Page 1 of Rumor Has It

CHAPTER

ONE

WREN

Wren Eames stepped onto the pitch at Dignity Health Sports Park with her lucky beat-up duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She inhaled deeply, letting the sweet smell of fresh-cut grass remind her that regardless of the number of seats in the stands, a field was a field. There was something about standing on a soccer field that calmed her nerves unlike anything else in the world. She was thirty minutes early, but inevitably, there were women there before her. A smile tugged at the corners of her full lips, the hint of dimples cutting into her suntanned cheeks, as she watched the women she had grown up admiring get booted up and stuff the world’s smallest shin guards into their knee-high socks. Big names—the biggest in United States Women’s soccer— were on the pitch, names of players whose jerseys Wren had begged for each Christmas. Morgan Prescott, Allison Martins, Erin Rice, Danielle Rodriguez, and Courtney Sinclair were all joking and laughing together, catching up after spending the holidays apart.

No matter what happened this weekend at the Women’s National Team combine, she’d be playing with or against her heroes in the Professional Women’s Soccer League season. She should take this opportunity to introduce herself to Courtney Sinclair at least. They were going to play for the Los Angeles Riptide together. Technically, she had introduced herself at this very combine the year prior, but she hardly doubted that the Courtney Sinclair would remember that. She’d just have to introduce herself again, she thought, as she set her duffle bag down close enough to everyone else’s to look like she knew she belonged, but far enough away to concede her unfamiliarity.

Wren stepped out of her slides and let her bare feet get cozy with the earth underneath them. It was a less common ritual, but she had a thing about being barefoot on soccer fields before playing on them. Someone had once told her that it was officially referred to as grounding. Whatever it was called, it made Wren feel better about the pitch. She slid her joggers off and pulled her socks, cleats, and shin guards out of her bag. She had quadruple checked them that morning, making sure her lucky pair of each were ready to go. She tugged her long dark hair back into a high ponytail and ripped off a piece of navy blue pre-wrap, rolling it into her signature makeshift headband and slammed the rest of the roll back into her duffel bag unceremoniously. The routine felt familiar, stable when all of her nerves and excitement had been building for this moment since the second she hadn’t made the cut last season. There were more openings this time. More players had retired at the end of last year. Superstars, who despite probably still being better than most of the women out here, had decided it was time to move on.

She sat down on the ground to do a few quick stretches before she pulled on her socks and cleats. She had gone for a light jog that morning to try and loosen up some of her muscles while her girlfriend, Andy, had made her breakfast. Because of her nerves, Wren had only been able to keep a few bites of it down. Instead of forcing more, she had opted to chug a protein shake while driving over to the stadium. At the moment, she was glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She would have chucked it all back up the second her eyes caught sight of Rebecca “Becky” Rothschild’s super high, dirty blonde ponytail.

Wren’s jaw tightened as she laced her cleats up more aggressively. She had heard a rumor that Rebecca had been invited, but Wren had really hoped it was just that, a rumor. Rebecca Rothschild had been a defender for North Carolina University for the past four years. Not only that, but Rebecca had been a defender from actual hell. She was tall and lean and fast and rough. In their last six matches against each other, they had both earned themselves multiple yellow cards, and once each, they had managed to pick up a red. But for their last collegiate soccer match ever, Wren’s team had won and Wren had been awarded the Golden Boot.

She smiled smugly in Rebecca’s direction as she pushed herself up off the ground. There were three full days of training and competition ahead. Wren was a forward. Rebecca, a defender. Maybe Rebecca would be able to be mature about everything. Maybe they could shake off the past and move forward as friends and hopefully teammates playing at a national level. Maybe they didn’t have to be at each other’s throats for once. At the very least, Wren hoped they could interact here like they had at the PWSL combine, which is to say, exist in the same place without speaking to each other.

The first day of the combine consisted of conditioning, ball skills, passing drills, and more conditioning. For the most part, Wren could pretend like her nemesis wasn’t even there. If anything, Rebecca’s presence just served as more incentive to push harder.

Wren lined up for their fourth circuit of conditioning drills, taking a few steadying breaths as she waited for the sound of the trainer’s whistle. Players to either side of her were panting uncontrollably. A few were muttering curses under their breath. Without having a watch on, it was hard to say how long they had been at it, but it had been long enough to start to break some of the best women athletes in the country.

A sharp chirp let out and Wren flew off the line. If this was an exercise in either stamina or mental fortitude, she could—and would—absolutely beat it. She kept her head down and her mind clear. Down the field and back, as fast as she possibly could. Any other thoughts would serve as a distraction.

She bent down to touch the white stripe at the far end of the pitch and pivoted, launching herself off her planted foot. She didn’t let it go to her head, but she was immensely satisfied to pass the entire group still going forward while she was on her way back.

“Good work out there today, Eames,” Courtney Sinclair said with a smile as all the players jogged around to collect cones and cool off.

