Page 19 of Made Better Together

“Johnson wanted his whole Waves family here,” Landon replies, before the wedding planner makes a gesture in his direction. “If you don’t mind heading to your table,” he continues, “We’re about to start.”

“Of course,” Dad acknowledges.

I’m dying to say something to Connor, and I sneak a look at him, finding him toggling his eyes toward me too.

But it’s Dad who speaks up instead.

“Connor, I’d love to talk to you about your post-graduation plans later.”

He flashes a genuine-looking smile at my dad. “Yes. Sounds good.”

We separate into our groups as we head to table eight. Though while I walk away, I glance at Connor one more time.

The gray suit he has on is doing him every favor. Cut perfectly along the shape of the muscles in his arms and legs. And that ass—yeah, that’s a soccer ass even if he’s been playing football.

Takes one to know one.

“Ah, some familiar faces here,” Dad jokes to the people already at our assigned table. Even I recognize them—Dad’s old teammates, members of the kicking team, now players he’s coaching.

There’s the punter, Ernie, with his wife, whom I’ve met before; and Jeremy, the starting placekicker who took Dad’s spot when he retired. As well as a new guy, who doesn’t look much older than me, sitting in the seat next to mine when I find my place card.

We share greetings across the group, and he introduces himself to me.

“Hi, I’m Scotty. Second-year kicker, first year with the Waves.”

“Nice, welcome.” I know I’m representing my dad, so I gear up to make competent small talk. “Where did you play last year?”

“Miami. So not too far away. I was just on the practice squad, though.”

I’ve been around Dad long enough to know that NFL teams don’t carry more than one kicker in the final fifty-three-man roster, saving the remaining spots for other positions. Any backup kicker is kept on the practice squad, so it’s not a knock on his talent that Scotty was on one his rookie year. Some teams don’t even maintain a backup at all. It’s tough competition to have an official position.

“Well, if you had to move, only a four-hour distance must have made the transition easier, at least.”

“Definitely,” he replies, as the servers come around to place bread on tables.

Maybe thinking I’m distracted by the bread, Scotty dips his eyes in a not-so-subtle glance at my chest.

Ugh. So much for pleasant dinner company.

“What about you? Are you a football fan?” Scotty asks once he manages to bring his eyes back to my face.

“She plays the real football,” Dad retorts from my other side, a hint of a tease in his voice. “Soccer.”

“‘Real football,’ huh?”

“To most of the world, yes,” I reply, matter-of-factly.

“Nice. Like for fun?” His voice is playful. Like it’s cute to make light of my athletic pursuits.

“No, I’m one of the best strikers in the country for my age.” An extremely out-of-character response, but I’m annoyed.

“Striker?”

I sigh, but there’s only so much rudeness I’ll allow myself. He’s still on Dad’s team. “It’s an offensive position. We focus on scoring goals.” A simplistic explanation, but it works for the moment.

“Huh, that’s cool. My family isn’t big into the sport, so I never played.” He’s not done, unfortunately. “So, are there like female pro teams, or something?”

Be nice. “I’m still in college, so I compete at that level. But yes, there’s a pro women’s league called the National Women’s Soccer League, plus others outside the US. And then there’s the national team.” Surely, he’s watched our USWNT dominate the World Cup so many times?