I wince, feeling the pinch of her words. “Oh, Gabe. I’m so sorry. You know that’s not true.” I reach across the table and touch his forearm. “And honestly, who cares about what your mother says?”
“I do.” His expression is so acidic it burns. “Although, at some point, I have to accept that I’ll never do anything to please either of my parents.”
“My problem with my mom is the complete opposite. She is so used to my brother Max succeeding that she seems almost surprised when I do. It’s like she’s waiting for me to fall or fail—sometimes both at once—” I make myself laugh to take the edge off my words. “So it seems like screwing up is inevitable.”
He flips his hand over to cover mine, thumb tucked under my palm. “Why? You’re so …” He pauses, and I worry what the next word might be. Spastic? Ridiculous? Accident-prone?
Instead he says, “Persistent. You don’t give up easily.”
“Ha. I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
“As it was intended.”
It seems my stomach butterflies have been revived by his kindness. “Are your parents as hard on Iliana as they are on you?”
“If anything, they’re harder. She was an amazing dancer, but all their pushing finally backfired. She quit two years ago and hasn’t stepped back into a studio.” He runs a finger over my knuckles. “Without dance, she just seems so …”
“Lost?” I supply, when his silence stretches.
“Yes. Lost.” A flush rises in his cheeks, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the fire in the pizza oven. “Iliana never went to university; she doesn’t have any skills. I invited her to come here and stay with me until she figured out what to do next, but …” He gives a different shrug this time, uncertain.
Usually, I have to pry information out of him, sorting through sarcasm and half-truths to figure out what’s real, but maybe being in a kitchen with familiar food and people who care about him acts like a crowbar. “She’s not really trying to figure anything out?” I ask.
His right leg starts bouncing, shaking the table a little. “Sometimes I want to kick her out—especially when she throws parties at my apartment—but she’s my sister.”
“And you love her even if she makes your life miserable sometimes?”
He nods slowly.
Despite Iliana’s faults, she’s a little piece of home to him. If I couldn’t go home, if I couldn’t speak to my parents, I’d totally cling to my brothers.
The image of Gabe walking out of the club, arm around Iliana’s shoulders, pops into my head. “Wait a second. She was in Mexico with you. What happened that night?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t make eye contact.
“Were you defending her?” When he doesn’t admit it, I pull my hand out from underneath his. “You were. Why didn’t you say something? Telling the media the truth would totally change your part in that story.” We wouldn’t have to work quite as hard to change his image.
“Don’t give me more credit than I deserve.” His overconfident expression is back. “I promise I was not completely innocent in that fight.”
“Still—”
“It’s out of the news now. Let’s leave it out, yeah?”
He’s not wrong. It’s better to move forward at this point. I agree half-heartedly.
“But if you want to make sure nothing like that happens at my charity banquet …” He pauses dramatically, barely keeping a grin from his lips. “Then you should be my date.”
I roll my eyes. “Because you’re planning to punch one of your teammates?”
He tilts his head to the side, considering. “I can’t promise that I won’t.”
“You’re making this more appealing by the second.”
He puts his hand over his heart like he’s making a solemn oath. “If you come as my date, I’ll be on my very best behavior.”
I let his story about Iliana slide through the sieve in my head, picking out the fragments that glimmer. Taking the media’s heat to keep his sister out of the news is chivalrous, if stupid. And wanting to help her, albeit in the wrong way, is sweet. Underneath all that ego, it seems that Gabriel Fortunato is a pretty decent, if imperfect, guy.
When I don’t answer right away, he leans both elbows on the table, donning an expression that is nothing short of a smolder. “The anticipation is killing me.”
