Page 35 of Rumor Has It

The scar in Wren’s eyebrow lifted, before both her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “Rebecca?” Wren had a pretty sexy, husky voice on a normal day, but confused and coated with sleep was just devastatingly unfair.

Becky forced herself to look back at the hotel door. “Courtney was just here. The team’s going out to dinner. We ummm… well, we fell asleep.” She looked anywhere but at Wren. “I think the whole team thinks we’re hooking up.” She looked down at Wren’s sweater. “This did not help that rumor, I don’t think.”

Wren sat up and nodded. “Okay. That’s a lot to process right after a nap. Are you okay?”

Becky shrugged. “It’s just more bullshit to deal with during the week from hell.”

“And here I thought I was a catch,” Wren snarked, pulling her arms over her head in a stretch.

“Wait. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant people being all up in my shit when they don’t even know me.” The last thing Becky wanted to do was insult Wren on top of everything. Especially when she had this stupid crush that she couldn’t seem to shake.

Wren grabbed Becky’s hand. “Rebecca, breathe. I was teasing. I know you weren’t disparaging me.” She let out a soft laugh. “But you’re right. They don’t know you. And you’re semi-okay. So, let’s go.” She crawled out of bed and shut her laptop.

“Wait. What? Semi-okay? We already ate, and I’m wearing this Godawful sweater. I’m not going.” Becky’s jaw clenched.

Wren just shook her head. “Nope. Not having any of that as an excuse. Change into whatever you were wearing before your shower then. Did Courtney say how much time we have?”

Becky sighed, knowing this was a losing battle. “Yeah, she said ten minutes.”

“Cool. So we’re down to like seven. Let’s go, Rebecca.” She ushered Becky back into their bathroom and shut the door.

At this point, Becky knew better than to argue, so she pulled on her dirty travel outfit with a grimace and the understanding that she’d just have to shower again before bed.

Not starting in their game was absolutely the most brutal punishment Coach T could have thought of—worse than hours of sprints after practice, worse than rooming with Wren. Becky was miserable, but she couldn’t show it. She had to be supportive of her team—especially Ali who was starting in her place.

Ali, of course, looked thrilled. It was her first official cap for the Women’s National Team. Despite weeks of working together, she still rubbed Becky the wrong way. Becky did her best to sit with why that might be as she huddled into her big parka on the sidelines. She knew. Deep down she already knew the answer to that question. It was the way Ali had looked at Wren since the first day of tryouts. Becky had written it off as a weird hero worship at first, but dinner with the team two nights before had solidified that the way Ali looked at Wren wasn’t hero worship. It was lust. And it annoyed the shit out of Becky. They all signed the same contract for heaven’s sake.

Her jaw clenched as she watched Ali follow Wren into the starting eleven’s huddle, just on their team’s defending half. She hated that she was missing that huddle. Danielle was their starting captain for the match. She was probably giving her best attempt at an “eat them alive” speech. But all Becky could think about was how Ali was intentionally pressed up against Wren as they listened. Wren looked completely unfazed and entirely oblivious. Of course she did. She probably got hit on and checked out forty seven times a day. She was a sapphic woman’s wet dream. And to a man with no gaydar, or one that didn’t care, she was damningly lust-after-able, what with her long dark curly hair, her olive-toned skin, her obnoxiously cute dimples, that stupid sexy scar through her eyebrow, and her dazzlingly green eyes. Becky had practically started to drool at this point. She physically shook her head to try and snap out of it and forced herself to spend the next few minutes screaming positive chants at her team. They could do this. Even without her on the field, they could do this.

The first half of the game was rough. Portugal had a few incredibly fast forwards. And even though Courtney Sinclair had managed to score off of a cross by Erin Rice, Portugal had leveled the score to one all on a breakaway. Ali was a good defender. There was no doubt about it, but she wasn’t Becky and she wasn’t gelling with the team like Becky had. She’d missed timing her clears with Wren twice, earning Wren two offsides calls. That never would have happened if Becky had been out there. Becky had learned Wren’s running patterns over the past four years. She’d learned when Wren would take her final step over the line. As someone who’d spent the last six years hating Wren’s guts, she’d taken pride in herself for learning Wren’s movements enough to catch her offsides once or twice a game. But she had earned those. These two calls were the result of their own team wasting Wren’s efforts.

At least Wren had done well, Becky thought, as the team headed into the locker room at halftime. She’d had several good touches on the ball. She’d played her normal physical way, taking up more space than her small frame should allow. She’d hustled back to help chase down balls lost by other forwards and had good passing connections with the midfield line and her other forwards, but it was clear—at least it was to Becky—as Wren squeezed a Gatorade branded water bottle in the vicinity of her mouth that she was pissed about not getting any decent leading passes.

Becky could see it in the way Wren’s strong jaw clenched as the coaches did their best to pick the team up that Wren really wanted to say something. She wondered for a second what it would be like to be on a team where Wren was one of the leaders. She had that aura about her, that charming ability to make people want to follow her. Becky had never had that. She was more the brute force, “make the enemy pay for dirty hair pulls and such” type. She’d never been a captain, and she’d never wanted to be. She could tell from the way that Wren was hardly looking at the coaches whiteboard that she was biting her tongue.

“Anybody got anything else?” Coach Jameson asked the team after he was done with his spiel and after Coach T had pointed out some things about Portugal’s speed and timing.

Wren nodded. “Yes, sir. I do.” She spoke efficiently and confidently, not calling anyone out in particular. “I’m faster than their right back. By a lot. If anyone can get the ball down towards that corner, I swear, guys, I’ll get to it before her.”

Coach Jameson nodded. “That’s a good call, Wren. And you’re right.” He circled two gaps on the drawn field on the whiteboard. “Both you and Sinclair are faster than their defenders. I need defense to start trying to clear to these gaps as soon as you touch the ball.” He capped his marker and motioned for everyone to huddle up.

Becky slotted into place in between Allison Martins and Wren. Warmth spread through her whole body when she felt Wren’s free hand land on her shoulder and squeeze a few times. If she could read Wren this easily, it stood to reason that Wren was reading her like a book, too.

The team broke and started heading back down the entrance tunnel. Wren stayed right at her side. “You okay?” Wren asked, too quietly for anyone to hear.

“This is killing me,” Becky responded.

Wren chuckled, low and rough. “You’re not alone. We’d be up two to nothing if you were out there.” She looked up quickly and caught Becky’s eyes. “Never thought I’d say this, but I really miss having you on the field with me.”

Becky huffed out a laugh. “Only because I’m on your team this time.”

“Well, yeah. You suck to play against. You’re like running into a brick wall.” Wren bumped her shoulder against Becky’s before jogging off to stretch with the other starting players.

Fifteen minutes into the second half, Portugal scored again. It had been entirely Ali’s fault. Becky wanted to scream. That meant it was her fault. If she hadn’t gotten so drunk at the after-party last time, she would be on the pitch right now.

“Rothschild,” Coach T’s voice cut through Becky’s rage. “Warm up. Now.”

Becky nodded, giving her coach a thumbs up over the heads of her other teammates. She’d have about five minutes to get game ready. She could do this. She jogged and stretched behind the bench, passing with one of the trainers as she went. She hadn’t come off the bench for a game since she had been about seven. Knowing her team was already down a point sent a wave of adrenaline through her. She’d just have to make up for it.