Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

  * * *

  Trace and I had texted a bit after the weekend, mostly so he could tell me he was heading to Florida for a mid-week match. I tried not to think about him, not to worry about my mother, and to focus on work. But on Wednesday, I found myself asking Adam about soccer schedules.

  "Well, it's the end of the season, getting near playoffs," he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and frowning at the screen. "And they usually play Saturday or Sunday, but I know there's a game tonight—" he drew out the word as he swiped at something on the screen, and then confirmed—"at five. Which you can watch at our place since Chloe won't watch with me. Then you’ll see your fiancé and I’ll have someone to cheer with."

  "Okay," I said, part of me eager to watch Trace from a place where he wouldn't know I was watching, where I could stare at him unselfconsciously and maybe figure out some of the feelings I had surrounding him. Maybe seeing him again, seeing him do something I knew he loved, would clarify some feelings inside me. Maybe seeing him be the football star I knew he was would make me feel better about the ridiculous ring, or assure me I'd only imagined the hurt in his eyes. A wealthy, successful and famous soccer player probably wasn’t too worried about a silly little thing like a fake engagement.

  I followed Chloe and Adam out to their little house after work, which was situated down a lane leading away from the winery buildings. Down a low hill, their house sat beneath some tall shady trees, nestled between two vineyards. There was a tire swing in the front yard, though they didn't have any children, and something about the idyllic scene always left me feeling homesick, though my own home had been nothing like their cute pastoral house.

  Adam set us up with beer and a bowl of potato chips, and Chloe took a seat across the room, her nose buried in a book.

  We'd turned on the game a few minutes late, and the teams were already scattered across the wide expanse of the green field—athletic men in shorts with broad chests moving in every direction, and a ball that looked absolutely minuscule being batted around at their feet. Growing up without a father, I hadn't watched a lot of football, and I wasn't sure about the rules or any other details. I just knew Trace was responsible for guarding a box that looked ridiculously large behind him as he jogged around the space at one end of the field, looking handsome and intense and very muscular.

  "There's your boy," Adam said as the coverage flashed to Trace near the goal and then a photo slid onto the screen, along with statistics about his gameplay and history. "The man's a beast," he said, in a tone I assumed was appreciative. I was too busy staring at the cut of that handsome jaw, seeing those searing blue eyes and feeling the guilt wash through me again, along with a poignant physical memory of what it had felt like to have his arms around me.

  "Yes," I answered, for lack of anything better to say. And then, for the next almost three hours, I watched, mesmerized, as Trace and his teammates managed to defeat the other team by three points to none. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying, though. The competitors must have shot on Trace's goal at least ten times, and every single time, he moved with such graceful agility and complete focus that I found myself holding my breath. He wasn't just good—it was like watching magic. Trace blocked shots I would have said he had no chance of stopping, literally flying across the leering mouth of his team's empty goal. I was impressed, and found myself wanting to talk to him about it, to see his face again.

  His focus was incredible, and incredibly compelling. By the time the game ended, and the Sharks were chest bumping and high-fiving each other (along with some butt slapping and one guy running a victory lap of the field, his hands raised in dual Vees, before dropping down and rolling like a little kid over the grass), I had become a fan.

  Trace's smile was a satellite, sending his pride and his joy over the miles between us until my own heart felt warm with his accomplishment.

  During the course of the game, I'd had three beers, and Adam and I had cheered and yelled, and even jumped up and down when the game was tense.

  "My goodness," Chloe complained from her curled up position in the armchair. "It's only football."

  "Yeah, but now we have a connection to it," Adam explained. "So it's personal."

  He was right. I had a personal stake in how the team did, and I wanted to see Trace win. It worried me how committed I felt after knowing him such a short time and under such tenuous circumstances.

  "Your boy is a phenom," Adam whooped as Trace blocked one final shot before the time on the clock was up.

