"Maman, I forgive you. But I'm tired. And I have to make some kind of salad dressing this week that is very complicated, I think. Some kind of American tradition." I wasn’t sure if I really forgave her, but I didn’t want to talk anymore tonight.
She nodded, her eyes wide and more understanding than I'd ever seen them. "All right," she said. Then she kissed me and sent me home.
Chapter 78
Poky and Painful Soup
Trace
Standing in the goal box as the final seconds ticked away at conference championships, understanding washed through me. We had lost. We would not go on to playoffs. This was the end of the season for the Sharks.
Disappointment washed through me as the other team high-fived us, and darkness threatened to overtake my mind as we went back into the locker room, all of us quiet on the heels of the loss.
However, for the first time in a long time, I accepted the loss, knowing it hadn't been my fault. If anything, I played one of the best games of my life. For once, it was only that the other team was better. And they deserved to go on to play for the cup.
It was weird. We'd lost the game, but I didn't feel empty. I looked around at my teammates, and realized I was actually kind of eager for a little time off.
"It was a spectacular season," Coach told us. "And each and every one of you should be proud. You've earned your time off. Go see your families, enjoy some turkey and pie, and get your butts back here after Christmas for practice. We've got games starting in January."
"No rest for the wicked," Hammer called out, grinning.
"You oughta know," Max told him.
We were on the charter jet, heading home—and there wasn't a guy on the plane who wasn't enjoying the ease of charter travel. It's no secret that a lot of MLS teams fly commercial, and that was definitely true when Theo was the owner. But now that his ex was in charge, she chartered flights for our playoff games. There's something to be said for having a wealthy owner—and a woman, too.
“Boys, there’s something we need to discuss before we land,” Coach Hendricks said as we were getting close to home. He stood and the assistant coach was behind him. Each of them had a bottle of champagne in both hands.
“Coach, we lost. Did you miss that part?” Toofer called out.
“No,” Coach said. “We made it to playoffs, and we impressed Marissa somehow.” ‘
“What does that mean?” Max asked. “Impressing Marissa?”
“It means,” Coach said, popping the cork on one of his bottles while he handed the other to Hamish. “She’s not selling the team! We’ll pick up a few new players in the draft, but the roster doesn’t change. We’re safe!”
Hamish popped the second cork and two more popped at the front of the plane. Soon, we were all sipping champagne and toasting one another. At least one thing was settled.
As the big Durnish defender settled back in beside me, we bumped our glasses and drank.
"What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Hamish?" I asked him. I knew he had something like ninety-three siblings, though he rarely talked about his royal family or his home. "Going home?"
"Nay," he said, rubbing a hand over his dark beard. "The Durnish don't eat turkeys to celebrate treason. It's just another day for us."
"You take the UK view of American freedom, I see," Max chimed in.
"Truth be told, I don't give a shit about it," Hammer said. "But if one of you wanted to invite me over to feast with you, I'll wear the feckin' flag and sing Yankee Doodle all day long." He grinned at us, and Max chuckled.
"It's not going to be a big deal at our place—just me and my sister, her boyfriend and my mom."
"And I'm planning to baste myself in gravy and soak in a tub of cranberries. Alone," I said.
"Not a chance," Fuerte chimed in. "Mama's expecting you, Trace. Hammer, you can come too."
Because spending the day with Erica's future mother-in-law was exactly what I wanted. I guessed it was better than nothing. In the past, Erica and I had done our best to ignore any holidays that screamed of big family gatherings, since we had no family at all. But this year, she was excited to join Fuerte's family, and I was . . . less excited.
I was trying hard not to think about Magalie, to wonder what she would do for the holiday. In a way, she was as alone as I was. Unless her mother and Henri were still here. And she did have Adam and Chloe. So she was better off than I was, actually.
