Page 48 of Relationship Goals

Abigail’s face replaces it as I close my eyes, all sunshine and chaotic fun. I don’t want to hurt any of them.

I can’t break it off with Abigail, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. I change my mind, sending another message through the Aces chat, asking them to send the things to the locker room as soon as practice is over. There. That’s better—that will help me control the situation with Abigail.

See? I can playnice.

Too much is on the line not to.

Chapter Twelve

Abigail

What does onewear to a soccer game? I stare into my closet, where I have several gorgeous designer dresses, zipped up in their respective hanging bags, and realize I have no idea how to dress for this.

The doorbell rings, and my phone starts vibrating on the charger on my nightstand.

“Shit,” I say, checking my watch. Michelle said the club would send a car for me and that it would be here before the game, but this is…way before the game. Hours before.

Who the hell is at the door?

I tug a hoodie on over the tank top and ratty sweatpants I’m wearing and grab my phone, checking the doorbell camera. A box mostly blocks the view, but I can see a man’s athletic form behind it.

A delivery? I wasn’t expecting anything.

I press the talk button. “Hi,” I say brightly. “Can you just leave the box on the step, or do I have to sign for it?”

“Shit,” a familiar voice says, sending a shock of tingles through me. Luke’s face fills the camera. “It’s Luke. I thought I’d, uh, bring over some things for you for today. The guards at the gate let me through, but you don’t have to wear it—”

I squeal in delighted surprise, and Luke blinks at the doorbell camera. Crap. I still had the talk button on.

“Sorry,” I manage breathlessly. “I’ll be right there.”

I race to the front door, smiling at the bouquet of flowers on my entry table and fling the door open.

Sure enough, Luke is standing there with a slightly bewildered expression, holding a large box in front of him.

I pause, because I hadn’t realized how dressed up he was.

“You look great,” I tell him, meaning it. He’s in head-to-toe black. “Why are you so dressed up?”

The wordsexydoesn’t do him justice. I force my mouth to snap shut.

He glances down at his own clothes, as if seeing them for the first time. “We get dressed up to get to the field on game days.”

“Oh.” I had no idea. “You look incredible.”

“So do you,” he says roughly, and I laugh at that, because, no, I absolutely don’t. My sweats have blobs of paint on them, and I know I should throw them away, but they’re my favorites and I love them.

“What are you doing here?” I ask curiously. “Aren’t you supposed to be”—I gesture at him vaguely—“getting ready?”

“I don’t have to be there for warm-up and pregame for another hour and a half.” His finger runs around the collar of his shirt, and I realize his look of discomfort is because he is, in fact, uncomfortable.

He’snervous.

It’s freaking adorable.

I beam at him. “Come inside.” I usher him in, and he cradles the box like it holds something fragile.

He stands in my entryway, too big for my house, his black-on-black suit contrasting with all the light-color walls. He looks distinctly out of place here and even grumpier than usual.