As I turn and make my way to the kitchen, I feel Mitchell’s eyes on my back. Lower. I put an extra sway in my hips, because why not? It’s nice to be admired by an attractive young man. And Mitchell Burns is very attractive. The only people who wouldn’t think so are the dead, and even then he’d probably be able to resurrect them with a flash of his devastating smile.
Once more, I make the rounds in my section. One of my tables hails for their check. I return to the cash register to tally up their bill, jerking back with a strangled gasp when I spot Michell standing two feet away, watching me.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” My heart knocks against my ribs. I frown. “You’re not supposed to be back here. Do you need something? Your food should be out in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“No, we’re good.” He shifts awkwardly, looking at a point over my shoulder. “I just needed some space for a minute. From my dad, I mean.”
I straighten, surprised at this sudden show of vulnerability. “Oh.” Looking more closely, I notice dark smudges beneath his eyes, lines carved around his mouth, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Is everything okay?” Unconsciously, I step closer and rest a hand on his arm, the muscle of his bicep hard beneath my palm.
“Fine,” he mutters.
If he doesn’t want to confide in me, I understand. We hardly know each other. So why do I feel a small stab of disappointment? Why do I suddenly wish he opened up to me? “Suit yourself.”
Table four’s bill begins to print when Mitchell says quietly, “It’s my first game in six months.”
I turn back around, the machine buzzing as it spits out the receipt. His skin is pale in the low light, and a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. The urge to wipe it away rises in me. “You’re nervous?”
With a nod, he stares at the floor. “My dad’s presence doesn’t help.”
I’d probably be nervous too, knowing my father, someone of great influence in my life, didn’t approve of my life choices. The fact that it’s leading Mitchell to lie no doubt puts additional stress on him.
“Are you afraid you’ll disappoint him?” I murmur.
Our eyes meet: blue against brown. Something shifts in his expression. “Not him,” he says. The sounds of the restaurant fade into the background as, quite without noticing, I fall under the spell of his voice. “I’m more afraid of disappointing myself.”
That I was not expecting. “Why would you disappoint yourself?”
His head tilts, his eyes reamed gold in the low light. My breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. “I mentioned how I was injured six months ago, right?”
I nod.
“Well, before my injury—” His shoulders tense, then loosen. “Before my injury, I was on track for being recruited by Manchester United.”
Wow. Not that I know much about soccer, but even I know you have to be insanely talented to qualify for a professional athletic career, especially at so young an age.
“I’d managed to secure a spot last season when I was a senior,” he continues, his expression far away, the small frown speaking of something lost. “I flew over to England a few times for try-outs, and once they even flew over to watch one of my games. But then I destroyed my knee two months before graduation.” He bends his right leg, and it looks to be an unconscious gesture, a memory of the pain. “I lost my spot.”
My heart goes out to him. “I’m sorry.” I truly am. I can hear how torn he is. The wound has not yet healed. “Is there another chance for you to make the team?”
He nods. “This is probably my last year for eligibility. They don’t recruit people too old. I need to be my absolute best. I just—” He lifts his hands, palms out in a gesture of helplessness that tugs at some deeper emotion inside me. “I don’t know what I’ll do if this doesn’t work out, if I fail. Playing soccer is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Suddenly, I’m right beside him, the space between us warming with our body heat. I wait until he focuses on me, his attention briefly settling on my mouth before traveling up to my face. This feels too intimate for friends—not that we are friends—but at the same time, it feels natural too. Like comforting one another is second nature. “You can’t think that way. You have to believe you have what it takes, that you deserve to succeed.” My smile is tentative. “Maybe I don’t know that much about soccer, but they’d be crazy not to choose you.”
I don’t tell Mitchell this, but after we initially struck our deal, I did some research on him, as I wanted to know what I was getting into. Most of the research consisted of watching videos of him playing soccer. He’s amazing. Speedy. Smooth footwork. And he doesn’t give up. Goal after goal after goal, he led his team to three national championships. He’s that good.
