Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "So," I began, having no real plan for what might come out of my mouth next.

  She was looking at her phone, swiping at something. Finally, she stepped into her shoes and walked to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and smiling up at me. "I'm sorry to run. I have had a lovely time, Trace."

  "You have?" I stared down at her, feeling a sense of disbelief work through me. It was hard for me to believe she'd had a good time—though I'd seen it myself. I just wasn’t sure if it had been anything to her besides a good time physically. Was there any chance this woman was hoping for more with me too? Her open genuine smile seemed to convey something else, something I was afraid to hope for.

  "Of course I have," she laughed. "I wouldn't have stayed if I hadn't wanted to. You are . . ." she trailed off, biting one side of her bottom lip as she searched for the word she wanted. "Entertaining."

  "Entertaining?" I repeated it. The word was like a punch in the nuts. Like a clown?

  "Yes," she said, and she rose up on her toes to kiss me.

  I bent down and kissed her, wishing she would stay longer, wishing I could spend more time trying to understand what she was thinking, where things might go. Wishing I could work my way from 'entertaining' to 'devastatingly attractive' or 'utterly incredible.'

  "See you soon?" I asked. “My sister wants to meet you, you know.”

  She paused, her eyes catching mine and narrowing. “Does she hate me?”

  “She won’t once she meets you,” I assured her, feeling less than certain. “Come back tomorrow. Drinks? Barbecue?”

  She looked uncertain, but after a moment’s thought she smiled. "Yes," she said. And then she was out the door and in an Uber. And my house was quiet and big, and it was almost as if she'd never been there at all, except for the swirl of confusion in my head and the strange ache in my chest.

  Erica came home just after noon, and I was getting myself together to get down to practice.

  "Hey," she said breezily, carrying her overnight bag into the living room and dropping it next to the couch. She wandered to the kitchen and gave me a sideways glance as I sat at the counter, finishing a bowl of pasta. "You okay?"

  I lowered my eyebrows and tried to look mysterious. Or angry. Or anything besides slightly preoccupied over what Magalie had meant when she'd called me entertaining after two devastating orgasms. "Fine. You?"

  She grinned in a swoony way, leaning into the counter with one hip and letting her head fall back a little. "I'm so good," she began. "Fernando and I—"

  "I'm just gonna stop you there," I said, standing to put my dish in the sink. "I'm happy for you sis, believe me, I really am. But you guys forget that I have to play with the guy, and I can't get all wrapped up in your off-pitch amorous adventures. It's distracting."

  "Amorous adventures?"

  "Yeah, we all see plenty of it when you guys make out at the team bar or when he gropes you on the couch. That's all I really need."

  “I wasn’t going to talk about sex.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. "And you asked."

  "I was just being polite," I explained, bowing slightly and backing out of the kitchen.

  She blew a raspberry at me as I ran up the stairs to grab my gear, and then she called, “Fuerte said Hoss told him Magalie was at the bar last night. I want to meet her. Soon!”

  “Tomorrow night,” I called down the stairs. “Tacos and margaritas on the patio. Bring Fuerte if he’ll come.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. Five? Six?”

  “Okay!” Erica sounded happy, and I wished I wasn’t worried about what would happen when my fake fiancée and my sister met for the first time.

  Ten minutes later, I was headed for the field, relief flowing through me at the knowledge that in a few minutes I'd be drenched in sweat and the only thing I'd have room for in my mind would be the game. That was the place I felt most right, most me.

  But as soon as we were warmed up, Max was driving a ball to goal and I flew sideways to block it, landing on my shoulder hard. I felt it give, and the pain was immediate and nauseating.

  “Shit,” I moaned, struggling to get back to my feet, trying to will away the injury.

  “You okay?” Max was at my side as I struggled to my knees, clutching my shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” I bit out.

  Coach was at my side a moment later, with half the team. “Johnson, go see the doc.”

