Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  Trace

  “How did it go?” Erica was waiting when I got home from practice Saturday, her face worried. “Are you going to get to play tomorrow?”

  I looked around. Our usually lived-in house was spotless and the long granite bar was covered with bowls of chips and salsa, guacamole and little rolled tacos. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Your fiancée is coming over. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

  “My fake fiancée,” I reminded her, something inside me cringing as if it had only just been reminded too.

  “Either way.” Erica looked me up and down. “So you’re fine? You’re playing?”

  “I’m playing. Doc said I’m good as long as I don’t reinjure it. So if everyone shoots on my right side, it’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure they’ll agree to that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Go take a shower. It’s almost five.”

  “Fuerte coming?”

  “He declined,” Erica said, sticking her bottom lip out. “He’s so superstitious.” She flopped down on the couch. “He is still insisting that he has to be alone the night before a game. He has his pre-game ritual or whatever.”

  I grabbed a shake from the refrigerator and went to stand at the end of the couch, drinking my protein shake and thinking. “Has he told you what the ritual is yet?”

  She pouted. “No.”

  “I think it involves heavy amounts of masturbation. Probably a lot of Crisco and maybe some onion rings.” I had no idea what it entailed, but I knew this would get a rise out of my sister and I couldn’t help it.

  “Ew!” She threw a pillow at me from the couch. “It definitely does not.” She crossed her arms and seemed to be thinking about whether maybe I was right. “Please go shower. You’re disgusting.”

  I did as she asked, feeling remarkably good about everything. We were in a good position going into these final games, and leaving the regular season with the best record would set us up nicely for playoffs. My shoulder ached a bit, but nothing that would keep me from playing well. And I was happy about Magalie coming over.

  I dressed and went back downstairs to find she had already arrived, and my heart raced as I saw her sitting at the counter, Erica seated next to her and their heads bent close in conversation. A streak of fear flew through me—was Erica giving her the third degree? Or something worse? Was there a fourth or fifth degree? Erica would surely be capable of advanced degree-giving if that was a thing.

  But just as I got to the bottom of the stairs, Magalie threw her head back and laughed, the sound happy and melodic and sexy all at once. I stopped, watching. Erica was laughing too, and she reached out a hand, dropping it on top of Magalie’s on the bar. Between hysterical laughing and gasping for breath, I heard her saying, “And then he wore the suit all night, and it was super tight in the crotch because it was way too small, and his butt was all like—”

  “I think that’s enough of that story,” I said, stepping between them and ending the tale of the time I’d been asked to stand in for the mascot in high school, only to realize too late that Ricky Raccoon was not a one-size-fits-all costume. I thought I’d embraced the role gracefully.

  “I see you ladies have introduced yourselves,” I said, looking between them as nerves swooped and careened inside me.

  “No thanks to you and your hours-long beauty routine,” Erica said, rolling her eyes.

  I glanced at the clock. I was a bit late. “Sorry.” I looked at Magalie, wanting to bend down and kiss her cheek, but uncertain what was appropriate. I’d never had a fake fiancée who I’d slept with once and might be actually feeling real feelings for. But she made it easy, rising and reaching up for me, then kissing me on each side of the face.

  “Hello,” she breathed into my ear.

  Warmth flooded my limbs and pooled low in my gut, and I felt the goofy smile threaten to overtake my face. Erica’s eyes took in this entire thing, and I knew she might as well be inside my head.

  “Can I get you ladies a drink? Margarita?” Erica had already set up the blender and enough limes to supply most Mexican food restaurants for a week or two.

  They nodded and I set to work. I didn’t drink the night before a game, so I made a virgin version for myself and we took them out on the patio.

  “Tell me about France,” Erica said, smiling at Magalie. I was glad she had opted for friendly instead of terrifying. With my sister, it could really go either way. “If I ever get to go there, where should I go?”

