My friend glances up from his phone, his eyes scanning the group until they find me. His brow raises—yep, I’m six feet away and texting him.
I nod toward his phone, motioning for him to answer me.
“You still have clothes on?” Zev says, standing in front of me.
I set my phone face down on my leg. “Huh?”
“You’re usually the first one out of your jersey and the last one in actual clothes. Some of the guys wanted to create a petition. TheLucca Must Wear Clothespetition.”
I smirk and lift the bottom of my jersey, smacking my abs once. “Jealous?”
“More like scarred.”
I laugh like I have all day, though I’m waiting for my phone to buzz with a reply from Cal. Zev’s waiting for me to respond, so I peel my shirt from my back and bare my chest. I’m more comfortable without the sweaty garment anyway. I give my friend a classic grin. “Yeah. I’m thinking you’re green with envy.”
Zev shakes his head, scoffing at my unabashed display of skin.
My phone vibrates, and I give Zev eight more seconds to turn away from me before reading the message.
Callum: She texted me. Why?
Me: I’m gonna need that number.
Callum: Yeah, I don’t think so.
Me: How’d she get your number anyway?
Callum: She asked for it.
Me: But you aren’t sharing? Does Franny know about this?
Callum: Yes, Fran knows about this. Fran and Maggie have met. They like each other. You still aren’t getting her number.
Callum: Why do you want it anyway?
Me: I have questions.
Callum: Then ask your questions on the field.
Me: During a match? Bro. Are you crazy?
Callum: Are you? You’ve hated on this woman for years, and now you want me to pass her number over? I don’t think so. If you have a question, you ask her before or after a match. Preferably with a witness present in case a fight breaks out.
Ten
I’ve spentthe last week falling asleep to videos of Maggie McCrae’s U-23 games, so it’s not a surprise that my eyes are drawn to her on the sideline of this field.
She isn’t just the official who makes me crazy. She’sMaggie, the girl with gold flecks in her brown hair, freckles sprinkled over her cheeks, muscles that shape and define her legs, and one wicked left foot. The woman is a beast.
And it’s possible I’ve become a little obsessed with her story. I just can’t figure it out. What kind of person gives away an amazing opportunity like playing for their national team? Who has that kind of skill and chooses not to use it? It confuses me and enthralls me all at the same time. It’s dug itself so deep into my brain, my head isn’t going to be able to rest until I learn a little more.
While my team completes a warmup drill, I wander over to the sidelines, where Maggie sips from her water bottle. She laughs at something one of the other officials says and then stretches her back. She’ll run miles in this game. She’s warming up, like all of us, just like Ishouldbe.
“Hey,” I say as I bend down and pretend to tie the laces of my cleats. When Maggie doesn’t respond, I clear my throat and, a little louder, say again, “Uh, hey.”
I peer up, squinting in the sun to see her face.
She looks behind her, that light brown ponytail whipping. “Are you—” She looks in the other direction. “Are you talking to me, Cruz?”