I weigh the consequences. He could do something stupid, but I doubt it because he’s been working hard to correct his mistakes. It would be good for him to go with someone who’s guaranteed not to cause a scene.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” The smile he gives me is the same one he gave Maria when they were cooking, wide and glimmering, making the room around us disappear. “You can give me your answer at my game on Thursday.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
WITH MOST OF GABE’S SOCIAL MEDIA UNDER CONTROL, I GO back to regular intern duties: research, fetch someone coffee, make copies, get someone else coffee, go through tabloids with Katie, make more coffee. Mara seems to have forgotten that she hates me and is soaking up the praise for some clever copy she wrote for a press release. I go out to dinner with Katie on Wednesday night, take Watford for a long walk in the park, and go back to the Lily Pond to enjoy the peace and quiet there.
The piano video hit two million views just after lunch Thursday, and it looks like the cooking lesson with Maria will be a close second. I’ve got to figure out our next big thing.
I mean Gabe’s next big thing. Not ours. There’s no our. He only invited me to the game so I could get more footage. Probably. I think. He didn’t exactly clarify in the dozens of slightly flirtatious work-related texts.
By the time I’m picking out my outfit for the game, I’m weirdly anxious to see him face-to-face. I guess it’s because we’re friends now. My friend is going to play soccer tonight. I want my friend to do well.
My friend is super hot and sometimes when we’re together I forget my own name.
Scratch that. Gabe is a client and we have a good working relationship.
Good. Working. Relationship.
I ride the red line out to Soldier Field, then walk the last twenty minutes, planning to get my ticket and sit in a quiet corner, hopefully unnoticed, of the Media Deck. It’s an open area with a great view of the field, and a perfect place to get some footage for Gabe’s feeds. Lots of rich folks and big companies impress their guests with these seats, but it’s also where all the coaches’ and players’ wives and girlfriends hang out. I wanted to wear a hat, but Emma gave that a hard no. She wanted me to wear a Fortunato jersey, but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Instead, I chose a simple white peasant top with ruffled sleeves and the one pair of jeans I own that fit me perfectly. I think it’s a pretty casual combination, but not too casual.
Once I enter the suite, I realize I’ve hit the perfect note. There are middle-aged white dudes in khaki cargos and polo shirts, a handful of professional-looking younger people in office attire, and some beautiful women either in sundresses or jerseys and jeans. Em said that WAGs—wives and girlfriends of the players—would cover the fashion spectrum throughout the season.
Not that I fall into that category by any means.
I take a seat in a leather chair in the far corner and drop my purse in the chair next to me, hoping people will think it’s occupied. There’s a big flat-screen hanging just a few feet from me, so I see the game better than I can over the railing. My purse trick works because I’m left in my corner all by myself.
Just like every other soccer game I’ve ever watched, both the home and opposing teams walk onto the field holding the hands of little kids from local soccer programs. Gabe is paired with a girl with the cutest pom-pom pigtails. She looks up at him with undisguised devotion. He boops her on the nose, and she laughs and hugs his leg.
I remember worshipping a soccer player like that once. Back when The Cheating Bastard was still Uncle Geoff an
d played for the English National team, they held a friendly match here in Chicago. He must have pulled all the strings because we had seats almost on the field. We met Geoff after, and he gave me a game jersey that smelled like grass and sweat, but I wore it anyway because I was eight or nine and he was my hero. He and Emma had rented a big cabin in Michigan, and we spent the rest of the week there, riding Jet Skis, fishing, and having the best vacation of my life.
It makes me feel horrible, but sometimes I think it would have been easier if he’d left Aunt Emma a widow. It’s not that Uncle Geoff should be dead by any means—he doesn’t deserve that—but then I could mourn the man I imagined him being instead of missing the man I thought he was.
The first half of the game is ugly. Seb blocks seven shots on goal, but two sneak past him, and our offense can’t get anything going. Our players make stupid passes and don’t clear the ball from the box. Gabe gets slide tackled and jumps to his feet, clearly pissed that it didn’t draw a card.
“That’s a yellow,” I say half to myself and half to the ref who can’t possibly hear me. “Come on! Book him!” I’m not the only person yelling at the field, so I don’t feel ridiculous that I’ve gotten sucked into the game.
