“Please,” Fran deadpans. “What you need is something real. When was the last time you had arealrelationship with a woman?”
I know it’s not what she means, but I immediately think of Vovó. My grandmother. She loved me as I was. I never needed to be anything but myself for her. My parents left—Dad through death, Mom because she couldn’t handle the situation. Vovó could have left me to institutional care, but she didn’t. Shetook me in, she loved me as a son, and she told me every day I was worth something. I was important, I was loved.
She changed the trajectory of my life. I don’t know where I’d be without her, but I wouldn’t be here.
I don’t say any of that. Because that’s between me, Vovó, and the heavens that separate us. “I’m not sure I’m meant for one woman. How would that be fair to the world? Shouldn’t I spread the love?”
Fran rolls her pretty brown eyes. “I’m serious, Lucca.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Maggie jogging up and then down the sideline—her own warm-up. I swallow, not recalling what it is that Fran said just seconds ago. “I have to go, Franny. You can lecture me later all you want.”
I’m very aware that McCrae chose to cross this field to jog up and downmysideline. The side where I am currently warming up. She could have stayed where she was, with the other three referees, but she’s over here. Maybe the ol’ Cruz charm is finally wearing her down.
Tru and Wade are still passing the ball back and forth, and while I can see Tru waiting for me in my periphery, I ignore the pair. I don’t have a plan, but I do have a goal.
I jog up beside Maggie. “Hey,” I say with a nod.
Her body jerks, and she glances over at me. “Oh.” She peers forward again, pumping her arms as she jogs. “Hey.”
“You wanted to talk to me?” I can’t help but grin over at her.
Her brow furrows. “No,” she says with a small breathless huff.
“So, you crossed the field to jog on the side where I happen to be, when in”—I glance at the countdown clock on the scoreboard—“three minutes you’ll just have to jog back.”
“Yep.” She picks up speed just a little, trying to convinceme that she didn’t come over here for me. But I refuse to be convinced.
“Okay, then. I guess I should leave you alone.” I keep pace beside her, waiting for her to give in and say whatever it is she wants to say.
But Maggie likes to win. “I guess you should,” she says, curving around and running in the opposite direction.
Okay. I can play. I’ll let her have this one. I backpedal my way to the center of the field, back toward Tru and Wade, keeping my eyes on Maggie. She doesn’t look back at me, though. She doesn’t extend any kind of peace offering.
I keep going, keep watching her, until I’ve bumped right into Tru.
Fifteen
I have spentthe first half of this game doing my job. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m getting paid to do. That should be enough. And yet it feels as if there is a bee buzzing in my chest, constantly stinging me with Wyatt’s name. He brought up Lucca again today. He asked me to talk to him about his birthday party. He looked at me with those big baby blues. Seriously unfair. And I caved. I told him I would do it. For sure. Today.
So no, just doing my job is not good enough today.
And yes, stupid Lucca was right. I did warm up on his end of the field to talk to him. But then he had to be so smug and so cocky and so annoyingly smiley. He practically forced me to lie and tell him he was wrong.
Truly, did I have another choice?
Ugh.
I did. I could have taken the opportunity to say, “Yes, you overzealous pretty boy, I do need to talk to you,” and then I could have asked about Wyatt’s party. But if the universe gives me the opportunity to stick it to Lucca Cruz, I sort of feel like Ihave to do it. Like it would be denying a grand gift if I didn’t. Like it’s my utter responsibility.
And now my nerve ends are buzzing with Wyatt’s hopes, the ones I’ve yet to fulfill, making me feel like I might be covered in hives.
When a Philadelphia player goes down and our center ref pauses play to call out the medical staff, I take a look around the field. My breaths are heavy, and they stop altogether when I see Lucca—two yards from me.
“For Wyatt,” I whisper to myself. Then I walk down the sideline until I am directly across from that big dumb hottie. I clear my throat, but Lucca keeps his eyes on the Liberty player. The ball is at his feet, and I use it as an excuse. “Cruz,” I say, my tone authoritative. “Toss me that ball.”
He peers over at me, but instead of kicking me the ball, he flicks it up into his hands and walks it over, keeping it beneath his arm. “You wanted me?”
“I—I wanted theball,” I say. This man is infuriating. And completely into himself.