  It wasn't a word I knew immediately, but I nodded anyway, confusion probably clear in my eyes.

  "A phenomenon," he explained. "He's amazing."

  "He is." He was. And I was compelled to pick up my phone and text him my congratulations. Even if he wasn't fond of me now, even if he suspected I was only using him, I wanted him to know I'd been watching and that I was proud of him, for whatever that was worth.

  Magalie: I watched your game on television. You were amazing. Congratulations!

  No reply came, and it was clear enough why. I could still see the team on the wide screen at Adam and Chloe's, filtering into the locker room with broad smiles on their faces.

  Chloe drove me home, and as I hugged her goodnight, she whispered, "It will all be fine."

  I nodded, believing it a little more than I had earlier. And when I'd gotten myself into bed, after drinking a generous glass of water and taking a few precautionary aspirin, my phone chimed with a text that confirmed it.

  Trace: Thanks. I can't believe you watched. You said you weren’t into soccer.

  Magalie: I never had a reason to be into it before, but I loved watching. It was really incredible. Congratulations again.

  Three dots appeared, and I watched them wiggle and then disappear. I'd just put my phone aside when it chimed once more time.

  Trace: No pressure, but would love it if you'd come out with the team tomorrow evening. We'll be back in town, at McDaughtry's in the Gaslamp Quarter.

  It was my turn to think. I held the phone in front of my face, staring at the message as I lay warm in my bed. If our fake engagement was going to convince my mother, it'd be best if we knew each other a little better. But that wasn't why I wanted to say yes.

  Even if it felt a bit like leading him on, even if I wasn't sure I was capable of a real relationship once I'd disentangled myself from the mess my mother had made, I wanted to see Trace again.

  Magalie: I'd love to. Just text me the time and I'll meet you there.

  Chapter 18

  Control Your Tannins, Man

  Trace

  After the game in Orlando, I'd been stoked. To say the game had gone well would be a massive understatement, and to suggest I was responsible would also be understating things. I blocked every single fucking ball that came my way. My shoulder felt good, and when the high of the win was beginning to wane, there was the text from Magalie.

  I hadn't been expecting it, that was for sure.

  "Good game, man," Fuerte said, bumping me hard in the shoulder as he passed me in the locker room after we left the pitch. “Engagement suits you.”

  “Yeah.” I’d had to address the engagement issue with my teammates, who obviously had heard the news after Mr. Match’s interview with my sister. They’d all been supportive, for the most part, though Fernando knew the whole truth and thought I was every bit as nuts as my sister did. Still, we were good at leaving that kind of thing off the field.

  This had been the kind of game where every guy on the team had played a part in the win. Fuerte and Max had driven relentlessly to score, Hoss had run incredible defense, clearing half the balls the Orlando team managed to get past center. And Isley, Evans, Hammer, and the other guys all did their parts too. We were riding high, but as I started to contemplate heading back to the quiet darkness of my hotel room alone, my mood began to deflate.

  "You coming out?" Hoss asked me as we headed back outside to the bus that would take us to the hotel.

  I usually s
aid yes. Hell, I always said yes.

  But my heart wasn't in it. I imagined myself at some bar, with girls hanging around us all, smiling up at us and pressing their chests into our personal space. And while that had once been exactly the kind of celebrating I was into after a win—maybe with a burrito or two thrown in for good measure, tonight it just felt empty. "Nah," I answered. "Think I'll just get some rest, start thinking about playoffs."

  "Which are a month out," Erick Evans noted, one side of his mouth lifting in a wry smile.

  "Yeah, I was just trying to preserve your feelings. I don't want to hang out with you assholes tonight, okay? Honesty work better for you?" I laughed as I said it, and they all took it as it was meant—half-joking, half-serious.

  "Fine, have it your way, man." Evans said, climbing the steps to the bus. “This what it’s gonna be like once you’re married? Even Isley still goes out.”