Now that the season was over, part of me wanted to close the circle with her. I'd walked away in a swirl of confusion and fear, not to mention the enormous pressure of trying to save my career. I'd thought I would just forget her, that the feelings I had would sink to the bottom of all the others as I focused on the things that mattered to me. But they didn't sink. Those sharp-edged feelings bobbed at the top of the murky Trace feeling-soup inside me, and I needed to do something about them. They were poky and painful.
"That's too bad," Hamish said to Fuerte. "I was going to join Trace in his hot tub of gravy. That sounds like a food challenge to beat all others."
"Might not be good for the hot tub," I said, contemplating the realities of the proposed challenge. It was a good distraction from the other thoughts fighting for center stage in my head.
As we got off the plane, Fuerte fell into step next to me. "Let me know about Thanksgiving, man. I don't want to force you. Talk to Erica, maybe."
"Yeah," I said, glad to have friends who cared enough to invite me at all. "Thanks, I will. I'll let you know. I appreciate being included though, please let your Mama know that." Fuerte's mother had included Erica and me in Sunday dinners since Fuerte and my sister had been dating, and while I didn't always make it, when I did, it was good. Her place was warm and comfortable, and seeing Fuerte with his tiny mom gave me a new view of the guy. And seeing my sister so happy was the best.
As I headed home, I pondered how to approach the lingering feelings and doubts I had about Magalie. She hadn't reached out, so maybe it would be an intrusion for me to contact her. But maybe I could find out how she was doing, just reassure myself that I'd done the right thing. Once I was home and before I could think too much more about it, I dialed the number Adam had given me. We weren't close—we weren't even friends, really—but he'd said if I ever needed anything, I should call.
"Hello?" Adam answered on the third ring, just when I'd had time to second-guess my decision.
I leaned forward on my couch, my body suddenly on alert, still undecided if this was the right thing to do. "Yeah, hey. Hi Adam."
Moron.
"Hi," he sounded confused.
"Sorry, yeah. It's Trace. Johnson."
He laughed. "I only know one Trace. What can I do for you? Awesome game today, by the way. I'm so sorry to see it end, but it wasn't because you guys didn't play your hearts out."
I wondered if Magalie had watched the game with him. "Thanks for that. Yeah, it was a tough loss. But . . . listen . . ."
He waited, saying nothing.
"This is a little weird, I mean . . . I probably shouldn't be calling you. Or calling at all. But I just . . . I keep thinking about Magalie. Is she . . . I mean . . ."
"Yeah." His voice took on a harder edge, and I sensed some defensiveness there. "You kind of did a number on her when you left."
That wasn't what I wanted to hear. Guilt pooled inside me. "But now. I mean, it's been a while."
"I think when you really care about someone it takes more than a while to recover." Still the toneless voice, the veiled anger. "On the plus side, the back rooms at the winery are more organized than ever before."
"Oh." I took a breath, my mind spinning, feeling like I needed to fix this. "Do you think . . ." God, I couldn't find the words. "The thing is . . . maybe I made a mistake."
"Yep."
"Do you think if I—?"
"Look," Adam interrupted. "I care about Magalie. And I know you guys didn't know each other long, but I think she really cares about you too. And she's not doing well since you split up
." He took a breath. "Trace, you don't have to propose. I mean, that was stupid in the first place. But if you wanted to see her again, maybe give it another chance—"
It was my turn to interrupt. That was what I wanted to hear. "Yeah."
"I'm not going to say anything to her, okay? But we're having her and her mother and Henri for Thanksgiving this week, and—"
"Her mother is still here?" A little spike of fear went through me. I’d been afraid of lots of things—zombies, vampires, spiders—but Mrs. Caron was the most fucking terrifying thing I’d ever encountered.
Adam chuckled. "Yeah. But she's a little different than before."
"What?" What does that mean?" Like she’d grown more limbs? Or morphed into an actual deathly spider?
