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Crew’s gaze lingers on my expression for a few seconds, but he says nothing.
Our seats are right at the edge of the field. I stare out at the expanse of green grass as Crew talks to the man who brought us to them in Italian. My French might be iffy, but my knowledge of the native language doesn’t extend beyondCiao.
Even though the game hasn’t started yet, the field is filled with activity. Players at both ends are running drills and stretching. Others are jogging in place or talking to coaches.
Crew takes the seat next to me. “You know much about soccer?”
“What is there to know? You try to kick the ball into the net.”
He chuckles softly as he leans back. His bare arm brushes mine, and itsears. The sun has nothing on the surface of Crew’s skin. “I think you missed your calling as a coach.”
I scoff. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Come where?”
“The villa. This stadium.”
His legs spread out, crowding the plastic barrier that separates us from grass. “A few times a year. In college…the guys would always want to party. London, Copenhagen, you know. And my dad only wants to go to the Alps or to a good golf course.”
“This is better.”
“And here I thought we’d disagree about everything.”
It’s not exactly a smooth segway, but I blurt the question anyway. “Are you expecting last night to happen again?”
“Which part? When you admitted to stalking me, the skipping, or when I carried you up three flights of stone steps?”
I’m not exactly cool, sitting in the sun. But my cheeks still manage to overheat more. “Forget it.”
“I hope so.”
Against my better judgement, I meet his gaze. And since he’s no longer driving, he holds it without worrying about crashing.
“I really hope so. All of it, plus the sex.”
I pretend that doesn’t merit a response, choosing to focus on the figures on the field instead of the one next to me. It works for a while, until the actual game starts.
Crew either thinks his commentary is invaluable or is trying to prompt a response out of me, because he spews an endless stream of facts about different players I couldn’t care less about.
I alternate between smirking and sighing. Professional soccer games last for longer than I thought.
The most excitement is when the black and white ball bounces off a post with ten minutes left. But I’m not entirely bored.
It’s hot and loud. We spent the French Open in the shade sipping champagne. Yet I’d rather be here than back there.
Nearly three hours pass before the game ends. Scoreless, neither team makes a single goal. Crew continues his analysis—until the same man reappears and asks him something in Italian.
He turns to me. “The team owner wants to talk. Do you mind waiting?”
Days—maybe even hours ago—I would have given an honestyesbecause sitting around here for even longer is one of the last things I feel like doing. Warming toward Crew isn’t the equivalent of a personality transplant, though, so I don’t saynoeither. “I’ll come with you.”
Something in Crew’s expression suggests my middle ground isn’t what he considers a compromise, but he doesn’t argue, just nods.
We leave our seats, following the mysterious Italian who must work for the team. Halfway up the stairs, Crew grabs my hand, tugging me closer so that his body is the one cutting through the crowd. Once again, I tamp down the urge to fight him. I feel like I’ve proven to Crew I can handle myself. He knows I’m fully capable of shoving my way through rowdy fans. If he wants to do it for me, fine. A more concerning realization is how much I like the way it feels—having him take care of me in some small way. I’ve fought hard to establish independence. Relying on others is often setting yourself up for disappointment. I tell myself this isn’t a slippery slope, that letting Crew lead me through the stadium isn’t an indication I’m knocking down boundaries I carefully built.
I lie to myself.
The crowds thin the deeper we get into the stadium. Most people are leaving, not entering. We pass into a private section that requires our silent guide to flash his badge. The hallway is empty and quiet, the only sounds muffled by concrete walls.
