Page 2 of The Kiss of Deception

The traditional victory lap reaches its end, and my teammates start to scatter, some making their way back to the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, some heading to the sidelines where their families patiently await, some held up by eager reporters of all kinds who don’t miss the chance to poke and prod for exclusive quotes and statements.

My hand absently reaches for the medal that hangs from my neck, as I scour the sidelines for my mom. Since I first joined the children’s team all the way through high school, she drove me to every late game and early practice. She never missed a game—her presence on those bleachers so faithful that her name was carved into the seat. Not until I moved away to college and put thousands of miles between us. Her support then morphed into religious texts and calls before and after each match, but it never wavered.

Death, taxes and my mother’s unconditional support are the only certainties in my life.

It’s the sporting director, though, that catches my eye when he sticks an arm up. Andrew Bass hasn’t stopped grinning for the past hour. I wonder if his joy is a product of our victory, of all the attention he’ll get after tonight, or the fat bonus that’ll soon rain on his bank account.

“Miles B!” I’m the only Miles on the team, and probably the only Miles within a radius of miles, but for some unknown reason, he always insists on adding the B. He targets me with an embrace, slapping my back. “Congrats, my man!”

Keeping one arm draped around my shoulders, he walks us in the opposite direction. He’s congratulated me on the win before, and the last thing I want is to waste time repeating the same pleasantries.

“Thanks. Again.” I disentangle myself from his limbs, eager to be done with whatever this is.

“Not about this,” he says, grinning at the gold dangling from my neck, tapping it one, two, three times too many. “You won Man of the Match, too. Go and accept it. And you’re on flash interview duty too.”

I fold my lips into a thin line, annoyed that my limited time is running out, wasted by formalities. I’m happy for the award but I don’t have long until the one person who came here for me is on a plane, flying to a far-away home

“Plus, the interviewer is a hottie.”

His suggestive wink makes my stomach churn in disgust. Careful to keep a plain face, I nod toward the press spot. Then I’m off and finally free from him.

Plastering my charming smile high and bright on my face, I hone in on the paper wall with the names and logos of the competition’s sponsors, right in front of the tunnel to the locker rooms.

The adrenaline is wearing off, the exhaustion of ninety minutes running in the 120-yard-long, 80-yard-wide pitch, up and down, again and again, is catching up. My body weeps to get this over with so I can go hug my mother, take a shower, and go home.

And then my eyes land on her—her presence drawing me in like a magnet with a merciless pull to everything in its magnetic field—and everything quiets into a serene stillness.

My steps stutter for a heartbeat, recovering quickly enough that the eyes that still remain—a half an hour after the match has ended—wouldn’t have noticed.

Right hand curled around a microphone sporting the logo of a famous sports channel, and left hand clutching the famous Man of the Match award, she stands tall and proud even in her petite frame of what can’t be more than five feet and a couple of inches, and infuriatingly beautiful.

Her infinitely long raven waves a dark cloak falling graciously on her back, long bangs like hands cupping her face, bringing out the vibrant turquoise that sits brightly around her pupils.

Drawing in a deep inhale before my steps close the distance, I mentally prepare—not for a quick interview, but for a new round of longstanding combat.

Zoe Westwood is a journalist, but not a friend or fan of mine. She’s also my neighbor—my front door neighbor.

Five scarce feet separate her door from mine; five feet that might as well be an ocean, a desert, an entire galaxy.

“Hey, love! To what do I owe the pleasure of having you here today? Missed me that much?” I inflict the same cheerful charm I know she despises.

Though Zoe is the picture of perfect composure, her knuckles whiten as she grasps the objects with more force than necessary.

“Yes, Blackstein. I missed you so much I could barely breathe.” The queen of ice and sarcasm wrinkles her nose. “Especially without your lovely smell.”

I frown, looking down at myself. I’m covered in sweat and dirt from the grass, but I don’t think I smell that bad. I hope.

Fuck, no. I won’t let her get in my head and make me squirm with a single sentence.

I ignore her snide remark, ready to point out that it never bothered her before. And it hits me. I’ve never seen her down on the sidelines before.

“Is this your first time here, love?”

No answer is the answer.

I can’t help myself, I enjoy teasing and torturing her a little more than I should. “So, I’m your first guy? Aw, now I’m a little nervous. Might even be blushing at the honor.” I make a show of touching my cheeks like I’m flustered.

She doesn’t make an effort to hide the way her eyes do a full roll, a pirouette, before she faces the camera on some blonde guy’s shoulder, effectively dismissing me as she focuses her attention on what I assume is the anchor of her sports channel, words coming to her through the earpiece in her right ear.

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