  "Leave him alone, man,” Hoss told him. “It’s cool, man. Can’t wait to meet her. Great playing tonight."

  "You too," I said.

  It was just after I'd stepped into my room that I noticed Magalie's text. I'd assumed it would be my sister, though her congratulations to me generally came later now that she was hooked up with Fuerte. I guessed he got most of her excitement at this point, and that was how it probably should be. They deserved to be happy. And as I read Magalie's text, I had a fleeting thought that maybe I did too.

  But then I remembered that she wasn't into me that way.

  Even though her kiss had told a different story.

  I was feeling too good coming off the win to overthink. I thanked her for watching, surprise filling me as I considered that she might have just spent the last three hours watching one of the best performances of my life. Pride expanded my chest, pulled my spine a little straighter as I walked across the hotel room and stood at the wide panes of glass looking out toward Orlando. When she responded again, enthusiastically, I took a chance. I took a deep breath and invited her to meet us out the following night.

  When she accepted, I put the phone down and vowed not to overthink it, though her dark eyes and all that soft thick hair might have populated my fantasies as I lay in bed later that night. The way her breath had caught as we'd kissed, the soft little moan I'd heard as my arms had gone around her—those things might have made the soundtrack for a very satisfying pre-sleep experience.

  * * *

  I'd had three pints before Magalie showed up at McDaughtry's. For a two-hundred-sixy-pound guy, that's not a lot, but it was enough to fill me with a warm buzz and a confidence I didn't come by naturally.

  She stepped in the door from the sidewalk, and I swear, every dude in the place turned to stare.

  Magalie wore a pair of tight black pants and a modest flowered shirt that flowed loosely around her, but dropped low enough in the front to offer just a glimpse of some undoubtedly delicious breasts. Her hair had been swept to the back of her head, revealing her long slender neck, her delicate jaw, and making those big dark eyes pop as she scanned the dim bar for me.

  I lifted a hand and a wide smile took over her face as she saw me. To my surprise, she practically dashed across the space to my side, bringing the gazes of most of the guys in the bar along for the ride. When she popped up on her toes and kissed both my cheeks, a laugh rolled out of me. My eyes went to her hand, and I found I was hoping to see the ring glittering there. But she wasn’t wearing it, and an unexpected disappointment flooded me.

  I had to remind myself we weren’t really engaged. It didn’t matter if she wore the damned ring.

  "It's good to see you," she said, and for some reason, the words sounded genuine and honest. I tried to sift through the syllables, looking for reluctance to actually spend time with me, or hesitancy about being friendly with someone who she just needed as an actor, but her eyes and her smile and her words all agreed. Maybe she was a good actress. But I hoped not.

  "Good to see you too," I told her. "Can I get you a drink?"

  She nodded and asked for a gin and tonic, and once we both had drinks in our hands and had toasted one another, I sat wordless, unsure how to speak to my fake fiancée.

  Erica and Fuerte had made dinner plans, so they weren’t here, and I was glad I hadn’t told my sister Magalie was coming.

  A few guys on the team wandered up and introduced themselves, and I watched Magalie sweetly greet Buck and Toofer, and then we were alone again and I scrambled for the right words. My hands were sweating. Why was this so hard?

  Magalie filled in the gap. "I had no idea I would enjoy watching a football match so much," she said, and I was somewhat mesmerized by the way her eyes glowed in the low light. "It was truly exciting," she went on. "I had Adam—the winemaker I work with—explain some things to me as it went on, but it was fascinating."

  "Fascinating," I repeated. Even my sister, who used to work for the Sharks and was dating a player, wouldn't call the sometimes three-hour long games fascinating. Three points was a high-scoring game. Soccer was a sport of finesse, of strategy and skill—we didn't pull the same fans as American football because the US attention span just didn't support long games where no one scored for an hour.

  "Yes, fascinating." She leaned in and put a hand on my arm, causing every muscle in my body to tighten involuntarily. "I actually found myself holding my breath every time they got near your goal, but you were always there. It was incredible."

