Page 15

Fourteen

I stare at myself in the mirror, unsure if my flare jeans and striped puff-sleeve tee are on point for a soccer game.

“Do I look like a fan?” I ask Rosalie.

“I really can’t tell you. I know as much about soccer as you do?—”

I lift one finger, cutting her off. “Doubtful! I learned a lot last night.”

“Well, you look great. You’re meeting him there, right? This stranger isn’t picking you up?” Rosalie eyes me like I am her child. She’ll be a good mother one day—loving, fun, and her kids will get away with nothing.

“Callum is not a stranger. Not anymore. And he can’t pick me up.” I shake my head at her, a blank stare on my face. “He’s playing.”

Rosalie clears her throat. “I’m talking about Paul. The guy who saved your life yesterday. Not the guy who kissed you outside a bar.”

“Wow. My life is so eventful.” Also, I completely forgot about Paul—again.

Shoot. I have got to quit doing that. In my defense, he hasn’t been around that long.

I huff out a breath and flick my bangs from my eyes.

“Yes, I’m meeting him there. I texted him his ticket yesterday after Callum sent them.

” I bite my inner cheek and spin around to meet Rosalie head-on.

I’ve been so consumed with the game and learning that I also forgot— “CRAP! I haven’t planned anything for this date, Rose.

” I bite my bottom lip and think. “Maybe we could Fever Pitch or something.” My brain reels with random ideas. But I’m running out of time.

“Stop. Just go on a regular date—this one time. I promise it’ll be okay.”

I flail my arms, dropping them to my sides. “What would the point of that be?”

Rosalie scoffs and deadpans, “To have fun. To talk. To get to know someone.”

I scoff right back. “Callum can’t even sit with me. He’ll be playing. I don’t think we’ll be able to chat it up.”

Rosalie sighs. “I’m talking about Paul, Fran. Your date. Remember?”

“Crap!” I smack my palm to my face. “I keep forgetting about him.” Even though I can’t seem to remember my little saving grace named Paul Fender, I’m still hopeful we’ll make a connection. Because I should like him more. Everything about our chance meeting screamed happy ending .

“Are you sure you want to be going with him?”

“Geez, Rose, stop worrying. You aren’t my mom.” It’s an odd thing for me to say, because I’m not sure my mom would care even a little about anyone I’m dating—as long as I am grown and taking care of myself.

“Paul.” I walk into the stadium plaza with a nervous little bounce in my step. “Paul. Paul Fender, life saver extraordinaire.” I mutter my date’s name to myself, willing myself to remember the man.

I haven’t seen him yet, but I won’t be forgetting him—not tonight. My stinging knee and sore bottom should be my constant reminder.

I walk over the grass and pass through the entrance gate with my ticket. Callum said he left me something at Will Call. I’m not sure what—seeing how I have my ticket. Still, I see the small booth right by the ticket entrance.

I head over and peer at the man behind the glass. “Fran Fairchild. I think something?—”

He smiles. “Whitaker’s friend. Yeah.” He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a red and gold pad.

I knit my brows and grin. “What is it?”

“A stadium seat.” He peers at the thing. “Memory foam. This is a quality pad.”

There’s a sticky note on the front of the cushion, and my Will Call friend pauses, reading the note in his head. He chuckles to himself before passing the seat through the long, narrow opening in the glass separating us.

I reach for the square pad, feeling the soft, denseness of the cushion. I take in the yellow sticky note and read Callum’s messy script:

Sending good vibes to your booty.

I complained of a backache… how did he translate that exactly right? Callum Whitaker may be psychic. Who knows? But he is definitely considerate.

Carrying my very thoughtful gift, I walk past the food vendors, following signs until I find myself in the open stadium. A massive green field, the open sky, and a dead-center seat, and in the very front row. Cut grass and earthy soil fill my lungs.

And men. Holy smokes, the men on the field are life-size and muscular. Wowzah —I really should have brought Rosalie. There is just this advertising board, merely half a wall separating me from this field and the professional athletes scattered about it.

I set my new cushion onto my front-row seat and fan my face with my hand.

Why haven’t I been going to soccer games my entire life?

There’s an empty seat at my right and two at my left.

At the end of this row is a large, open space with an accessible parking sign on the ground.

Callum’s given me all the space possible.

I’m still standing—I can’t bring myself to sit—though there’s no one in front of me to block my view and no one next to me to distract me. I’m looking for Callum, searching through the sea of red jerseys, muscles, and testosterone for the number ten.

“They’re just warming up,” says the man three seats down from me.

I blink away from my search to the friendly face of an older gentleman three seats down from where I sit. “Oh. Okay.”

“You looked a little unsure—just wanted you to know you didn’t miss anything.”

“Thanks.” I smile and peer back at the field. “I’m just looking for my friend.”

“A player?” His tone shifts.

I return my gaze to the man whose brows are now raised in my direction .

“Yeah. Callum Whitaker. Do you know him?”

His mouth turns down in a thoughtful frown. “Not personally.”

A ball flings up onto this advertisement board directly in front of me and rolls over the edge—right at my feet. I pick up the colorful ball—it’s not the black-and-white specs I expected—and wait. A man in a red jersey jogs my way, the number three adorning his shirt.

