Page 12 of Relationship Goals

“Sorry, Wolfe,” Rodriguez murmurs, and there’s something like hero worship in his eyes.

Probably aimed at Abigail.

“Don’t apologize to me.” I nod at Abigail.

“Sorry, miss,” he tells her.

Abigail shoots me an amused look, but there’s blatant relief in it, too.

It makes me feel like maybe, just fucking maybe, I did something right.

The remaining players crowded around her mutter, casting me dark looks, but they also listen, giving her some space. Marino gives me one last withering stare before finally leaving her in peace.

I turn back to her, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry,” I try, the words sticking in my throat. I don’t say that a lot. Feels fucking weird.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” She shrugs. “It’s my job. Comes with the territory.”

I give her a long look. “Signing that jackass’s underwear is not part of your job.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and her smile—that brilliant, sunny smile—finally melts off her face. “So, what, I’m supposed to say no? And then he goes and sells that story to the press? I can just see it now: ‘Diva Hunt Refuses to Play Nice with Soccer Team.’ ”

I grunt. “You thought of that just now? That fake headline?”

“Oh, that’s the kind of thing that’s on repeat in my head twenty-four seven. Gotta keep one step ahead.” Her smile has a brittle quality to it now, her eyes glinting with some emotion I can’t name.

I don’t know what to say to that. Seems completely at odds with how…sweet she is. How innocent she seems.

After my dad left, though, I felt the same way. Her comment takes me right back to that very moment. Like if I could just be perfect, be good enough on and off the field, he would come back.

I inhale slowly, swallowing the memory, shoving it back down where it belongs.

I gave up on anything vaguely resembling perfection a long time ago.

“I’ll show you the field. Let’s go.” My voice is gruffer than I mean it to be, but it doesn’t have anything to do with her.

Not this time, at least.

I finish up the tour as fast as possible, letting her walk the field, trying not to ogle her lovely long legs or act like that fucking asshole Marino. I should’ve asked her to take off her stupid shoes. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, but the thought of one of the guysseeing her bare feet sits wrong with me for some reason. Her heels sink into the turf, and I keep waiting for her to fall, or complain, or do something annoying—to give me a reason not to like her.

Anything so I don’t have to feel as guilty about lying to her.

But she only carefully takes off her heels, holding them in one hand as I watch in silence.

I don’t know what to fucking say to her. I don’t know if she even knows what she’s looking at. I don’t care, either. I’m not about to explain soccer to her.

If this goes well, it means that we have one date and she decides she never wants to see me again, and I can tell John and Charles I tried and figure out a different way to get back to Seattle and my family.

“That’s all,” I say once we’re back inside. “You’ve seen the main offices and know the general layout now. Any questions?”

I don’t really care if she has questions, and it’s clear from my tone of voice.

She shakes her head, watching me carefully.

“What do you like to eat?” I finally ask, her silence in the past few minutes after her admission about always keeping ahead of the press making me feel…uncomfortable. Like she shouldn’t have said that, like it’s a peek behind her relentless good mood at something more real. “Where do you want to go tonight?”

“Why do you want to go out with me?” she asks.