Until Maggie McCrae.
Fine. That’s fine. I need to focus up anyway. Our gamestarts in less than twenty minutes, and being left on read for the first time in my life has got me a little… distracted.
Still, Denver has always been a solid place for us to play. Because Tesoro soccer fans arethe best. Despite the high altitude or the fact that it’s more than a sixteen-hour drive, we always end up with a decent fan section. Can’t let them down. Not when we have a good chance for the Next Gen Cup this year.
I allow myself one glance Maggie’s way and race onto the grass to warm up.
“Let me guess. She left you on read. Eh?” Zev says.
“Excuse me?” There’s a bite in my tone, and I take a breath—calm and collected.
“You said you texted her again. I take it by the longing look you just gave her, she didn’t write back.”
“I didn’t look at her longingly. Lucca doesn’tlong,” I say with a grunt and one more peek at Maggie. I don’t think she’s noticed me yet.
Zev smacks a hand to my back. “I don’t know. He might.”
“Youlong,” I say in retort. It’s not my best comeback, but it’s all I’ve got this minute. That and I’m wondering why I told Zev about texting Maggie in the first place. Right—because I am an extrovert who needs his teammates. I tell them most things, and I truly expect them to do the same. When they don’t (ahem—Roman), I force it out of them. It’s a good system.
Zev only laughs at my comeback. He’s not exactly opposed to longing for Rosalie.
“What’s up?” Callum says when he sees my face. I’m not sure what it’s telling him, but something.
Zev lunges, stretching his legs. “Oh, nothing. Lucca’s just talking about himself in third person.”
“Bro,” Callum says, his face scrunching. “Again?” He shakes his head.
Roman jogs over, a ball at his feet. He passes it to Zev, but looks at me.
“She hasn’t responded,” Zev tells him.
“Not a word?” Callum goes still. “That’s never happened to Lucca. That’s not like Maggie, either.”
“It is when Lucca’s the one texting,” Roman says. And then my friends all snicker at my expense.
That’s fine. Let them laugh.
Still, I’m not ashamed that I texted Maggie. Or that I’ve changed my mind about her. At least,I thinkI changed my mind.
We are twenty minutes into the first half of this match when I know for certain—yep, I do not dislike Maggie McCrae anymore. Not even a little.
She’s called a foul on me, one that gives possession to the opposing team, and I’m not even glaring at her. I’m not arguing. I’m just moving on. Some might say it’s big of me. I just call it character growth.
And then?—
“What kind of call is that?” screams a man in a Red Tails jersey from the lower half of the stands, a corner section of the stadium that Maggie is right next to.
Just like she ignored me with all the fouls I questioned, she ignores this guy, too.
“Talk about home field advantage!” the man screams again. “You just gonna give it to the Summit?” He’s on his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth, and bellowing from the second row. Where’s security? But then, people yell things all the time; it’s not like he’s moving toward the field. Security may have bigger fish to fry at the moment.
“Yo, ref!” he yells again. “Stick to something you’re good at—like baking cookies!”
“Whoa!” I move toward the sidelines. The Summit playerholds the ball over his head; he hasn’t thrown it in yet, and as I approach, he pauses. I see his hesitation from the corner of my eye. But I’m focused on that second row. “You can’t talk to her like that!” I step over the line and yell back at the man in the stands.
“Lucca!” Maggie hushes, one whole yard away from me.
“You need to apologize.” I point to the guy in the stands who has finally decided to shut up.