By halftime, the Media Deck is filling up. People are leaning against the railing and sitting in every chair, except the one next to me. A woman I know I’ve seen somewhere sits next to my purse. She gives me a little wave, and I smile back.
The team returns after halftime with a new attack and looking fresh. Gabe is keyed in. His footwork is so fast that no one can keep up with him. He intercepts passes meant for the opposition, and he always seems to be in the right place at the right time. But despite everything, he can’t get a clean shot.
My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw in anxiety. Just before my molars are ground to nubs, he manages to punch one over the goalie’s head. I jump to my feet, cheering out loud.
The woman beside me is on her feet too and gives me a double high five. “Are you here for Gabe?”
“Oh no! I mean, yes, but not like in a romantic sense or anything. I work on his social media stuff. Actually, I’m an intern for his publicist. So I just follow directions.”
Nicely handled. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Why can’t I use Gabe’s favorite communication method and shrug my way through life?
She laughs. “I’m Blanca. Seb’s girlfriend.” She waves toward the goal. “You’re Maddie?”
Oh my gosh, why does Seb’s girlfriend know my name?
“Don’t look so shocked. We had Gabe over for dinner last week and he said nice things about you. He mentioned you’d be here today. I’m glad someone is here to see him play. He’s had a rough go of it after the World Cup and all.”
“Yeah, I bet.” My happiness that Gabe talked about me fades. He’s a world-class talent, and his family never watches him play. Not even his sister, who lives here.
It’s the eighty-eighth minute, and we’re still down by one, when Gabe gets a long pass that’s just barely onside. Watching him dribble down the field—even though I know it’s only a matter of seconds—stretches into a painful eternity before he shoots left-footed. It skids under the goalie’s glove.
I’m on my feet, Blanca’s holding my wrist, and we’re screaming together. “Two goals!” Fans bang their drums, yelling his name, as he slides on his knees into the corner. His teammates practically attack him, piling on to celebrate. As he gets to his feet, he faces the suite, kisses two fingers, and—it could be my imagination—points them right at me.
It’s ridiculous, but the little motion hits me like an arrow through the chest. I press my free hand to the spot just above my heart.
“You’re sure you’re not here in a romantic sense?” Blanca gives me a huge grin.
“I think it was to the crowd.”
“If you say so.”
I excuse myself to get a drink because I’d gotten so sucked into the game that I forgot to eat. Most everything has been cleaned up, but I manage to grab a water bottle. As I turn, I feel someone staring at me.
His forehead is wrinkled in confusion, like he’s trying to solve a math problem. I guess a2 + b2 = c2 because I see the solution pop into his eyes.
“Maddie?” he says, grin spreading across his face. “Is that you?”
I swallow the grit that’s suddenly filled my throat. “Hey, Uncle Geoff.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I ALWAYS IMAGINED THAT WHEN I SAW THE CHEATING BASTARD again that I’d tell him exactly what I thought about him. Most of those words were things I’d never be allowed to say in public. Or anywhere, really.
Instead of angry, I’m tired. And, honestly, a little sad. He looks exactly the same, low to the ground and sturdy, all wide shoulders and square face.
“Em told me I may run into you here.”
I wish she would have mentioned it to me, then I wouldn’t have come.
Oh. That’s probably why she didn’t tell me. Curse you, Emma. “Yeah, I’m here for—” I motion toward the field like that’s an explanation. Please let him think that means the game.
Geoff steps closer, shaking his head in astonishment. “You got so tall. You’re a proper giant now.”
It was a joke we all shared. He was our “gnome” and we were his “proper giants.” It’s not as funny now as it was when I was ten, but it does bring back good memories.
“Em didn’t mention you’d be here tonight.”
“To catch a game and watch a player. Some things never change.”