  I was on my feet, still feeling nausea wash through me, and my shoulder feeling like my arm had been ripped from my body and reattached with fire. I stumbled to the locker room seeing red, both from the pain and the anger that came with knowing this could be it, I might be done for the season. And if the team got sold, the roster shuffled, I could be done for good.

  I spent the rest of practice with the team doc, icing the shoulder and getting images done to make sure it was okay. A huge pit opened in my stomach when she suggested this could end my season early, as if I hadn’t thought of that. We had a backup keeper—Frank Salzetti—who was decent. I wasn't as worried about the team as I was about myself, though. The Sharks could survive without me, but if I didn't have the team, I didn't know who I was. The thought of sitting out was terrifying, and I rushed to reassure the doctor I was fine.

  "Luckily enough," she said, reviewing the images on her laptop screen, "you are. Let's keep the ice and heat alternating, and you take it easy for the rest of tonight. Light practice tomorrow, followed by the heat and ice, and we'll see if you're good on Sunday."

  "I'll be good." I had to be.

  "We'll see," she said again, with a thin smile that suggested I wasn't the first guy to try to do her job for her. I doubted there were many of us too willing to hear we weren't going to play.

  I watched the rest of practice with ice bags strapped to my shoulder and tried my best to think happy thoughts, even though I was beginning to wonder what the future would hold for me if soccer was taken away. I didn’t have other skills. I could be a Walmart greeter, maybe, though I wasn’t sure I could be cheerful enough for that. Maybe if I drank a lot. Was being a drunk Walmart greeter a thing?

  In the locker room as everyone grabbed their stuff to go, most of the guys checked in with me. Hoss stepped near without hurtling himself into my shoulder, which was appreciated, but only served to make me more conscious of the injury. "You okay, man?"

  "Doc says I'm fine." The last thing I needed was the guys believing I was really hurt.

  "Good. Don't sacrifice yourself for the game," he said. "There's life after this."

  "What?" Hammer stepped close. "No there isn't, lads. You’re clearly confused. Soccer is life." He grinned. Hammer did have a life outside the game, or at least he had a mysterious parallel life. He was actually some kind of royal family member in a small kingdom somewhere near the UK—some tiny island in the North Sea—but he wouldn't give anyone details, and it was easy enough to forget when you spent every day with the guy.

  "Hey," Hoss said, leaning in as Hammer ambled off to the showers. "How are things with your fiancée?" He smiled wickedly as if he suspected exactly how things might be with her.

  Max Winchell stepped in near my other side. "I wanted to ask about that too," he said, looking weirdly interested, his eyes focused on mine as I turned to him. Max was one guy I felt like I knew very little about. He was faithful and loyal to the team—always here, always focused. He was one of our key forwards, and he scored more than most players in the league. But he didn't talk about himself. Like, ever. I knew he had a sister—she came around now and then with her fiancé. And I'd been to Winchell's house lots of times, but it was sparsely decorated and impersonal. Maybe he was secretly a prince too, who knew?

  "Um," I started, feeling on the spot now. We didn't traditionally chat about women—at least not beyond the physical and superficial. But God, I needed to talk to someone about Magalie. "She's . . ." I cleared my throat. "Things are going well, yeah."

  Hoss elbowed me gently, his eyes dropping to
the ice still strapped to my shoulder. "That's good man, she seemed great."

  Max nodded and then turned on his heel and disappeared. Weird.

  "She coming to the game Sunday?" Hoss asked, pulling his shirt on next to me.

  I thought about what it would be like to play, knowing she was in the stands. A warm fist clenched inside me. I'd like that, knowing she was watching. No one had ever come to see me play—well, no one besides my sister, my agent, and the scouts in college. What would it be like to have someone rooting for you just because they wanted to, not because they were bound to you in some way? Someone you cared about watching you from the sidelines?

  "I'll invite her," I said.

  Hoss gave me a smile and a thumbs up, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow."

