Page 75 of The Kiss of Deception

Grandpa’s seasoned steps are slow, what should’ve been seconds stretching longer until he sits between us.

As we wait, I widen my eyes at my mother. “Oof.” I run the back of my hand across my forehead. “Saved by my superhero.”

“I’m glad you came, darling.” Her grin mirrors mine.

“I’m glad you invited me, Mom.”

Chapter Eighteen

Zoe

Rivalry is defined as the competition for superiority in the same field.

In my dictionary, it’s the ninety-minute game that brings the city together and divides it in the same breath.

In those ninety minutes, passions and loyalties are ignited. The culmination of days in which the city was livelier, breathing air charged by anticipation, and decades of a tradition firmly embedded into the fabric of the city and the people. It brings about loves and loyalties that run beyond the green pitch, magnified by the recent rampant rise of the blue team, naming Boston one of the soccer cities in the United States.

One city, two teams. Rivals competing to be crowned the king of the city, even if for only a night—or until the next match.

Will Boston be red or blue tonight?

The rivalry is in my blood, too, a passion passed down to me through the generations. And though I grew up in the stands of the Boston Football Club Stadium, today feels like the first time.

After so many years watching the games from the sidelines, I’m back in the stands. Though the box with my last name remains empty; it still doesn’t feel right to sit there without Grandpa. Instead I watch behind a steel veranda as the action unfolds on the field, as well as the motions I usually take part in on the sidelines.

And the reason for the changed perspective, who is currently running, ball glued to his feet like it never wants to get away.

I vehemently refused to wear Miles’s jersey, though. I might be halfway down a rabbit hole, but I’m not entirely mad. Never say never and all that, but I will never, never wear the symbol of the rivals.

I’ve chosen to no longer be loud about my loyalties, but my love for my club will remain until my dying day.

It’s an easy conclusion that my blood runs as red and white as Boston FC—one I never bothered to deny. Journalists are humans, too. We were children once, and we are humans beyond professionals in a job that’s inherently coated in impartiality—a cloak I consciously wear, removing my jersey when it comes to my work.

For many of us, this profession began with a passion for a sport or a team or a club, an affinity that doesn’t blind or incapacitate our performance and professionalism.

I’ve been so focused on remaining professional, watching through clinical lenses and analytical eyes, that I put my love for this sport to sleep.

Today, it’s awake. My heart pumps like I’m running on the grass, too, adrenaline whipping through my veins.

The game is rough, every single play disputed to the last inch.

Miles is a menace with the ball at his feet; a nightmare to the defense line, only stopped by illegal contact. Always with his head up, eyes ahead, as though he doesn't have to look down to check if the ball is there. The round thing knows where it belongs—at his feet—and it won’t go anywhere, even under constant threat of theft.

An opponent, often more than one, is on Miles Blackstein’s heels as soon as the ball is in his possession—and when it’s far away, too. I’ve never seen such tight marking nor a striker evading it so artfully.

His strong legs flex miles of corded muscle under white shorts and knee-high socks, and even in the distance, even with his inhumane speed, I see the contours of lean muscle.

Then comes Nicholas Hale.

Ruthless, the defender sweeps Miles into the grass right on the edge of the penalty area. I don’t notice the yellow card or the wall line up. Until he gets back up, cautiously putting weight on his left foot to try it out, all I see is Miles’s big frame crumpled in pain on the oppressive green grass.

I curse Nicholas and all his offspring until my Number Nine grabs the sphere with gentle hands. The whistle grants permission, and three steps later, he kicks. The air catches in my throat as his left cleat sends the ball on its way with a kiss of death. Dizzying, it tears through the air in a perfect arch, landing with a poetic thud in the far corner of the net.

Forgetting my second home is circumstantially hostile territory, I jump with arms in the air and fists closed in celebration. My fervent cheer collides with a wall of curses. Heads turn my way, eyes shooting daggers at me.

I shrug, unclenching my fists and leaving my hands up in the air in a sign of truce, the only white flag I can wave since I’m physically unable to hide or contain the gravity of my smile.

“That’s my boyfriend!” I beam, explaining my suicidal moment of hysteria.

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