“Yeah, I wanna get home to Stell.” He stuffs his cleats into his duffel. “But I can’t go unless I’ve showered. It’s a new house rule.”
I grunt out a smirk. “New rule? I thought you were done with rules.”
“With fake marriage rules,” he mutters under his breath. “Yeah. But newly pregnant wife—that comes with a whole new set of rules.”
I should be enjoying this. I should be laughing with my best friend. At least, hemightbe my best friend. I have a lot of friends… I am absolutely his. Until a few months ago, the guy couldn’t play nice with anyone. He didn’t have any friends. I changed that. Me, and maybe his girl. Still, I’m seething over circus queen McCrae, so I can’t even celebrate our win.
I didn’t deserve that yellow card. The Forge throw themselves on the ground like ninnies and I get punished for it.
“Come on, Lucca,” Roman says, hugging his arm around my neck in a playful squeeze. “We won.”
“I know,” I growl. “But?—”
“And it wasn’t an outrageous card. We’ve seen worse.”
“I’ve gotten worse,” Sawyer, our goalie, says. His fist bumps Roman’s. I watch the man walk away, no words for him or my friend.
“It was just one card,” Roman says, releasing my neck and slapping a hand on my back.
“Maybe it’s not the card but the woman that’s got you so worked up?” Zev’s elbow jabs me in the ribs.
Callum chuckles. “I thoughttheLucca Cruz could charm any woman.”
But I’m not laughing. “She isn’t a woman,” I say. “She’s anofficial.”
“You get this way every time McCrae refs one of our games,” Callum says. “When are you going to let it go?”
“Wait.” Roman pauses his packing. “Is that why the last time we played Seattle, you threw a fit like a toddler?”
“I did not throw a fit,” I deadpan.
“You stomped off the field like your favorite toy had been taken away,” Zev says.
“I’m happy to pass on my nickname. You can be the Graveyard from now on.” Roman grins like he’s hilarious. He’s not.
“Ha. Ha,” I grumble, sounding a little like my grumpy friend. “Where are we going tonight to celebrate?” I’m ready to change the subject. I’m ready to shove McCrae far from my thoughts.
“Why does he dislike McCrae so much, anyway?” Roman’s looking at Callum—he’s not listening to a word I’m saying.
I grunt and strip my shirt off my back. “I don’t dislike anyone?—”
“Except for Margaret McCrae,” Callum says.
When did I become the target? I’m never the target. I’m always the arrow.
“The year before you started with us,” Zev says to Roman, “Lucca and McCrae had it out. She made a call?—”
“Ryker punched me first.” I grind my teeth. “Everyone saw it.”
Zev is still smiling when he says, “Everyone except for any of the refs. McCrae was the center official that day. She got to make the call. And all she saw was Lucca retaliating. He got carded while Mike Ryker got off scot-free.”
“Ryker was dirty, and McCrae knew it,” I say. “Besides, she was looking right at us when he hit me.”
“She wasn’t,” Zev tells Roman. “She also wasn’t impressed with Lucca attempting to smooth-talk his way out of that card.”
My jaw clenches, remembering that day.
“She changed it from a yellow to a red after he spoke to her,” Callum says.
