I choose to move past that question and ask another. “How’s Wyatt?” I stand—my shoe didn’t actually need tying anyway.
Her brow furrows, and she sets one hand on her hip. “Are you asking about my nephew?”
“Are you going to answer all my questions with a question?” I say, my tone automatically irritable. It’s a habit with this woman. I swallow down my annoyance. I’m attempting to be civil with her. I simply have some curiosities. If I can get a few answers to my questions, I’m guessing I’ll be able to sleep again. I can go back to disliking her as much as she clearly dislikes me. I won’t have to watch her recorded games or wonder what in the world she’s doing with her life.
Her jaw clenches, and she holds her head high. “He’s fine.”
An answer. It pleases me more than it should. “I hear you used to play.”
“Is that another question? It sounded like a statement.”
“I just?—”
“Cruz!” Coach Jacobson stands in the center of the field, in the heart of our warmup—the one I’ve skipped out on. He stares at me, and I give the man one curt nod.
“Ah, later, ” I say, but Maggie has already moved on. She’s sipping from her water bottle and stretching her legs, now three yards from me.
And I know as much now as I did last night.
I spend the next twenty minutes warming up with the restof my team, but my head fills with question after question. Maggie’s a sideline ref today. That will make it easier to finagle a possible conversation. I peer over at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Lucca,” Roman yells, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”
“Always,” I tell him.
He nods, and we wait for the game to begin.
The first half is close to over when a Chicago Forge player goes down, holding his leg. Zev was a good foot away from the man. He’s either faking or he’s got a cramp. Either way, play stops for the moment. McCrae stands at the sideline, to the right of the box, eyes on the man. The center ref has him covered for the moment. Which gives me the exact opportunity I need.
I backpedal until I’m a mere one yard from her. “How long did you play competitively?” I ask.
She blinks, her eyes skirting away from the man down at center field to me. “Was that directed at me?”
“Why is that so hard to believe? You question this a lot. Do most people avoid you?”
She gives me a deadpan stare, still not answering, her gaze returning to the player on the ground.
“You were on the U-23 U.S. team,” I say. “Why’d you leave?”
“How did you—” She swallows, shooting a glance my way. Then she smooths out the surprised wrinkles forming over her forehead.
It’s a look that makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand. “You were good.”
“Did you google me, Cruz?” she hisses in a whisper.
“I was curious after that rainbow flick. Nobody flicks it high enough to be able to head it.” I set my hands on my hips andpeer out at the field and the men waiting there, stealing a glance her way.
“Am I supposed to be flattered that you’re impressed with me?” she scoffs, for once looking at me relentlessly.
Yes. Yes, she should be.
“It was a nice move. That’s all I’m saying.” Only, that it’s not. I have a lot more to say, and even more to ask. “So, retirement?”
Her head whips to me. “Lucca,” she growls between her teeth. “We’re both working.”
“Sure.” I bend and stretch at my waist. “Still, that Forge is on the ground, whining like a sissy, am I right?” I chortle. “We’ve got time?—”
“Lucca,” she growls, the word low and just audible. “Go away.”
