Page 41 of Love and Other Goals

My brain is nowhere to be found at the moment. I can’t come up with two words to string together in response. I’m saved from my brain’s hiatus by Jamar’s voice calling out, “Yo, Mateo, your girl is the best!”

Mateo releases me but keeps an arm around my shoulders, locking me to his side as he responds. “I obviously know that, but what makes you say so?”

“Reagan just correctly explained the difference between a throw-in and corner kick,” Jamar says with his hands around Reagan’s waist. She’s beaming at the praise.

“Yeah, not to mention all that accurate grief she gave to the refs,” Chris adds with a grin.

All eyes are on me, and Mateo must sense my discomfort at the attention. He pulls me back into his arms with my face buried in his chest and teases his teammates. “Too bad, she’s one thousand percent taken, so go find your own soccer expert girlfriends.”

Everyone laughs and starts dispersing to vehicles. Mateo smiles down at me as he trails his hand down my arm to take my hand. I shiver head to toe despite the heat still lingering in my face from all the attention—from both Mateo and the crowd.

“We’re headed to Mom’s Kitchen for late-night breakfast food—that okay with you?” Mateo asks as he leads me toward his truck. “I’ve never known you to turn it down at After Parties,” he adds with a wink.

“People who turn it down have clinical issues, I think,” I laugh. “There’s nothing breakfast food can’t fix.”

As we drive across town to the diner, I fangirl over all of Mateo’s incredible plays during the match, drawing a pleased smile from him. He confirms that he did indeed hear all my screaming from across the field, and commends me for following through on my threats.

“You’ve stolen my favorite celebration and my favorite PK strategy, so what do you plan to steal next?” I ask him in a teasing tone. Mateo’s eyes are on the road, but the right side of his mouth gently upturns. “Whatever you’ll give me, Lana.” I smile back at his profile in the dark.

A few of the players have beat us to Mom’s Kitchen and pushed several tables together to make room for everyone. Mateo guides me with his hand on the small of my back and pulls out a chair in the middle for me before sitting down. Sigh.

The volume level of the diner drastically increases as the table fills and everyone enthusiastically recounts highlights of the night’s match. I order decaf, because coffee is an essential component of breakfast food, but I certainly don’t need caffeine to add to my energy right now.

The waitress is at the end of the table, starting to take food orders, so Mateo leans over to me. “Short stack of pancakes?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. At this point, I shouldn’t be surprised when he knows exactly what I’ll order at any given place, but I still shake my head in disbelief.

“Do you keep notes of all my favorites on your phone?” I tease. He just taps twice on his temple with a wry smile. “What are you getting? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who orders egg white health food at ten o’clock at night.”

Mateo laughs, and the waitress catches our attention. I order a short stack of pancakes with a toss of my head and side eye at Mateo. “I’ll have the strawberry French toast, please,” Mateo says, handing the waitress our menus. Phew—crisis averted.

We rejoin the group conversation, and I’m impressed in a new way by Mateo’s people skills. He’s undoubtedly the leader of the team, with rapport and respect from all the guys, but he’s quick to turn conversation around to point out the good plays of other teammates. Mateo also draws me into the discussion easily without making me the center of attention, which I’m grateful for. I could sit here as a fly on the wall just observing Mateo with his friends all night.

Multiple wait staff arrive with trays of food, and I offer Mateo the syrup after drizzling my pancakes. Mateo douses his French toast before giving me a quick wink. “Every good athlete appreciates some post-game sugar,” he says before taking a bite.

Despite the arrival of the food, there’s no lull in conversation as the group continues in high spirits, alternately praising and razzing each other. I’m starting to cement names with faces of the players that I didn’t know before tonight.

When his French toast is finished, Mateo casually places his arm across the back of my chair. I draw in a breath when he reaches over with his left hand to grab mine and pulls it over to rest our hands on his thigh under the table. I never want to lose the tingly sensation that washes through me every time he takes my hand.

All eyes are on Mateo as he recounts a funny story about Andrès from practice this week. Everyone explodes with laughter, and the guys next to Andrès playfully shove him. A shiver runs from my scalp down my neck and back, and I register that Mateo is absentmindedly twirling his fingers through my hair. I look over and study him as he’s answering a question from Samantha, and I can’t help but smile at the thought that this incredible man is my boyfriend.

I’m piecing together the vibes of the team. If they were a Venn diagram, Mateo would be dead center of the overlap. All these people around the table clearly think the world of Mateo, not just because of his athleticism, but because of his character. And he likes me. My brain still has a hard time reconciling that fact, but I just smile as Mateo looks back at me. I angle toward him and lean my right elbow on the table, resting the side of my face against my hand as I hold his gaze.

Mateo gently trails his fingers up and down my hair against my back, and his face turns serious as his eyes flicker with intensity. The rest of the room fades as we wordlessly stare at each other, the look in Mateo’s eyes melting me. Forget molten lava—all my internal organs have straight up evaporated into steam.

We’re snapped back to reality by the waitress handing out checks. Mateo clears his throat and takes both of ours, instructing the waitress to put both on his card.

Bro hugs and slaps on the back are freely given around the table as everyone stands up, as well as real hugs between the girlfriends, who invite me to sit with them at a match sometime. Mateo leads the charge in returning the tables and chairs to their original set up, then everyone calls out goodnight.

As we walk hand in hand back to the truck, I bite the inside of my lip, trying to decide if now is a good time to make a somewhat serious request. Finally, I clear my throat and timidly question, “Could I ask you to do something?”

Mateo pauses to turn to me and replies, “Lana, you never need to be nervous to ask me anything. I think it’s pretty evident that I would do everything for you.”

I stop worrying my lip and tell him, “Next weekend, my parents will be in town for some events at AOPi. I know you have an away match on Saturday, but I was wondering if you’d maybe like to join us for dinner or something on Friday night? They’d really like to meet you.”

He pulls me to a full stop and into a hug, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I would be honored to meet your parents, Lana. It means a lot that you’d want me to.” I breathe out a contented sigh (after a deep inhale of his scent, because what choice do I have). He takes a step back, hands on my elbows. “We should be done with practice by five, so just tell me where and when.”

Mateo turns on his Lana playlist in the truck but is quiet on the drive to AOPi, still holding my hand. I’m deep in self-reflection mode as Mateo’s thumb traces lines along my wrist. Although I’d obsessively liked Aaron the past two years, he’d never looked at me with such open tenderness that my lungs couldn’t find space to inhale. He never made me feel so confident in myself the way Mateo has done since the first day he shared that he liked me. I could never feel sure about anything with Aaron because I never knew what he was thinking. I’m starting to wonder if what started out as a legitimate crush on Aaron snowballed into a crush on having a crush.

It still feels a little implausible that I could go from never thinking of Mateo to constantly thinking of Mateo in just five weeks, yet here I am. And I don’t intend to stop.

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