to prove she’s in charge.
McCrae.
I wrinkle my nose and start toward the woman who enjoys making every other game her personal circus.
“Lucca!” Roman calls, his tone a warning. The Graveyard should be backing me up, not calling me down.
With McCrae’s hand to the headset at her ear, I hear just the last phrase she speaks to the center ref. “Yellow,” she says.
“Yellow?” I bark, three feet from her. “I was going for the ball.”
“That’s the fourth time tonight you’ve beengoing for the ball,” she deadpans, “and a man’s ended up on the ground.”
“Lucca!” Roman yells again, and when I whip my head back to glare, I see the center ref and Roman heading my way.
“That wasn’t a yellow,” I say, stepping a foot closer to Margaret McCrae. I ignore that pretty face. She’s like the devil in disguise. “I barely touched the guy. He’s playing you.”
McCrae stares ahead, her ash brown hair pulled back in an uptight ponytail. She doesn’t even have the decency to look me in the eye.
“Cruz!” the center ref yells from just a few yards away.
I take one step back from McCrae, still staring out at the field. “You know that wasn’t a yellow.”
But the center ref reaches into his pocket and holds the card up, inches from where I stand. “Persistent infringement,” he says, straight-faced.
I keep my eyes on McCrae. She’s getting exactly what she wants. It’s her circus and we have to obey the ringmaster.
“Walk away, Cruz, or I’m going for my red,” the man says.
I don’t know his name; I’m not even sure that tomorrow I’d be able to point out his face. He must be new on the referee list. If he weren’t, he’d know that Margaret McCrae has never liked me. She’s always pulling this crap when it comes to me.
“Now,” the man says.
And with the word, McCrae’s fixed stare finallyshifts. Those honey-brown eyes drop from their faraway gaze to me. Then her lips purse in a sardonic smile.
The devil is not only getting me carded, but she’s grinning at me! Talk about evil.
Roman’s fingers wind around my upper arm and I am yanked from the sidelines. “Take it easy. It’s one yellow.”
“It’s the circus lackey bowing down to the ringmaster,” I tell him, but he doesn’t get it. Roman is the king of cards, but McCrae never makes him her stooge.
Callum laughs beside Zev.I should be celebrating with my teammates. We won after all. Two to one—just in time to skip out on overtime play.
Roman throws an arm around my neck, already showered, while I’m still in my sweaty and stained uniform.
“You’re quick today,” I say.