"Trace, man. I have all kinds of respect for you as a soccer player. You're kind of my hero, dude, and I don't say that lightly. But when it comes to Magalie, she's starting to feel like family, and I'm still pissed at you about the way that all went down. So if you want to come to Thanksgiving and try to make things right, then come. But no drama and if you make her cry again, I might kill you. Or try. Three o'clock. We're doing it at the winery."
I thought about that, how things could go wrong if she didn't want to try again. "But if she's not interested, it'll ruin your evening."
"Nah. And I wouldn't invite you if I didn't think she'd want to see you." A flare of hope erupted in my chest at that.
"Okay," I said slowly, and then my mind went back to the conversation with Hammer. "So this is definitely pushing, but there's another player, Hammer, who—"
"Are you kidding? Bring him! Bring the whole team if you want. I'd love that."
I was less sure that Chloe and Magalie would love that, but I thanked Adam and hung up. I had a lot to think about, and only a couple days to do it.
First, I needed to make sure Erica wouldn't be mad if I didn't spend Thanksgiving with her.
Chapter 79
Pilgrim's Pride
Magalie
Thanksgiving was not something I was especially excited about. Though I was interested in learning more about the country in which I was living, a holiday built around eating as much as possible didn't make sense to me.
"It's not really about the food," Adam was trying to explain.
"But everything I read about it talks about the food more than anything else," I said. "And pilgrims. Sometimes they talk about pilgrims."
"We don't do a lot of pilgrim stuff at our dinner," he said. "But maybe I'll dress up like one if that will add to the ambiance for you."
"Please," I said, grinning at him over the tasting counter.
"Just be sure you're all here by two-thirty or so."
"It's so early for dinner," I said, anticipating my mother's response. Though my mother had been less predictable since Emile had shown up and told her he loved her. She'd softened, and now I found her smiling often and sometimes staring off into space. Or into Emile's eyes. It was a little unnerving. It turned out their arrangement had been based on many things, but love had been one of them—it had just taken them a while to discover it. I was happy for her.
"Well, that's so that you can eat at least twice," Adam explained.
"Oh my God."
"Trust me. It'll be a good day. We'll watch American football, eat, drink and just be together."
I took the information back to Henri, Maman and Emile that night, and we laughed about the strange tradition we were going to witness.
A little pang of loneliness echoed through me, and I couldn't help but think of the American man I wished I would be spending the day with. I wondered what Trace and his sister did for the holiday. I knew he was finished with his soccer season, and wondered what he was doing, and if he ever thought about me.
Thursday dawned sunny and bright, and there was a tiny undercurrent of something in the air that hinted at fall.
"We don't really have fall in San Diego," Chloe told me as we arrived at the winery and I remarked on the weather. "More like a cooler version of summer." She pressed sparkling wine mixed with cranberry into our hands and smiled broadly at us. "Welcome. We're so glad you could come celebrate with us."
We'd been greeted on the patio, but we entered the tasting room through the arched doors to find it had been transformed. A huge television sat in one corner, surrounded by two couches and lots of chairs. At the other end of the open space was a long table, festooned with orange and gold leaves, and draped in a white tablecloth. There were place settings for more people than I thought were necessary. We were only six, but there were settings for at least four more. I shook my head, maybe this was part of the tradition.
"Here is the dressing," I said, waving Chloe to where I'd set down the bowl. I'd finally asked at the supermarket and been directed to a box. "Did you know it is also called stuffing?"
She smiled broadly. "Yes. Sorry, I should have told you that."
"It isn't salad dressing at all."
"No, it's not."
"But aren't you supposed to cook it inside the turkey? That is what the lady at the store said."
"You can," she began, but our attention was distracted by a commotion at the patio doors. "Adam!" Chloe cried.
Adam had appeared in the doorway, wearing a tall black-and-white hat with a buckle and a strange uniform of short brown pants, tall white socks and buckled black shoes. His shirt was black, and he had a wide white collar, the kind little girls wore to church.
