Thanks, Fran.
Me: It was just a question.
Maggie: Well, I’m done with this conversation.
Me: Fine.
Maggie: Did YOU need help finding a date?
Me: Me? Negative. I’ve got one, too.
I peer at my cat, who just separated herself from me. What is happening?
I roll my neck. I am still Lucca Cruz, Red Tail, topdefender in the league. More importantly, voted by female fans all over the country as the most handsome Brazilian in all of professional soccer. And I will have a date—as soon as Maggie ends our conversation. She’s always the one to end it. I keep texting, and she tells me to go to bed, then doesn’t reply again until morning.
Maggie: Then it looks like we’re set. See you Thursday, Lucca. Now go to bed.
See? Every single time.
Twenty-Seven
I sipfrom the water bottle in my hand, waiting for Maggie to show. Why doesn’t Fran have anything stronger at this dinner party? And where is she going to seat all these people?
“Is she here yet?” I’m not sure when Fran slinked up beside me; she was quiet and stealthy. Her sneakiness reminds me a little of Fur Ball. Last night, she slipped from her bed to sleep right on top of my head and I never saw it coming.
I clear my throat. My play-it-cool instinct wants to question who, but we both know who. “Ah, not yet.”
“Maybe she isn’t coming after all,” says a voice on my other side. Rosalie.
“She’ll be here. She got a date,” I say, my tone more clipped than intended. What do I care if she got a date? I just wanted an excuse to see the girl. To hang out. We can still do that. Of course, I was thinking something small and intimate. Something like me, Callum, Zev, Roman, and the girls. But this works, too. I should know better—I did ask Fran for aparty. I peer about the crowded, quaint space of Fran and Callum’s living room. There are more people in the kitchen.
“I thought you said you were just friends,” Rosalie says.
“We are.” But my chest tightens with the words.
“They are. But he likes her,” Fran says. “As in, big, serious feelings.”
“No.” I roll my shoulders. “Nothing big. We are just friends. No feelings. I just thought it would be fun for us to all hang out. That’s it.”
“Right,” Rosalie says. “Where’s your date again?”
“Bailey’s talking to Stella.” I nod toward the nice woman I have zero interest in.
“I thought it was Kaylee,” Rosalie says.
Fran peers at the two of us. “She clearly introduced herself as Mailey.” She shakes her head, her brows lowered.
“Mailey?” I say. “Hmm. Could be.”
“What’s with you and names?” Rosalie says.
“Hey, you didn’t remember either.” I tighten my grasp around the water bottle in my hand.
“Oh, Callum has a theory on this,” Fran says. “Lucca can’t get serious if he can’t even remember a simple name. It’s like a defense mechanism.”
“Defense—what? None of that is accurate. I just have a poor memory when it comes to names. And no desire to be serious.”
“You remembered my name,” Fran says. “First try.”