He’s studying me so closely I begin to wonder if there’s something stuck in my teeth. But then he nods, and the slowest, warmest, most devastating smile breaks across his face. My pulse stumbles, then picks up speed. “Thanks, Rebecca.”
My face has gone slack. I hardly notice that he uses my full name. “N-no problem,” I stutter breathlessly, then clear my throat. “If you want, I can come to your game today for added support. It’ll look good to your father, at least.”
The smile takes on a softer quality. “You’d do that?”
A tingling sensation overtakes me, flooding down to my fingers and toes. How much time have we spent talking? I was supposed to bring table four their check, but that thought is very far away at the moment. “Sure, if it would help.” Plus, I’m unashamedly looking forward to seeing Mitchell covered in sweat and running down the field. So there’s that.
“What time are you off?”
“Five. You’re my last table for the day.”
He gives me a nod. “Appreciate it.”
Once he returns to his seat, I drop off table four’s check and make my rounds one last time. Table three left me a very generous tip, as I served a party of twelve celebrating a birthday. I happily shove the wad of cash into my pocket. I might have enough to put some into my savings this month.
Just as I’m dropping off the bill for my second-to-last table, Mr. Burns waves me over. “Mitchell mentioned you’re joining us for the game?”
His piercing stare bores into my head. I fight the urge to squirm. “Yes, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Wonderful. We’ll give you a ride. And please, call me Ben.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” I wave my hand to brush aside his offer. “My roommate can drop me off. It’s no problem.”
“Nonsense. Mitchell will drive you.” He lifts his chin at his son across the table. “Won’t you?”
Mitchell says, without missing a beat, “She’s my girlfriend. Of course I’ll drive her.”
And that’s how, twenty minutes later, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Mitchell’s silver BMW, sinking into buttery leather seats with the AC blasting to ward off the heat. He handles the car with ease, cutting through slow traffic as we make our way to the field.
Mitchell glances at my work uniform: black pants, black shirt, black shoes. “You sure you don’t want to stop by your place to change? It’s going to be hot.”
And risk him recognizing Katie? No, thank you. “I actually have a change of clothes.” I pat the small backpack resting near my feet, which contains my stuffy research outfit. Low-hanging clouds thicken as we head toward Duke’s athletic complex. “It looks like it’s going to rain anyway, so the heat won’t be as strong.”
“You know you don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to feel obligated to show up just because I was feeling all butt-hurt back at the restaurant. I know it’s not explicitly stated in the contract.”
I sit up straighter in my seat. How could I have forgotten about the contract? “Do you not want me to watch or something?”
“No. I mean, how else are you going to witness my prowess on the field?” His tone is playful, matching the curve of his mouth. “But you do realize the game doesn’t start for hour, right?”
There’s something in his voice I can’t place. I want to say it’s vulnerability, but maybe not. My next words are simple, and they are truth. “I want to support you.”
His fingers tighten on the wheel. He doesn’t respond, but the energy between us shifts once again. It’s a bit confusing, trying to keep track of how we fit together. What surprises me is that I genuinely enjoy Mitchell’s company. There’s an ease between us I would have never expected.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of the athletic complex. And I decide, as I slip from his car to stand on the already baking asphalt, that what I said was true. Whether Mitchell likes it or not, I’m here to support him.
I want him to win.
Chapter 9
mitchell
There’s nothing I love more than walking across an empty field. The air smells of earth and grass. The two goal posts are lone sentinels on either end of the turf, the bleachers and benches currently empty. It’s quiet, peaceful. I always make a point to arrive early, when there’s no one here but me. That’s just how I like it.
Dropping my bag near the bench, I begin my stretches while Rebecca goes to the restroom to change. Time moved at a snail’s pace this week, as it usually does when you’re dreading something. I haven’t played a game in half a year, and my blood is buzzing, my body vibrating with energy fighting for release. Soon the recruiters will arrive. Thoughts of getting reinjured clang through my head, but I push them aside as best I can. Worrying over things I can’t change won’t help.
