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As predictable as those evenings have become, they’re expiring soon. Summer semester is going to end, my time at university right along with it.
“So, you hate football, huh?”
I freeze before looking up from my phone, knowing exactly what I’ll see. Or having an idea, at least.
I’m not fully prepared for the sight of a smirking Will Aster wearing a Kluvberg jersey. It’s a collision of two worlds. The guy I met in the stands and ogled at a bar. The sport I hate.
He’s stopped on the other side of the white goal line, a football trapped under his left foot. But he’s not looking this way. He’s focused on the filling seats surrounding the field, so I can admire his perfect profile without him noticing.
Perfect is not an opinion. More fact. It’s strong and striking.
I swallow as I take in the other players scattered across the field for warm-ups. None of them are talking to any of the other photographers.
“Waste of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon, if you ask me.”
Will glances at me, smirks, and I learn he has a dimple. Just one on his right cheek. My heart takes off at a gallop.
“Say that a little louder, and you and I’ll be the two most popular people in this stadium.”
“The team is giving you trouble?” I ask. I know hardly anything about the club’s dynamics because I’ve always tried to block out Adler and my dad’s conversations about the topic. But I know enough to know there must be some politicking, especially with a new player.
Will tilts his head. “Who’s wondering? The girl who’s been overexposed to soccer? Adler Beck’s sister? Or the woman who’s here as…press?”
I don’t know him. I don’t owe him any explanation, and he’s not asking for one.
But I feel the odd urge to give him one.
“Those are all the same person, Aster,” I reply instead, not bothering to ask who told him who my brother is. Not bothering to pretend him playing for Kluvberg is some sort of shock to me.
He runs a hand through his hair, those piercing green eyes remaining on mine the whole time. Filled with questions I doubt he’ll ask and I won’t answer.
“Guess I know why you never asked for my name.”
I had no idea who he was the first time we met, and I said nothing in the club because I knew it would shift the flirty dynamic I was enjoying. That’s not an explanation I want to share with him. “I’m just here for a school assignment.”
Will nods. “Good luck.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to tell you.”
“Nah. I don’t believe in luck.” He winks at me, and my traitorous heart does a somersault. “Get that fancy camera ready. I’ll score a goal for you, Sophia.”
“Only one?”
“Only one because you never texted me. So, if we lose…” He shrugs, smirks, then kicks the ball up and catches it neatly before jogging away.
I’m pretty sure my mouth is slightly agape as I watch him head back toward where the rest of the team is warming up. For the first time—ever—I’m focused on a football field for a reason other than obligation.
I want to watch Will Aster score a goal for me.
NINE
WILL
My knee bounces incessantly as I watch Olivier kick to Beck. My elbows dig into my thighs as I focus on the action in front of me, my restless leg jostling my entire body.
God, I hate this view. It doesn’t matter that I’m underneath a shaded overhang covered with sponsor logos. Or that the seats are leather and comfortable. I’m stuck watching the game I should be playing in.
I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve sat as a reserve player instead of a starter during a game. I need zero fingers to count how many of those times I wasn’t injured or sick.