  "Yeah," I called back. The pain in my shoulder meant it was taking a little longer than normal to do anything, and I cringed at the thought of playing the next day. This shoulder had been hurt before, and having it wrenched today was the worst thing that could have happened. But hopefully the ice and heat and Motrin would do the trick. I wanted Magalie to come watch. And I wanted to play well.

  At home, I settled into the hot tub for the "warm" part of my shoulder rehab, and texted Magalie.

  Me: Hi. Hope you had a good day at work.

  I waited, but she didn't respond right away.

  Me: So – my sister is up for dinner here tomorrow if that works. Also, wondered if you might want to come to the game Sunday. I can get some box seats for you if you want to bring friends.

  I stared at the phone for a few minutes, wishing she'd answer, but it was silent, and my heart dipped a little while I told myself I didn’t care. I dropped the phone to the side of the hot tub, and leaned back into the warm water. A few minutes later, it dinged and my heart actually leapt.

  Stupid heart.

  Magalie: Dinner tomorrow is good. I will be there. Can I bring something? And I would love to see you play. Can I bring Adam and Chloe? They own the winery where I work.

  Me: Sure. I'll have the tickets waiting for you at Will Call. And don’t worry about bringing anything tomorrow.

  Magalie: Ok. Thank you!

  I typed a response, deleted it, tried again, and deleted that too. I wanted to say something meaningful, something besides "you're welcome." I wanted to let her know how much it would mean to me to know she was there to watch, that she was there for me.

  Me: You're welcome. Good night.

  Magalie: Good night.

  I put the phone down and leaned into the water again, staring up at the sky, which was turning dark out over the ocean.

  Two weeks ago, my life had been simple and clear. Soccer, Erica, me. Maybe it'd been a little empty, but I had always been good at focusing on the things I had. Now? Things felt like they were complicating. Each strand of my life was multiplying or fracturing, new strands winding around the old until I couldn't tell if I had more or less to worry about. Soccer—this injury and the potential sale of the team. Erica—Fuerte. Me—this hollow ache that pulsed in me if I thought too hard about Magalie, about what it would feel like if her mother came and went and then she told me goodbye.

  Chapter 61

  Sleepover Aftermath

  Magalie

  I spent Friday in a fog, dodging Chloe’s questions and hiding out in the back, working quietly with Adam, tasting and blending and doing my best to keep my mind from carrying me too far away.

  Just when I’d start to find my focus, an image of Trace’s body hovering over me would pop up, steal my breath and set my heart pumping again. I’d succeed in pushing it away, only to find myself dreaming of how small and safe I’d felt wrapped in his arms in the back of the cab, and my limbs would tingle with the memory.

  If my goal had been to find an actor and to work together to fool my mother, I’d already failed. Trace wasn’t an actor—at least I didn’t think he was pretending. And I knew I wasn’t.

  I told myself to focus on work. Saturday morning I worked through some of the blending with Adam, and ended up helping Chloe in the tasting room in the afternoon. There was a rush of visitors, and a group of bridesmaids came tumbling in out of a long limousine that had pulled into the parking lot just beyond the windows just after lunch.

  The women were giggling and happy, and the bride wore a banner around her chest proclaiming her status as the bride-to-be. I envied her serene confidence, the smile she wore beneath the outward grin. Chloe had a similar expression she wore sometimes, and I had identified it as the smile that comes from knowing that no matter what else may come or go in your life, there is someone who loves you. I had never really felt that way, but I'd had enough friends fall in love to understand the idea.

  We took the group through a tasting, and they were appreciative and polite, if a little boisterous. When they disappeared back into their long car, Chloe greeted the afternoon staff and we left the tasting room, sitting down in the office together with a sigh.

  "It was a good day," she said. "Adam says you've got a lot of the blending done."