"What in the world—" I began to ask, but my attention was drawn to something behind Adam at the door. Not something, actually. Someone. Someone tall and broad, with dark hair and beautiful marine-blue eyes that haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts. "Trace," I breathed.
I glanced around the room to see if anyone else was as suddenly off balance as I was, but Maman simply smiled at me, Emile's arm around her waist, and Henri and Adam were shaking hands. Chloe was at my back. "Go ahead," she whispered.
I stepped toward the door, where Trace stood, his eyes on me and a half-smile on his handsome face. "Hi," he said in a low voice.
I was about to answer, when he jolted forward as if he'd been pushed, almost dropping the pie he held.
"Hello, Lass," Hamish stepped out of Trace's shadow and around him, and we all moved inside the doorway. Hamish leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek and then went over to meet Chloe, handing her a bottle of some kind of amber-colored liquid.
After Hamish, Fernando Fuerte and Trace's sister stepped inside, flanked by a tiny woman with dark skin and a broad smile. Erica's hand brushed my shoulder as they went over to greet the hostess, and I was left standing alone with Trace, who still held a pie in front of him.
"Hi," I managed, joy trying to gush through me but my more intelligent sense of self-preservation stepping in. "Would you like to put your pie down?"
"If I'm honest, I'd like to bury my face in the pie, but I guess I can wait," Trace said, winking at me. A little thrill flew through my chest as he delivered the wink, his words were so perfectly Trace, and everything in me responded, despite the silliness of it.
I felt a genuine smile replace the uncertain one I'd worn before. "Come on," I told him, and I walked him over to where Chloe was arranging all the food along the tasting counter. He put the pie at the end of the spread, and I said, "I didn't expect to see you."
One side of his mouth twisted into a wry smile, and he said, "I know. I hoped it would be okay, coming like this. But we can go if you—"
"No," I said, maybe too quickly. But now that he was here, I hoped it might be about something more than the meal. Still, I hadn't been the one to leave, and I was hurt. "It's fine," I added cautiously.
"Do you think maybe we can talk? Maybe outside?"
I nodded, retrieving my wine glass as I followed Trace to the patio with nerves flinging themselves through me like moths against a glass door at night.
He held out a chair for me at a corner table, and despite the formality of it all, I sat, hopeful about wha
t he might be about to say.
Trace took the chair across from me, his face grim, worry etched in the lines of his forehead and around his mouth. I wanted to reach across the table and smooth those lines away, but I held my hands in my lap. I was barely breathing.
"You aren't bad luck," he said, and then seemed to regret the words immediately, shaking his head and rubbing a hand in his hair. "Crap."
"What?" I asked, tilting my head to one side. "Thanks."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, it actually is, but not like that. Just not like that with nothing else." He looked around us like there might be someone nearby who could help. "Oh crap, this isn't right."
I thought he might stand up and leave again, and found that everything in me wanted him to stay. I reached across the table and took his hand, more to anchor him, to make him stay, than anything else. But as soon as my fingers wrapped the sturdy warmth of his hand, my chest ached painfully. "What are you trying to say?" I asked him, dropping his hand because it hurt too much to hold.
"Magalie," he said, settling slightly into his chair, his shoulders relaxing. "I screwed everything up." He paused and took a deep breath. "There was just so much going on. With soccer, and your mother and that fake engagement. And it made all these feelings inside me start popping out of these boxes I'd put them in. I mean, it was all new, it was all so different than the rest of my life . . ." he trailed off and looked around the patio again.
Then he took another deep breath and his eyes found mine and stayed there. A low buzz began in my ears.
"The truth is—and I don't think I realized this until it was too late . . . It's this. I was falling in love with you. And it scared the hell out of me." His words darted between us, and it took me a minute to catch them, to understand what he'd said. But before I could respond, he was speaking again. "I hadn't ever felt that way before, and I knew what it was, but I didn't want to recognize it. I was a little scared, really, I guess. And your mom—well, I was a lot scared of her."
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 40