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“Jordan Maloney,” he introduced, a wide snake oil salesman’s grin on his chops as he held out a hand for us to shake.
“Conor O’Donnelly,” I greeted, watching Star as he leaned in to air kiss her.
When she reacted like a normal person and air-kissed him in return, my curiosity was piqued even more.
Star was… behaving.
That was more fascinating than anything else that was going to happen in the stadium tonight.
“Your better half’s told me you’re interested in investing in the club,” Maloney announced after a couple minutes of small talk.
When I felt the nudge of her elbow in my side, I smiled at him. “Soccer’s always…” Bored the ever-loving shit out of me. “… intrigued me.”
“That’s great to hear. It’s such an underrated sport in the US, and I’ve never understood why. But, because it is so underrated, I think that’s why we have a brilliant fan culture. The Saturns, in particular, have the Saturns’ Explorers, as well as countless other supporter groups—”
I shot Star a wide-eyed look.
Did he think dedicated fan groups would make me buy a damn soccer club?
As much as I loathed the sport, even I knew the Saturns were the city's dirty secret.
“It’s why our games sell out, too,” he enthused, seeming to disregard the half-empty stands. “And that, in turn, leads to the highest-grossing concession stands in the MLS.”
Star coughed, but I thought that was more about hiding her smirk than anything else.
Not that Maloney seemed to care. He was into his spiel and going a hundred mile-an-hour without a care in the world.
“Our boxes are very popular as well—”
Maloney continued discussing his boring-ass team for the remaining time until the game kicked off.
Because I had zero interest in the match, I flicked a glance around the owner’s box. The glass was reflective—I knew that because it cut out some of the sun from outside—but rays still shone through the panes, lighting Star, rather fancifully I thought, in a ring of light that made the reds in her hair dance like they were a living flame.
The comfortable leather easy chairs were staggered a few feet apart, and in between, there were small tables that had been pre-stocked with a couple different types of beers. The snacks held more of my attention than the game, but I did notice the Arizona Panteras scored three goals in the first twenty minutes.
For all that Maloney had tried to tell me they were sold out, I had to admit the meager crowd was active, cheering and booing in the right places.
Unfortunately, the team never actually gave them the gift of a goal. They tried to push them over the boulder, but cheers didn’t make up for a piece-of-shit team.
As the Panteras continued whooping the crap out of the Saturns throughout the first half, Maloney disappeared five minutes before half-time with the excuse of using the bathroom and when he didn’t return for the second half and we were left alone, I had to figure he’d escaped from sheer embarrassment.
Thank fuck.
“You bring me to this torture,” I complained, holding out a hand for her, “then the least you can do is make it worth my while.”
She snorted but levered herself out of her seat and plunked her ass on my lap.
“We’ve rarely discussed sports, but I’m pretty sure you know I loathe soccer,” I whispered as I hooked my arm around her waist and drew her deeper into my hold. “Ya know, seeing as I never, ever, ever talk about it.”
“I do, but you mentioned match-fixing at the mall the other day and it inspired me.”
I thought back to the mall but had no memories of a conversation about match-fixing. “I did?”
“Yup. You were tired though. That’s probably why you don’t remember.”
I clicked my fingers. “I was talking about how it was more difficult than it should have been to get into the Canadian gun registry. Okay, so what about match-fixing?”
“You haven’t thought about it since we got back from the UK?”