  I nodded. The blending was an exciting but meticulous process. Adam and I spent hours tasting from various barrels, and trying combinations of wines, keeping track of percentages and characteristics, before deciding how to create the wines that would go into bottles carrying the previous year's vintage—and which wine had the best odds of winning the competition.

  "We got most of the planning for blending done at least," I confirmed.

  "That's a start," she laughed. "Now tell me what's going on in more interesting areas of your life. For instance . . . with the footballer?"

  "Trace," I said, unable to keep from ducking my head in shy acknowledgment as I said his name.

  Her mouth dropped open. Then she mimicked my action, saying "Trace" in a high voice and ducking her own head. I couldn't deny that the motion gave just about everything away. "So you are developing feelings for him?"

  "God, I'm obvious," I moaned, waving my hands as if I could erase my own words. "Yes. I have feelings for him. I just don’t know what they are exactly. It’s more than pretending."

  "That’s good, right?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t set out to find a real relationship. This was about making my mother step back. But now . . .”

  Chloe was listening intently, leaning toward me over the top of the table. “What is it about now?” She smiled encouragingly.

  “I don’t really know." I traced a finger along the foot of my wine glass. "It's confusing," I said. "I wanted someone to play a role. And Trace is . . . he's more than that."

  She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “You’ve seen him a few times?”

  I nodded, and I felt myself blushing. "I stayed at his house," I whispered. I didn’t think Chloe would think less of me for admitting I’d slept with Trace, but it still felt like something that should be whispered. A secret.

  "Like a sleepover," she suggested, her voice bright. She did not believe for a moment that we'd had a simple sleepover. Chloe was digging.

  "Yes." I stuck my tongue out at her.

  "Did you enjoy the sleepover?" She chuckled and crossed her arms, watching me.

  I thought back over Thursday night, the surprising way Trace charmed me at the bar with a silly cracker game, the romantic and tentative way he'd first kissed me, and the commanding way he'd taken me when I'd shown him it was what I wanted. There were many sides to him, and I had enjoyed them all. "I did. And I’m going there tonight for dinner. To meet his sister."

  "A big step.”

  “A big step in a real relationship. But this is not supposed to be real.”

  “But it seems real,” she said, pointing out what had become obvious to me over the last couple of days. What I’d tried hard not to admit.

  “It’s getting complicated,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s more simple than you think.”

  "I came here to escape the complications of relationships and marriage, not to fall into m
ore complications." I sighed. "But Trace is not what I expected. I didn't want to like him so much, to find him so . . . I don't even know."

  She shook her head, smiling at me. "You came here to escape the relationship and marriage your mother planned for you. Not to escape them all."

  "But I didn't come to find those things either. I came to build a career, to be independent."

  "The thing no one tells us," Chloe said, leaning forward like she was going to share a secret. "Is that with the right man? You can be more confident and independent than you can be all alone."

  I felt my forehead wrinkle as I thought about that, and it did make sense to me. That if someone was there for you, supporting you and helping you, you could be stronger, be better. Chloe and Adam were a good example of this.

  "Well, either way, I have a question for you. Would you and Adam like to come to the Sharks game tomorrow? Trace has offered me tickets."

  "I have no doubt the answer will be yes," Chloe said. She stood and went to pick up her phone and call Adam, who had headed back to the house when we'd finished up in the winery.

  She posed the question to him, and I could hear the enthusiastic reply from across the room.

  "Tell him we have box seats," I said.

  Chloe did, and she had to hold the phone away from her head when Adam's enthusiasm increased his volume by several notches.

  "He's pleased," Chloe said, returning to finish her wine.

  "Good," I laughed. "The game is at three, so we can go down early and get lunch if you like."

  "We'll pick you up," Chloe said. "See you at noon?"

  I gathered my things and headed home, my mind a muddle. Though whatever Trace and I had was confusing, there was a part of me that was sure it was real.

  I just hoped it could survive meeting his sister. And my mother.

  Chapter 62

  Crisco and Onion Rings