I ignore the buzz of energy under her touch and say, “Maggie.” I am as calm as Tesoro Lake in the summertime. “I’m staying here. I’m mentoring this team. You said pick any team. I pick this one.” It’s fun being the calm one. Usually, I’m crashing out while she’s staring ahead, no emotion, not even bothering to acknowledge me. She doesn’t have all the power today, though. I peer down at the woman—hair pulled back, nothing but a brush of mascara on. There’s a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks that I’ve never noticed before. It's a traitorous thought. Sure, this woman is beautiful even without the makeup she’d applied for her “blind date,” but that isn’t going to stop me from tormenting her.
She tilts her head, a frown on her face, and a waft of honey and pear drift into my senses. Vovó used to feed me fresh pears drizzled in honey. It was my favorite. I’m not sure I like McCrae bringing that sweet memory to my mind. It doesn’t serve my mission at all.
I swallow, my brow furrowing. Her pretty face I can ignore, but her scent is invading my nostrils, refusing to be dismissed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I manage to get out.
McCrae drops her hand from my arm and peers around the green; all the other coaches have their mentors.
“I suppose you could make a fuss. I suppose you could try and trade me, but I’m not willing, and everyone seems pretty pleased where they’re at.”
“You think that’ll stop me? Callum will trade with you. He isn’t a bull-headed idiot.”
“He’s married,” I say, annoyed with this friendship she and Whitaker seem to have. “Did you know that? You don’t have a shot there. He’s crazy about her.”
McCrae stares at me, her eyes blinking incessantly, like she’s got something inside them. “Are you the dumbest man to ever walk the planet? Not every relationship is about attraction.”
I lift one brow—because who is she kidding?
“Or sex. Or desire.” Her voice rises with her claim, making me think it all the more false.
“Hello.” A young boy stands at the net on our left, watching us, with an older woman beside him.
McCrae’s frustrated wrinkles smooth out as her head whips around to them. “Wyatt. Hey, sweetie.” She lets out a long breath. Her gaze lifts to the woman with the kid. “Hi, Mom. Thanks for bringing him.”
“No problem. You were extra busy today.” The older woman’s eyes drift to me.
“Is everything okay?”
McCrae swallows, and her words are stiff when she says, “Yes. Fine. Mom, Wyatt, this is Lucca Cruz from the Reno-Tesoro Red Tails.” Her jaw tightens. “He’s one of the professional mentors today.”
“Whoa!” the kid says. “Lucca. Cruz. Number three! Defender. Grandpa and I love you!”
McCrae presses her lips together. She doesn’t care for this kid’s admiration. I, on the other hand, love it. I couldn’t have planned it more perfectly.
“And even though she frowns,” he says, pointing at McCrae, “when she says it, she must like you, too, because she always says, ‘It’s Pretty Boy Cruz’ or ‘There goes Saint Lucca.’” The boy jumps, pumping one fist in the air. “How’d we get so lucky?” he says, beaming up at Maggie.
Seven
“Lucky, indeed,”I say, teeth grinding. How can I force Lucca out now? Wyatt is so excited. Not only does he know Lucca’s name, but he knows his number and his position. He’s even turned my obnoxious nickname for the man into something to praise him with.
What is happening?
“Remember that time you hit the ball with your head right before it crossed the line?” Wyatt smacks his hands together while jumping on one foot. “Remember when you blocked that shot with your whole body?” His eyes widen. He could be talking about any number of games, but Lucca nods emphatically like he knows exactly which moment my five-year-old nephew is referring to. “Remember when…” he keeps going.
I stomp over to my mother. “What’s going on?” I whisper, my tone accusatory. “Since when is Wyatt a Lucca fan?”
“He watches the games with your father.” She lifts one shoulder. “You know Wyatt.”
I do. He’s my uncoordinated little buddy who loves soccer and banana cream pies. I sort of thought they watched thosegames to see me. “I just—” I puff out my cheeks. “I didn’t realize he and Dad liked Lucca so much.” Or at all. I assumed that, since I disliked Saint Lucca, so did they.
“That’s because your father is afraid to tell you. And when you get home from a game, Wyatt wants your up-close-and-personal view on things. You do all the talking.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. One that says this is my fault and not hers.
Ugh.I should be refereeing in the majors. Then there’d be no Lucca problem at all.
Wyatt’s still hopping, still talking with his hands, and telling Lucca—my least favorite player in the league—why he’s thebest. Just what Lucca needs—more praise. As if the man’s head isn’t overflowing with self-confidence as it is.
“Remember that time you tackled that guy and Maggie threw up her flag?” Wyatt’s hand shoots into the air as if he were holding my official flag.