  Magalie was sitting next to me on the wicker loveseat facing the low table, the beach just beyond the railing of the patio providing the perfect backdrop. Her leg was pressed against mine, and I was struggling to find something about the moment that didn’t feel perfect, but coming up short.

  “Well, Paris is what everyone comes to see,” she said, her hands moving in front of her as if they were building on her words. “But the south is lovely. And where I grew up, Avignon—it is so pretty. Do you like wine, Erica?”

  Erica smiled. “I like to drink wine, but I’m definitely not any kind of aficionado.”

  Maglie waved this protest away. “Non, that doesn’t matter. Wine is about what you like. You taste to learn what you like, don’t worry about the people who need to know every little detail about the wine. It is very personal, different for everyone. I wish people didn’t try to make it seem so intimidating.”

  “Me too,” Erica agreed. She was smiling, and her posture was relaxed. I had the sense she’d forgotten that she was supposed to dislike Magalie and be suspicious of her motives. Just when I’d begun to enjoy myself though, Erica surprised me.

  “Okay,” she said, putting her glass down on the table and leaning forward. “You are a nice person. I can see that. So what is this all about? This fake engagement?”

  “Subtle, sis.” I glared at her, then looked at Magalie to see surprise in the arch of her brows, the quick color in her cheeks. “You don’t have to answer her.”

  “Non,” Magalie said. “She is right to be worried. To look out for you.” She put a hand on my arm, and then took a deep breath. “I am sorry for how this began,” she said, looking between us. “My mother, she has controlled my life for as long as I can remember.” Magalie told Erica everything she’d told me, about her childhood, about Henri and the pretense of the internship. But then she told her something she hadn’t told me yet. “But now I think Mr. Match is wiser than I gave him credit for. Because I think there is more here, between Trace and me. At least, I feel there is. I feel maybe there is something more real.”

  Magalie turned to look at me then, and surprise made me gape back at her. “Yeah, well . . .” I looked at my sister, who was smiling happily. It was hard for me to reconcile the hopes I’d had with the happiness I felt hearing her say those words. “Sure,” I said, like an idiot. “Tacos?”

  I stood and went inside, desperate for a minute to figure out how to switch suddenly from fake fiancé mode to yeah-this-could-be-real mode. Erica followed me inside.

  “Trace, you’re a moron,” she hissed.

  “I know that.”

  “She likes you.”

  I got the taco stuff together, ready to bring it outside to the patio table.

  “She just told you she likes you and you offered her tacos?” Erica was flinging silverware onto the tray.

  “I’m confused,” I said. “This was all supposed to be fake.”

  “But you like her too,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah.”

  “So tell her. I’ll stay inside for a minute.” Erica disappeared into the bathroom and I carried the tray back outside, finding it hard to meet Magalie’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry Trace, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” She stood and helped me put the things from the tray on the table.

  “No, you just surprised me is all,” I said. “Because I thought there was no chance for things to be real, that you just needed me to be . . .”

  “But I think they are, non?” She put herse
lf in front of me, made me stop moving around.

  “They could be,” I admitted, finally looking into those deep brown eyes. And then I gave in. I closed the space between us, let my hands find the lines of her pretty jaw as I cupped it, and let my lips meet hers. Her arms went around my neck, and she stepped in even closer to me. My heart flung itself against my chest, reaching for her, and my mind spun with possibility. This. This. This.

  “Meat’s done!” Erica declared from the other side of the patio where the meat had been grilling. I hadn’t heard her come back out, but clearly she’d seen us kissing. Heat washed across the back of my neck as Magalie stepped away, one hand pressed to her lips.

  Erica seemed satisfied that she’d given us enough time together to figure things out, and she didn’t leave us alone again all night. We finished dinner, and Magalie left early to allow me to prepare for the game tomorrow. I kissed her lightly once more as she met her Uber, and then went back inside.

  “So it’s real,” Erica said. “And that means you’re actually engaged.”

  I shook my head. “Honestly? I have no idea what it means. Maybe we can just leave it alone for now. I have a game tomorrow. I need to focus on that.”

