She blows a tired sigh from her lips—her pink, plump, a little pouty, very nice lips. Hmm, I’ve never noticed that before. “Yes. Wyatt’s fine.” Her eyes shut, and she rubs at the space between them with two fingers. “My sister is an alcoholic. She’s in recovery. But now, she’s dating this bartender and—” She blows out a puff of air, not finishing her thought.
“You’re worried.”
“I am.” She pulls in a breath. “He’s asked her to go away with him. For a weekend. She hasn’t even told him about her struggles. But she’s actually considering it.” Maggie shakes her head, peering at her hands in her lap. “Lindy says he’s decent. And maybe he is. But he doesn’t even know that he can’t drink around her. He doesn’t realize that he can’t offer her a glass of wine or take her to a party where there’s an open bar. He just—he can’t. She’ll—” Her voice cracks, and she cuts herself off. “She’s come so far. And Wyatt’s never knownthatLindy. I’ve made certain of it.”
And like magic, all of Maggie McCrae’s puzzle pieces come together. “She got pregnant, and you quit the U-23 U.S. team.” That’s what she said. But now, it makes so much more sense.
“I had to. You don’t understand. She?—”
“I get it, Maggie. More than you know. And I utterly respect your selfless decision.”
A shaky sigh falls from her chest. “I shouldn’t have told you all that.”
My fingers twitch with the desire to touch her again, to feel her skin beneath my fingertips. “I’m glad that you did.”
She huffs out a quiet breath. “Why?”
“Because I’d still like to be your friend, Maggie. And friends talk to each other.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t have a comeback for me.
“Thanks for the yellow card,” I say.
“It could have been a red,” she says, peering over at me.
“Oh, I am very aware. It was asincerethank you.”
She nibbles on that lip I’ve suddenly decided to inspect. “Thank you. For defending me today.” She clears her throat. “It wasnice. Unnecessary, but still nice of you.”
Twenty-Two
I restmy head against the porcelain of this hotel tub, thinking.
So, I might not hate Lucca Cruz.
There might be a decent human being inside that Brazilian after all.
Maybe.
My water is cooling off, and after waiting out the hail and lightning, then returning to the pitch for a long, chilly second half, I really don’t want to get cold again. If I sit here much longer, turning into a prune, I’ll never get the chill to leave me.
I reach down to unplug the drain and stand, wrapping myself in a fluffy white towel. I dry off my body, my hair piled on top of my head in a bun, and slip into my flannel jammies. I am so glad I brought the flannel.
Time for room service and a Netflix binge—all in my king-sized bed.
I haven’t stepped from the bathroom yet when there’s a light tapping sound on my door. I pause all movement and listen. Because I couldn’t have heard that right. But again,there’s a knocking coming from the exit of my room. Fastening the top button of my pajamas, I walk over to the door and peek through the peephole.
“Maggie?” Lucca says, as if he can see me back.
“Eep!” The yelp comes out of me without permission. I peek again through the spyhole in my door to see Lucca peeking back.
“Maggie?” he says again.
I peer down at my plaid jammies with fluffy orange cats wearing the same plaid jammies scattered from top to bottom. I bite my lip, but he’s still out there. He heard my yelp. He’s going to say my name again, and I— Well, I did sort of confess my love of cats already. So, who cares that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman in kitty pjs. Besides, it’s not as if I’m trying to impress the man.
So, he’s the sexiest soccer player in the league—not my words, butSoccer Weekly’s. And sure, he decided to defend me on the field today. No one’s ever done that. And yeah, he came to check on me all alone in the women’s locker room.
So what?
