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I don’t make many promises. But the ones I make, I keep.
TEN
SOPHIA
“Sophia!”
I turn toward my name. Spot Clara and stride toward her, regretting my ridiculously high heels more with each step. They’re new, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to wear them. Now that I’m wearing them, I wish I’d thought of an excuse not to.
Queen Victoria is different and a little edgier than our usual weekend spots. The floor is concrete, each unforgiving step making the balls of my feet ache. One wall is decorated with graffiti. It’s in an older, industrial building, the space stretching long and low.
“What do you think?” Clara asks when I reach her.
I glance around, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief as my butt hits the bench seat. They’re wooden with metal joints, similar to ones at an outdoor beer garden. Not that comfortable, but way better than standing.
“It’s cool.”
She frowns at my lackluster tone. “We can go somewhere else. Mia and Emilia aren’t here yet.”
“No, it’s fine.”
The restlessness I’m experiencing will follow wherever we end up. It’s been simmering under my skin ever since the game earlier. Ever since I realized some part of me enjoyed the challenge of taking pictures of football players. Ever since Will Aster scored the goal he’d promised and then—in one of the most thrilling moments of my life—sent a smirk to exactly where I was standing. The harder I try not to think about this afternoon’s unexpected events, the more persistent the thoughts become.
“Get that fancy camera ready. I’ll score a goal for you, Sophia.”
Worse than Will’s cocky delivery is that he actually delivered. Ludlin scored in extra time. But the game still ended as a draw instead of a loss, which is how Kluvberg’s matches against Ludlin have gone the past few years.
“First round!” Andrea appears, a tray of shots in one hand that she carefully sets on the table before sliding in next to Clara.
“Not wasting any time?”
“You’re the one who was late,” Andrea says, smirking before she slings one of the little glasses back.
“I know. I had a…busy afternoon.”
“Taking photos?” Andrea rolls her eyes.
My “friends”—mostly wealthy girls who grew up in the same affluent area I did but always wanted to come over to my house—encouraged my passing interest in fashion and interior design far more than photography. I’m expecting that to change as soon as I say who I was taking photos of. The most interesting thing about me, according to most people I’ve met—especially women—is who my brother is.
“Yes,” I reply airily. “At the FC Kluvberg game.”
Sure enough, Clara’s and Andrea’s full attention is immediately on me.
“You were at the match earlier?” Clara asks.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were going?” Andrea questions.
My friends are aware of my disdain for football. They definitely don’t share it.
“I was there for work.” I pick up a shot and toss it back, certain I’ll need it. The vodka sears my throat, forming a warm puddle in my empty stomach.
“Did Kluvberg win?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I’m not faking the disappointment in my voice for once. Because of my brother, I always want Kluvberg to win. But I’ve never been that invested in a game’s outcome.
It’s a game. No matter how it ends, who wins or who loses, there will always be another one. That doesn’t seem like high stakes to me.