  But as I laid down that night to sleep, my heart felt fuller than I could remember it feeling. I didn’t have a definition, but I had a possibility. Maybe that was enough for now.

  Chapter 63

  The Box is Distracting

  Trace

  Stepping out onto the pitch Sunday afternoon felt a lot like heading out there for the very first time. I'd walked through that tunnel to the field countless times before, and hundreds of tunnels just like it. But today, knowing I'd step out the other side and from then until the game ended, Magalie would be watching me . . . Well, it was different. Nerve-racking. Scary, even.

  But the thing was, this was my job, and I couldn't afford to let one tiny little French woman with huge brown eyes mess with my head. Even though I kind of wanted to. I told myself to keep my eyes on the field as we emerged to the screaming cheers of San Diego's fans, but I'd never been great at following directions. My gaze flew immediately to the premium seating along the edge of the field, and she was there.

  Magalie was standing, her hands together at her chest as if she was pausing while clapping, and a bright smile covered her face. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her yellow shirt made her stand out like a beacon. She was with another woman, one who had chin-length blond hair, and a man who was tall and lanky. They all stood, clapping excitedly and watching us come in, and as I moved toward the sideline, Magalie caught my eye and began waving madly, her face breaking into a smile that challenged the sun in its brightness.

  My heart lifted and raced.

  "That your girl?" Max Winchell was at my side suddenly, staring over to where Magalie stood in the boxes that were so close they were practically on the field.

  "Um . . ." I realized she was. I wanted her to be. "Yeah."

  "Pretty," Max said, and there was something thoughtful in his voice I didn't understand. Max was an enigma, and I wasn't sure I needed him taking a sudden interest in my love life.

  Max took a swig of water and jogged out to the field, and I took a quick drink too. Then I did something stupid.

  I jogged to the edge of the field and said hello.

  "Trace! Hi!" Magalie was practically bouncing out of the box, her smile gigantic. It was infectious, and I grinned back. "This is amazing."

  "I'm glad you came," I said, and I meant it. Magalie knew a little about how I’d grown up, about my life—she knew I’d never had anyone but Erica, I doubted she understood what it meant to me to have her come watch me play.

  "This is Adam and Chloe," Magalie said, introducing her friends.

  "Thanks for the tickets, man," Adam said.

  “Any time,” I said, and I gave them a little salute, turning to take the field before the guys came over to drag me out. As I jogged to the goal, my mind was moving in several directions at once.

  Usually, before a game, I was focused on one thing: stopping the ball.

  Today, I was focused on the eyes watching me from the sidelines, on the ball, on the weird way Max had asked about 'my girl,' on the way it had felt to hold her in my arms. Basically, I was a mess.

  And at sixteen minutes in, I missed a block. It should have been an easy get; the ball flew past me, just to my left. In my defense, the guy hadn't been in position to shoot, there'd been little pressure outside the box and I didn't think there was any immediate danger. I let my eyes drift to the premium seating area at the same moment one of the Houston guys dodged around Hammer and made a ridiculous shot from the sideline that should never have gone in.

  But just because it shouldn't have, doesn't mean it didn't. An angry ball of determination formed inside me.

  The other team had scored and I might as well have gone over and put the number up on the scoreboard myself. A dark guilt rushed into my gut and swelled there, pushing its way through my body. One more thing to focus on. One more distraction.

  The next test came only a few minutes later, with a lot of action just outside the box that had me sprinting around, ready. I managed a save and punted to the other end of the field, but the assholes came straight back down, and I began to wonder if I wasn't the only guy thinking about other things today. Where was our fucking offense?

  By the half, I'd managed to get back in the game for the most part, and told myself not to look up at the box where I knew Magalie was on the edge of her seat, her little fingers wrapped over the edge of the wall, her eyes bright and alert. I'd blocked three more serious attempts, and Max had scored once, tying us up. My worry eased a bit as we went into halftime.

