I mean, they don’t think of it like that. To them, it’s only UCLA’s women’s team in the quarterfinals. We’re a huge soccer family, and while not everyone here went to UCLA, it’s not hard to get behind the women’s team doing our state proud.
I sit on the end of the sofa closest to the mammoth flat-screen TV mounted over the fireplace, my back pointedly to everyone else. My body language says what my voice doesn’t: don’t talk to me, don’t touch me, let me watch the game.
Ren’s traveling for a series of games—he plays later tonight, actually—but it’s like he knows I just want to be left alone right now, meaning, of course, it’s time for him to bug me.
My phone buzzes with his text. Your lady looks ready to kick ass.
I allow myself the indulgence of a closed-mouth groan. I’ve been doing more of those since I met Willa.
She’s not my lady, I type back.
That’s her, though, isn’t it? The one with the braid? The forward who scores all the goals? Hm. Sort of sounds like me. Impressive forward. Goal-scoring machine. If she’s nothing to you, maybe I should ask her out.
I type back, She’s not nothing to me. She’s MY friend and she’s off-limits.
I can see his damn annoying smirk. He’s lying down, getting massaged and iced and taped before his game, grinning that fucking know-it-all grin. We’re too old to stake claims like that. Date her or she’s fair game.
I come damn close to crushing my phone in my hand, but I settle for pocketing it and ignoring Ren’s needling. Besides Willa, he knows best how to get under my skin.
Willa and her team disperse from their huddle, and I watch her compact body cross the field to the center circle. I can feel her nerves from here, or maybe I just simply remember what it’s like. How your stomach tightens, the faint buzz in your limbs as you shake them out and adrenaline jolts your body to attention. The ringing in your ears, the blinding lights of the stadium.
The whistle blows, and Willa spins, efficiently passing deep to her defender. Then, she takes off down the field and finds her place at the top.
My senses tunnel-focus, as I track Willa throughout the first half. Florida State’s all over her, but that doesn’t mean much to Willa. Even with two people on her, her body finds that sliver of space between four defenders’ feet and threads the needle. Inside touch, scissor step—a trick that as a defender I always tried to anticipate, often apprehended, and other times got beat by. Her Maradona is lightning fast, a quick foot on the ball transferring to the other as she pivots, rolling it with her and taking advantage of her opponent’s momentum.
Willa’s the star, but she brings her teammates into her stratosphere. Their one-touches are flawless, the ball zipping from player to player, long balls sent to space that’s fluidly filled by their offense. They’re good, and Willa’s excellent.
My phone buzzes. Damn, son. Truly, if you don’t go after that, I will.
I pull up my phone’s camera, glare into the screen and flip the middle finger. As soon as I hit send to Ren, a picture comes in from him. He’s cross-eyed with his tongue stuck out.
Ren’s full of shit. He’s not chasing Willa. He can barely ask out a woman he’s super comfortable with, let alone a virtual stranger. Ren’s the king of sticking his foot in his mouth and unrequited love. Which is hilarious, because everywhere he goes, women trip over him. He’s just clueless about what to do. I’d offer to help him with his game, but—point in case—he pisses me off too much for me to be that nice.
You’ve been warned. Claim her, or she’s fair game, he texts. And remember, I am the better-looking one so…
Before I can threaten violence to my brother, a gentle hand on my shoulder startles me and makes me glance up. My eyes drop to Mom’s mouth.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks.
I stare down at the sliver of cushion that my wide-leg stance and broad body have left and try to scooch over. Nodding, I pat the sofa.
Mom smiles at me as she sits and sets a hand on my back. “I miss you, Ryder. You don’t come home like you did last year.”
I swipe open my phone and write, I miss you, too. This semester was unexpectedly busy. I jerk my head toward Aiden, who’s doing some stealth groping of Freya that makes me almost throw up in my mouth. Your favorite son-in-law has made my life hell.
Mom laughs quietly, patting my back once again, then taking my hand in hers. “Is that really everything?”
I glance from the TV to Mom, because I’m trying not to miss a moment of the game, but I also don’t want to be rude to my mother. I shrug and mouth, Yeah.
Mom’s eyes drift toward the TV and watch with me for a minute, before she taps my arm so I’ll read her lips. “She’s very good, that one at the top. Very…feisty.”
Right when I glance back, the camera zooms in, catching Willa battling for possession near the box. Willa jukes, then spins, hopping over a defender. One final touch, before she nails it into the far corner and scores. We all stand up, whistling and clapping.
Willa throws her hands back, chest out, glorying in the moment as her teammates jump her, then quickly disperse, four of them bending over halfway, locking arms, to form a flat surface. Rooney holds a hand over her ear and with the other mimes DJing at a turntable. Willa drops and pulls a few swirls of her hips that immediately tighten things beneath my zipper. Then she kneels, leans on her shoulder and pulls a breakdance move.
Everyone in the living room cracks up except for Mom. Swedes detest hotdogging, any form of arrogance or pride, really. She cocks her head like she’s trying to understand what could possibly motivate a human to behave how Willa is.
“Interesting choice of celebration,” Mom says.
My laugh is breathy, straight through my nose. Taking my hand, Mom leverages herself to stand and cups my cheek. “Well, you might not be home as much, but you certainly are smiling more.” Her focus swivels to the TV, then back to me. “Whatever’s keeping you happier is a good thing in my eyes.”
That immediately raises my suspicion. It’s almost like Mom knows that I’m connected to Willa. As Mom walks off, I search the room for Aiden. He’s the only one who’s invested in me and Willa. If he’s blabbing to Mom about her, overstating the nature of our relationship, I might finally have to beat the shit out of him. It’ll have been a long time coming.
Our eyes meet. His widen. They dance over to Mom who still has a coy smile on her face as she leaves the room, then they find mine once again. Slowly, Aiden disentangles himself from Freya on the couch and starts backing away.
I glance at the TV. The final seconds dwindle to halftime, so I won’t miss a thing. Perfect time to pummel him. Aiden seems to realize this, and sprints out of the room. I give him a second before I’m hurdling the couch, chasing after him. But it doesn’t make a difference. The pain in my ass is finally going to pay.
“How about this—if we win the championship, I get to shave your beard.”
Willa pokes my arm. Since the hike, I have to make myself count to three before acknowledging her when she speaks to me. It takes mental preparation to look at her without betraying that complex knot of feelings that tightens my chest. It also has the added benefit of pissing her off.