He motions to himself, looking left, then right, as if he doesn’t know that I’m talking to him.
“Yeah, you. The jerk with the knock-off jersey.”
His face falls with my insult.
“Youcannotspeak to her like that.”
“Lucca, enough,” Maggie huffs, closer now. “You can’t talk to the fans. You know that. Get back on the field.”
I turn my gaze to Maggie, who’s moved right next to me. I snatch her wrist between my thumb and finger. I’m not sure what I intend to do with her hand, but I feel her pulse racing beneath my touch. “He can’t talk to you like that.”
“I’m a referee.” She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull out of my grasp. “I’m used to being disliked. Now, go.”
“She’s a pity hire!” the man yells. He’s over his initial surprise at my retort, and he’s ready to argue.
“Excuse me?” I say, letting go of Maggie and stepping up to the ad wall just below the stadium seating. My heart pounds in my chest and my nostrils flare. “You’re an idiot. You have no idea. She knows more about soccer than you could ever hope to. You should be the one baking?—”
Maggie’s hand on my arm stops my next words, and then—she’s raising a yellow into the air and talking into her headset. She’s carding me.
“Go cool off, Lucca,” she says, her touch gentle. “Sit down. I can handle myself.”
Twenty-One
We’re onlyfive minutes into the second half of this game when the few rain clouds overhead turn into a freak hailstorm. Bits of ice and sleet hit my face, arms, and legs. And then—the lightning strikes.
The center official blows his whistle to stop play, and in an instant, Maggie and the other two refs run onto the field. They only confer for a few seconds when the main official waves both arms overhead, then makes a thumbs-down motion toward the benches. He’s signaling a pause in the game.
Over the intercom, the announcer sounds. “Delay of game. We need everyone off the field, out of the stands, and indoors. No one will be permitted to stay in the stadium.”
The hail smacks down on us like bubblegum raining in a candy shop. Everyone rushes to remove themselves from the stadium. The men on the field file into the tunnel and then into the first men’s locker room. It’s crowded, Summits and Red Tails and officials all crammed into the same space together. Never mind that each team has its own locker room—the center official wanted to count heads.
The thought jars me. “Where’s Maggie?” I ask Callum. But he’s on a call with Fran. He shrugs, at least acknowledging that he’s heard me.
I charge over to one of the officials, checking his phone for how many miles away the lightning is now. “Hey,” I say to the older man.
“I don’t know how long the delay will be. I’m searching?—”
“That’s not it. Where is Maggie—er, Margaret? Where’s Ref McCrae?” I ask.
The man peers up from his phone. “I would assume the women’s locker room.”
“By herself?” I ask, just as another bout of lightning strikes.
The man looks around our crowded space. “If you ask me, she’s the lucky one.”
But—alone. The weather turned so quickly. And there’s lightning. And hail. And the size of that hail. They might as well have been walnuts. She could be hurt. She could need something. And she’s alone.
I push past body after body, making my way to the exit. No one seems to notice or care in this crowded space as one man slips out the door.
I might be offended if I weren’t so grateful.
The women’s locker room is just across the hall. I tap on the door, but when no answer comes, I push it open and step inside. It’s like walking into a church, or a library, or maybe an abandoned villa. Silent. The opposite of the away team’s locker room at the moment.
“Maggie?” I say quietly into the void. My accent seems to reverberate off the walls.
I trek carefully around a set of lockers. This woman will never agree to be my friend if I walk in on her half-dressed. Though I might not mind. The woman has exceptional legs.
I walk past the first set of lockers, almost convinced sheisn’t here, and then I hear something. “From daytime zoomies to love pawing, we explore the mysterious inner world of our feline friends…”