  The onslaught from the coaching staff as I iced my shoulder in the locker-room was deserved. The team's ownership was up in the air and everyone was tense, including the coaching staff. It turned out Marissa was in the owner’s box today with a potential buyer, and even the coaches were worried about being replaced.

  I sat, staring at the floor between my feet and took the hard words they gave out as my shoulder ached. I deserved it. If we lost this game, it would be my fault, and I realized something as I listened to the head coach name the different ways I'd failed and suggest how getting my head out of my ass might be a more effective strategy for success going forward. I realized that if no one came to watch you, if no one cared about you, you had no distractions. I'd been laser focused my whole life because soccer was all I had. And Erica was so invested, she was practically an extension of me.

  But this? Having Magalie bouncing just off the field, her eyes on me? It was different. Maybe it was something I'd get used to, but for now it wasn't helping. It was dividing my attention and I deserved every angry glare I got from my teammates as I sat there stewing. I had to do better.

  The second half was rough, and I was on the ground more than I was standing, throwing myself from one side of the box to the other, my shoulder screaming. I refused to look at the boxes just off the field. I needed to concentrate. It was a tense match, and we went into overtime, Fuerte and Max finally managing to drive one in at practically the last minute. The worry inside me unspooled a bit when the final seconds ticked past.

  The victory felt hollow to me, but I went through the motions of celebrating with my team, hand slapping and chest-bumping on the field before offering our condolences to the Houston team. I glanced up at the boxes as we left the field, and Magalie was there, her eyes focused on me. When she saw me look her way, she waved madly and grinned again, and I gave her a quick wave back, thinking about how I’d blamed her for my missed shot.

  It wasn't her fault. I just needed to get used to the idea of someone watching me, coming to the game for me. As I did my best to smile and wave at her in a way that didn't communicate my confusion or dark thoughts, I told myself it would be worth it. Having someone here, someone who cared, should be something I wanted. And down deep, there was a little spark of pride in my ches
t that she had been here to see us win, to see me win.

  The coaches congratulated us in the locker rooms.

  “This isn’t over by a long shot, fellas,” Coach Hendricks said. “Playoffs are around the corner. There’s still time to fuck up.”

  Very encouraging.

  “But I know you won’t,” he added, as an afterthought.

  I left the locker room thinking about playoffs and about the acting role I was about to begin. Magalie’s mother was due to arrive tomorrow.

  Chapter 64

  Prepare to be Impressed

  Magalie

  Live soccer was so much more exciting than watching it on television. I was a true fan. It almost made me wish my mother had taken me to see matches as a child, but then, there were many things I would change about my relationship with my mother if I could.

  Trace was incredible. It was almost surreal to watch that same lithe strong body I’d been so close to leap and run and dive. All those hard planes of muscles had a great use beyond my own personal enjoyment, I realized. Trace was like a finely tuned engine, built and maintained specifically for this.

  As I watched him play, I was swept up in the excitement and tension of the sport, and the attraction I already felt for him grew. His intense focus, his physical intensity—it was all compelling in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I think that is how things go, maybe, when you see someone in their element.

  I'd potentially poisoned the well of our relationship right at the start, and the ring I'd tucked carefully into a box inside my dresser was a symbol of that. Maybe it was wishful thinking to believe that anything true might be possible between us while my mother's visit still loomed, but last night had felt so promising. He hadn’t exactly confirmed feelings for me, but he hadn’t denied them either. I just wished we had more time before Maman arrived.

  I had rented a small house for her, careful to ensure there was no room for me to stay as well. Though I knew she'd try to insist on me staying with her, I also knew I'd need the sanctuary of my own quiet apartment during her time here. And as for Henri's visit, I had no idea what to expect from it. When I'd left, I thought I'd made it very clear that I had no intention of marrying him, but I knew my mother was a very skilled manipulator. I had no doubt she might have convinced Henri there was still a chance. Why else would he be coming all this way?