I lift my arms to toss it to him when the man in my row starts fanning. “Cruz! Lucca Cruz, can you sign something for me?”

The player’s black hair is long on top and combed back. His tan skin is already damp with sweat. He smiles—and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen teeth so white. He’s magnetic. I can’t help but smile back.

“No pen, sir. Maybe next time.”

“Oh!” I chirp, lifting one finger into the air. “I have a pen.”

“Hey, thanks,” says the man, moving an inch closer to where I stand.

I dig into my bag and pull out a blue ballpoint pen.

Number three—Lucca—hops up onto the cement barrier in front of the half wall and holds out a hand for my pen. His brows cinch, and that bright white smile grows wider. “Wait a second. Are you Franny? Cal’s girl.”

I swallow, excited nerves bouncing around inside my body at exactly 6:36 p.m. “It’s just Fran. But yeah, I’m Cal’s…” My eyes dart to my older friend, who’s watching the exchange in interest. “ Girl .”

The rest of Callum’s team jogs over—apparently, we are right next to the team’s entrance and exit of this field. Maybe I will see Callum after all. My heart patters, and I search the small sea of men running my way.

I’m still holding my pen out toward Lucca Cruz. My older friend inches a little closer, writing with his pointer finger in the air.

“It’s Matt,” he says. “With two T’s.”

But Lucca doesn’t take my pen. “Hey, Zev!” He waves to another man—Cal’s friend from the diner, a five on his chest. “It’s Cal’s girl. His lucky charm is here.”

Matt takes the pen from my hands and shakes it toward Lucca.

Zev’s eyes lift to me, and he smiles just before waving. “Fran! You made it. Did you get your cushion?”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I nod as a few more Red Tails spot me, all waving, all muttering.

“Superman!” Zev yells, and Callum—finally, Callum—jogs over.

He grins when he sees me, and my heart patters inside my chest. Callum tugs on the back of Lucca’s jersey and, to Matt’s sorrow, the man steps down from the cement pad.

He jumps up to replace him. “You made it.” Looking around me, he spots my seat and the Red Tail pad there.

“And you got your stadium seat cushion. Good, I was worried about your back .” His eyes drag back to my face, and he winks.

6:39 p.m., my heart decides it’s a racehorse, and it’s in it to win it.

From the corner of my eye, Matt is sliding down the row of seats, the opposite direction of me and the same as Lucca Cruz, all while waggling my pen at the player. But Lucca is distracted. He’s paused just a few steps away—like all of Callum’s teammates, he watches Cal .

“Yep, I made it,” I say. I shrug, swallow, and keep my eyes off of anyone but Callum. “Of course I did.”

“No date?” he says, still with the grin. Does he always smile this much?

“Oh.” That’s right—Paul’s coming. “He’s on his way.” At least, I’m assuming he is.

“These aren’t the best seats,” Cal tells me. “But I wanted to say hello if I could. And this is where my family always sits.”

His family? I’m not sure why it touches me so much to be in his family’s regular seating, but it does. “That’s nice. Thanks, Cal.”

“Hey, good luck charm! Let’s go!” Lucca yells, too far back for Matt to reach him. “Give the man a kiss. Coach wants us inside.”

Pink washes over Cal’s tan cheeks. He doesn’t acknowledge his teammate. In fact, he goes on like Lucca never even spoke. “National anthem is in fifteen minutes. That’s when we’ll be back out. Have fun?—”

“Kiss her!” a small group of the men chant. It’s like my own personal squad of cheerleaders, all dressed up and speaking my language.

The crowd of fans around us has gained a whole lot of interest—well, except for Matt, who is still swinging my pen toward Lucca.

Cal twists around, peering behind him at the chanters.

6:41 p.m., blood rushes through my veins. My heart works overtime. There is a tingly sensation in every nerve ending of my body. I am consumed with warmth. With heat. With longing.

Callum kissed me.

So, why can’t I kiss him back ?

I tap on Callum’s shoulder, and he whips back around.

We are eye to eye, with me in the stands and him on the cement step below this half-wall.

With the group still chanting in my ears, I lean over this advertisement board, press both my hands to Callum’s cheeks, and crash my lips into his.

He’s sweet and minty, making me crave peppermints and ice cream.

Arms snake around my back as Cal kisses me back. The entire serendipitous moment lasts about four seconds. Four seconds of bliss, heat, and cheers from Callum’s teammates.

Our lips separate, and Cal’s warm breath drifts over my lips and into my nostrils.

Callum clears his throat, his eyes lobbing up to mine.

I swallow. “Good luck,” I say, just barely getting the words out.

“Yeah. Good luck,” Cal mumbles back. He stumbles the two steps down and jogs through the exit along with his team.

Matt huffs—I don’t blame him. Lucca never did sign anything. He stuffs my pen in the pocket of his sweatshirt before sitting back down.

I’m about to protest—I like that pen—when?—

“Uh, Fran? Hello.”

I spin around to a man. Nope, not just a man, but my date. Paul, standing on the bleacher steps, just outside our row. Just two seats away from me. And with a very clear view of my kiss with Cal.