“We know.” Stella sighs.
Rosalie clicks her tongue. “Friends who kiss in the kitchen.”
Forty-Two
There’sa tremor in my legs that isn’t normally there at the beginning of a game. I didn’t even have to fly today. We’re in Tesoro. Just a regular season game between the Red Tails and the Rhinos. I’ve done this a thousand times.
So, what’s wrong with me today?
I ask the question in my head, pretending I don’t know the answer. Lucca talked about this game two nights ago as we once again lay in my parents’ hammock. As he nibbled on my neck and at my earlobe.
They lost one to nothing last time they played the Rhinos, and Lucca felt personally responsible. I told him he wasn’t—that it was a ridiculous notion. This is a team sport. And while I meant everything I said, I also remember that feeling all too well.
I peer in the mirror of the women’s locker room and zone in on my cluster of freckles. “I know who I am,” I say aloud. I’ve never judged a game biased, and I don’t intend to today.
It doesn’t matter that Lucca has feelings about this game.
It doesn’t matter that I have feelings for Lucca.
And it doesn’t matter that I’m the center official and have primary authority on the field today…
Only, it might matter.
When I step onto the field and go over the roster verification papers with my sideline officials, I see that Rhino, Dean Main, is out today with some sort of injury. That’ll help the Red Tails.
Those thoughts shouldn’t be in my head. I should see Dean is out, make note of it, and move on.
I grind my teeth, holding my breath. “It’s fine,” I murmur to myself. “It’s all fine.”
“Did you say something, Maggie?” One of my sideline refs for the day lifts his head from the pre-game check-in I just gave him.
“No.” I smile and shake my head.
“Do you need anything else from me?”
“No. I’m…fine.” I swallow and hand the roster verification to my fourth official.
When the Red Tails jog onto the field, my eyes race over them, until I findone. Yep, that’s normal. Totally normal. I often search the oncoming team for one specific member. Or maybe I’ve nevereverdone that before. But it’s—fine.
I get a few hellos from both teams; Lucca isn’t one of them.
And I am eternally grateful.
We’re halfwaythrough this game, and I am completely and totallyfinewhen Lucca reads a Rhino’s pass before it leaves his foot. One clean tackle and he strips the ball away from the opposing team’s forward.
I’m on the field. I’m following the ball, but I’m watching, not officiating. My heart is leaping withLucca’s steal. I’m silently cheering on the man who melts me with every tiny touch. Yep, my body is betraying me in every possible way.
There’s only one thing I can do.
I have no other choice.
I blow my whistle, stopping play. “Foul—tripping,” I bark into my headset and reach into my pocket for my yellow. I hold it up before Lucca, not meeting his eyes.
That frustratingly incorrigible man does something he never would have before. He nods at my call and races to the side of the field.
He takes it.
I make a lousy call—he barely touched that Rhino player—and he’s taking it?