  I wished I could better control the pleased smile I felt slide across my face when she said that. She didn’t need to know how much I enjoyed hearing her praise. But it had been incredible. And while I was used to praise from my teammates, and from my sister, I couldn't remember a genuine compliment on my game from anyone else who mattered to me—except maybe my agent. Not in years, maybe not ever. The families we’d lived with growing up liked soccer because it kept me out of their way, and the girls who hung around the team would ooh and ahh at us, but they weren't real fans. They were groupies. There was a difference. Having someone actually supporting you, cheering for you . . . well, that was new to me. "Thanks," I said, ducking my head just to cut the hot intensity of our connected gaze.

  If my goal was to turn this from fake dating into real dating, I thought maybe I didn’t have that far to go. We had a connection, and I didn’t think Magalie was merely acting. The way she looked at me, the way her hand felt on my arm. I couldn’t be imagining it all, could I?

  "So," I said, scrambling to turn the focus from me. "What's up in the exciting world of wine?"

  She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, making one curling tendril fall down into her face. I watched as her delicate hand pushed it away, and felt a little flip in my stomach. "Wine is fascinating to me, but it is probably not exciting to most people."

  "Try me," I suggested, taking a healthy gulp of my drink to distract me from the magnetic pull I felt to her body, which was so close to mine I could feel the heat radiating off her thighs. We were facing each other, both of us seated at stools next to the bar. That meant my knees were bracketing hers, and her little frame was trapped within the cage of my legs, though we weren't touching.

  "We're blending last year's harvest right now, trying to predict the way the different grapes will age, and hoping to offset the tannin in the Syrah with the roundness of the Grenache and Mourvèdre."

  "Ah yes, the tannins," I said knowingly, nodding. She might as well have been speaking a different language, but I still wanted to hear more.

  She laughed, probably understanding that I had no clue what she was talking about. "The tannins are what make a red wine bitter, astringent. Like when you eat a walnut and your tongue gets . . ." she stuck out her tongue and made a little motion with her fingers above it like she was trying to draw something together on top of it, scrape something unpleasant off.

  "Oh, like that," I said, giving her the same goofy knowing nod and trying not to imagine that tongue in other scenarios.

  "You'll just have to come taste with me and I'll show you,"
she laughed.

  "I'd love that." The words slipped out accidentally, before I'd had a chance to consider that telling her I wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her, to be near the compelling pull of her curvy body, the open and friendly draw of her deep brown eyes, maybe wasn't the right thing to do in our situation. I didn’t know what the right thing was. There was no rulebook for this scenario. My mind was fuzzy and a little fizz of panic started low inside me.

  Her warm smile was still trained on me, making my heart feel like it was actually reaching from my chest trying to get closer to her. This was probably not good. I needed a distraction, something to give me some breathing room, some time to think. Because if she continued smiling at me like that, I was taking her home tonight. I’d spend whatever time she’d let me have with her, convincing myself she felt something too, and then when the time was up, I’d watch her walk away and I’d be a complete mess.

  I shielded myself from her happy smile and cleared my throat, pushing back my stool until I stood in front of her and could step slightly away, breaking the warm connection between us. I needed some breathing room. Some space. I needed to think a little bit.

  Desperate to turn the tide so I didn't continue to fawn over her like a lovelorn puppy, I pivoted to the bar, seeing the little rows of saltine crackers in a dish, left from where someone had ordered soup.

  "I have an idea,” I told her, knowing this was a bad idea. “Saltine challenge!" I announced, reaching for the saltine packets and stacking them in front of myself.

  "Aw, Trace, c'mon man. Is this going to be like the ketchup challenge? I still have nightmares about you puking red all over my shoes," Hoss moaned, leaning on the bar on his forearms. “Doesn’t your fiancée deserve better?” Hoss winked at Magalie.