Deep breath. I’m going to play my best. Right now, that’s all I can ask of myself.
I take longer than usual to ensure I’m as loose and limber as possible. I test my right knee, but there’s no pain. What worries me is going too hard, too fast, too soon. It’s been so long since I’ve played a game I wouldn’t put it past myself to give one thousand percent, even though I need to take it slow. At least today I’m not starting. Coach is going to put me in after half-time if we’re in the lead.
After stretching, I take a few laps around the field at an easy jog. Then I get my soccer ball and do a few dribbling exercises before setting up shop at one of the goal posts. I practice my shots, then my throws. My entire warm-up probably takes close to forty minutes, and when I head back to the bench for a water break, I find Rebecca checking something on her phone.
“Hey.” I plop onto the bench beside her and chug from my water bottle. A breeze from the approaching storm cools the sweat against my skin.
Her head snaps up, and she shoves the phone into her purse. “Hey.” The sweltering heat has brought some color to her cheeks. She pushes her glasses up her nose and peers at me, the lenses making her eyes appear bigger. “You’re all warmed up now?”
“Yup.”
She changed into a puke green dress, long white socks that go to her knees, and black clogs. Honest to God, does she even look at herself in the mirror before walking out the door?
I almost wish she had stayed in her work uniform. Those black pants hugged an unexpectedly nice ass, which I couldn’t help but notice back at the restaurant. It makes me wonder what the rest of her looks like. It’s too bad this outfit is as shapeless as the rest of them, leaving little to the imagination. Although I will say this is the first time I’ve seen her legs. Even though she’s wearing long, knee-high socks, I’m surprised by their slimness and femininity.
Rebecca clears her throat.
Shit. I pull my gaze away, unaware that I’d been staring at the strip of exposed skin above the tops of her socks.
She smirks at me, her eyes playful. “Anything you’d like to say, Mitchell?”
I can’t help but recall what Casey said a few weeks ago at the house party.
So where did you two meet anyway? Bingo night at the senior center?
On one hand, I know where he’s coming from. Rebecca’s not my type. Actually, she’s the exact opposite of my type. The girls I dated in the past, while a little fan-fanatic, at least understood the power of fitted clothing. But with Rebecca, I don’t know. Something about her calms me. Her kindness and unexpected snark get my blood roiling. She’s not what I originally expected, and I misjudged her. Plus, now I know she has a nice ass.
I swallow down my laugh. Busted. “Nope.”
Rebecca shrugs and looks around. People begin to arrive at the field carting coolers and umbrellas. “So is there anything you do or don’t want me to do while I’m here? I mean, obviously I’ll cheer you on and whatnot.”
For some reason, it irks me that she feels pressured to act a certain way. This outing wasn’t part of the contract. I know that she should act like my girlfriend, but I almost wish she’d just support me because she wanted to, not because she felt obligated.
“Just be yourself,” I tell her.
“What if someone asks how we met? What do you want me to say?”
“No one’s going to ask you that.” People will probably overlook her anyway. Rebecca has a way of blending in, and you kind of forget that she’s there. Unless you’re looking at her ass, of course.
She purses her lips. “If you say so.”
Tearing my eyes away from her mouth, I down half of my water bottle in one gulp, frowning. A mouth is just a mouth, and Rebecca’s is nothing special.
“How long have you been playing soccer anyway?” she asks. On the opposite side of the field, a few parents set up their chairs, having arrived extra early to snag prime real estate. My father won’t show up until the second half. Not because that’s when I’ll be playing, but because he’s not invested in my life enough to want to spend ninety minutes standing around in the sun when he has better things to do.