Wren’s jaw dropped. She had modeled her whole career off of Courtney Sinclair’s. When Wren was eight, Sinclair had made her debut as a starting forward for the USWNT. Wren would never forget it: The United States had been playing a friendly against France. The US had won four to zero, and Courtney had scored a hat trick. Wren had decided then and there that she would one day be just as talented, just as illuminating on the pitch, though some of Courtney’s stats felt insurmountable. By all accounts, Sinclair was a women’s soccer god. She was nearly six feet tall, and as of last season, had officially snagged the title of most goals scored by header of all time, regardless of gender. Sinclair had also played for Los Angeles University for a season before going pro and, at thirty-two, was a shoe-in to be this season’s National Team captain.

Wren lit up with a smile at Courtney’s compliment. “Thanks. I, uh, I’ve been meaning to introduce myself to you all day. We’re going to play for the Los Angeles Riptide together.” She did her best to wipe her sweaty hand off with her sweat soaked jersey and extended it out to her lifelong hero. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Courtney smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she shook Wren’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Thanks for kicking NCU’s ass last season.” She winked, acknowledging the NCAA’s most recent tournament. Wren was more than half a foot shorter than Courtney, but the pride she took in knowing that her idol had watched or, at the very least, had kept up with the last match of her season made her feel eight feet tall. So much so, that she barely noticed when Rebecca intentionally moved around to the other side of the circle for their final breakout of the day.

Wren practically skipped through her apartment that evening she was so excited, doing her best to recall every moment of tryouts to Andy. “And then, Courtney Sinclair told me I did a good job,” she squeaked.

Andy laughed, sipping red wine as Wren paced in their tiny living room. Her ice blue eyes lit up with delight as Wren spoke. “That’s incredible, Baby.”

Wren sighed happily and flopped down on the couch next to her. She still had too much energy coursing through her body to stay seated for long, but she could do with a quick cuddle before she needed to pace some more. She was waiting for the email telling her if she had been invited back to Day Two. Forty-five women had been invited to the first day, the best forty-five players the United States had to offer. Tomorrow, there would only be thirty. By Sunday at six in the evening, the new US Women’s National Soccer Team would be announced with a roster of twenty-three women. Wren’s stomach flipped. There were normally three keepers. So, really there were only twenty openings. She thought about all the women there and started trying to organize them into positions in her head. Was she one of the six best forwards in the country?

Her phone dinged with the familiar sound of an email. Her hands were shaking too badly to unlock her screen so she passed her phone to Andy. Andy smiled sweetly at her as she blindly typed in Wren’s password. It was the date they met. Wren was a hopeless romantic like that.

“Ms. Eames, we are pleased to invite you to the second day of our development camp at Dignity Health Sports Park tomorrow. Training starts at 8:00 am, sharp. We’re looking forward to seeing you there,” Andy said, fist pumping into the air before she could even finish her sentence. “Baby, you did it! I’m so, so proud of you.”

Wren’s eyes filled with happy tears as she pressed soft kisses against Andy’s lips. “I’m proud of us,” she murmured in between kisses, and she was. Andy had just landed a huge modeling contract with Victoria’s Secret, and now Wren had been invited to Day Two. They were on fire.

Andy giggled and set her wine down carefully on their new Ikea coffee table. You would think big contracts would pay well, but they could barely afford their one bedroom apartment in the West Adams neighborhood of Los Angeles. “I would be prouder of us if we would finish unpacking,” Andy teased as Wren kissed down her neck.

Wren harrumphed into her collar bone. “I tell you what, on Monday, we’ll either celebrate and unpack all day, or I’ll cry while we unpack all day.” Wren flashed her most charming smile as her thumbs hooked under the hem of Andy’s tank top. She let out an easy laugh as her tan skin danced across her girlfriend’s ridiculous, professional model grade abs.

“Are you suggesting we celebrate this evening with something other than unpacking?” Andy smirked, her blue eyes narrowing at Wren.

Wren nodded happily. “I can think of a million ways I’d rather celebrate with the things we have already unpacked.” She lifted an eyebrow suggestively as she tucked a loose strand of Andy’s long auburn hair back behind her ear before pulling her in for a passionate kiss.

Wren’s alarm clock went off at five-thirty the next morning. Her eyes snapped open, too excited to bother with her snooze button. Andy stirred next to her, tucked into her side, still completely naked from the night before. A sleepy smile pulled at the corners of Andy’s full lips, but her steel blue eyes remained closed tight. Wren leaned in and kissed her cheek a few times before sliding out from underneath her.

“Kick some ass out there today, Baby,” Andy mumbled as Wren stumbled into the bathroom.

Wren chuckled as she shut their bathroom door before turning the blinding lights on. She turned on the water faucet, willing the old pipes to warm up so she could wash her face. She stared at herself in the mirror while she waited; her green eyes matched her mother’s—a fact she only knew from photographs. The thin scar through her right eyebrow had been a bitch to earn, taking a cleat to the face when she was fifteen, but it had gotten her the attention of more than one stunning woman, so she wouldn’t complain about it ever again. A few tattoos were scattered across her olive toned skin: a bouquet of flowers went up her left side, the phases of the moon wrapped around her right hip, and a geometric T-rex roared proudly on the back of her left calf.