And some things can never be the same. My eyes flick to the pitch, looking for something emotionally safe to land on. The players are mingling, and I realize I missed the last two minutes of the game. I guess it ended in a tie. “I … I should go down.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the field.
He nods, lips pressing thin. “It was good to see you.”
“You too.” And I realize that I mean it. We exchange an awkward sort of hug, and I feel his loss even more potently. Uncle Geoff used to give rib-crushing hugs that would pick your feet up off the floor, but The Cheating Bastard gives soft shoulder pats.
As he steps back, he says, “I wish things would have gone differently.”
They could have. “That makes two of us.”
“Give your family my love.”
No way. “Enjoy Chicago while you’re here.” Then he heads back to the table he was sitting at—with Scott, who raises his glass at me in hello.
Geoff is with Scott.
A bell chimes in my head. I grab my purse from its spot next to Blanca and google Geoff’s name. Retired Premier League player Geoffrey Jones is expected to be tapped to manage his former team when the current manager retires at the end of the season.
He’s here for Gabe. He has to be. Who else on the team could he be scouting? Who else on this team does Scott represent?
Oh my gosh. This is Gabe’s chance to get back to Europe.
“You better go down and say hello.” Blanca grabs my arm and leads me to the door. “I’m positive Gabe knows you’re here, but he’ll want to see you anyway.”
I don’t argue, letting her tow me down the stadium stairs. I’m so shocked about seeing Geoff and Scott together that I don’t even worry about tripping and rolling all the way to the safety bars that stop drunks from falling onto the field.
Gabe is signing jerseys and autographs near the tunnel that leads to the team’s locker room. I’m not sure how he picks me out of the crowd, but he hands an autograph back to a kid and jogs over to me.
“You’re still here!” He hauls himself up, wedging his cleats beneath the bottom rail. He reaches for me and I go easily into his embrace because I’m afraid he’s going to slip backward and crack his head open on the cement and die. Also, because it’s really hard not to hug a gorgeous—if slightly sweaty—guy who’s glad to see you.
“Your second shot was pretty lucky,” I say into his shoulder, keeping a tight fistful of his shirt,
one more safeguard to save him from an untimely death.
“That was pure skill.” His leans back but leaves his arms around my waist. Happiness sparkles from his eyes. I don’t know if it’s the result of a two-goal game or because I’m here. And I can’t decide which one I want it to be.
“The announcers said that you’ve got a boot like no other, but they’re biased.” I roll my eyes like it was no big deal.
“What about that beautiful cross?”
“Do you need me to tell you you’re amazing?” I nod toward the impatient fans. “I’m pretty sure you have plenty of people who will do that for you.”
“Which is why I need you.” He brushes his lips across my cheek, chaste and unassuming. “Someone has to keep me humble.”
It was nothing. Less than nothing. He’s Italian. They kiss everyone, but my whole body twinges with his touch.
Gabe drops to the ground, completely unaware of his effect on me. “Meet me downstairs after? I’m starving. Let’s get dinner.”
He jogs backward, fake impatience on his face as he waits for my answer.
“If I have to.”
The smile he gives me in response makes my stomach turn to jelly.
I LOITER AGAINST THE WALL OUTSIDE THE LOCKER ROOM, LETTING the media get their sound bites and footage before sliding in after all the friends and family.
And Gabe’s agent.
Scott is leaning toward Gabe, voice low—conscious of the still-lingering reporters—but his hand is chopping to punctuate a sentence I can’t hear.
I imagined Gabe would be practically bursting out of his skin. He could be playing for Arsenal after the trade window opens. But he’s got his foot propped up on the bench, adjusting a bag of ice plastic-wrapped around his ankle. There’s no fake smile. No media-ready Gabriel Fortunato. He straightens, posture perfect, spine rigid. He looks more like he’s ready for a fight.
This is not good.
I know it’s not quite La Liga—but the salaries are always good and it’s more competitive than here. Why is he not happy?
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