“Fifteen years. Started when I was seven.” From the moment I put my foot to the ball, I knew this was something I wanted to do. “I didn’t realize I could do it professionally until middle school. That’s when I really got serious about soccer.” I still remember the grueling hours my mom spent shuttling me around to various travel teams. I’m grateful my parents supported me, but I also know my dad was blind to my passion. He was always under the impression I’d follow in his footsteps, having believed the sport to be just a phase.
Turning my head, I catch Rebecca looking at me. “What?”
She shakes her head. Looks to the grassy field. “I can tell you really love soccer. You sound different when you speak of it.”
“How so?”
“Your voice has this light, happy quality. It’s nice.” Behind her glasses, her eyes crinkle.
If this were Casey or one of my other teammates, I’d crack some joke about them being a pansy-ass, but with Rebecca it feels sincere, and it seems wrong to crush that sincerity beneath my uncomfortableness. Truthfully, I’m happy she recognizes my love for the sport. It’s here to stay.
Picking up the soccer ball, I spin it between my hands, then drop it onto the turf and capture it beneath my cleat.
Rebecca looks between the ball and the goal on the opposite end of the field. “So,” she says, drawing out the word. “Are you any good?”
Am I good? Fuck yeah, I’m good. Or at least I was before the injury. It will be months before I’m back to my previous fitness level, but even injured, I’m still one of the strongest players on the team.
“One of the best,” I claim, watching her in my peripheral vision for her reaction.
Her unlady-like snort takes me off guard. “Someone’s cocky.”
“Can’t handle the truth, Becky?”
Rebecca points to the goal. “Can you make the shot from here?”
I say, without a trace of uncertainty, “Absolutely.”
Her gaze narrows, the blue of her irises flaring in intensity. “Uh huh. Sure you can.”
My pulse thunders in my ears at the challenge.
I’m so ready for it.
Kicking the ball a few feet ahead to give myself space, I move away from the bench and line up the shot. But before I blow her mind with my skills, I turn and give her a wink, to
which she rolls her eyes, making me chuckle.
Two, three, four steps, and then I’m running, gearing up, and a crack sounds as my foot connects with the soccer ball. It arcs through the air, the power of my legs sending it far, and I hold my breath, watching the trajectory, seeing where it’ll hit the back of the net in the upper right corner, just like I planned it, and—
I miss.
I fucking miss.
The ball goes five or six feet wide of the goal, shoved aside by a sudden gust of wind. I forgot to account for that when taking the shot. Shit, I really am rusty.
Behind me, Rebecca titters. “A solid effort.”
Whirling around, I scowl down at her. She grins cheekily, which only boils my blood more. Then she gets to her feet and pats my arm. “Maybe next time,” she says.
My teeth clamp together. I pull my arm away, forgetting that we’re supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Whoops.
Luckily, of the ten people on the field, no one’s paying us any attention.
“Like you can do better,” I say.
“You’re right. I can’t.” She brushes past me, heading for the goal. “But that’s not going to stop me from trying.”
After retrieving the ball, she places it in front of the goal. I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. “You’re way too close. Back up a few yards. Don’t you want a challenge?”
“Funny.” Still, she backs up. “Better?”
I lean against the goal post, arms crossed over my chest, unable to stop a smile from forming as Rebecca studies the ball, the goal, and the distance between, brows knit in concentration.
Stepping back, she surges forward, and I don’t bother hiding my cringe as she kicks the ball with her toe. One of the first things I learned is to never kick the ball with your toe, because you have no control wear the ball goes. It shoots in the complete opposite direction of the goal.
Rebecca retrieves the ball, places it on the goal line, and steps back, readying herself.
“Here.” Pushing off the goal post, I place my hands on her shoulders and shift her body in reference to the net. “When you kick the ball, try to use this part of your foot.” I touch the top of her big toe through her black clogs. “Try to aim for the corners, either top or bottom. If you aim for the center, you’ll basically end up kicking it right into the goal keeper’s hands.”
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