Page 21 of The Kiss of Deception

And then… Then, our world collapsed and collided and created the perfect disaster.

It was wrong, what I did. There’s no other way to go about it. I should never have touched Zoe without her express consent.

Yet…

Yet, for all the remorse that plagues me, what I can’t regret is the consequences. Of all the ways I’d sought to change the status quo, I could never have orchestrated a predicament that gave me all the things I wanted in all the wrong ways.

I still can’t quite believe Zoe said yes. I was sure of her resounding rejection, while still a little hopeful, against my own good sense. Hope is a sneaky thing like that. Self-sufficient, it survives all on its own against my will, uncaring of odds or possibilities or impossibilities.

But she said yes. As reluctant as it was, she said yes.

So, it’s time I stop lying to myself and own the truth—and fight.

I’ve been at her feet from the first time I saw her, longing, in secret and in silence, for the day she’d see me; for the day she'd give any small scrap of herself to me.

I should have shown her, instead. I should have fought for every single piece of her.

I’m not much of a believer in fate or deity—and I won’t put my mistake on third hands—but this feels like a second chance—one I won’t waste.

So I needed some space, too. Precisely because I never want any more space between us—and I can’t make any mistake that might blow up our careful balance.

Unsure of the protocol when it comes to flighty fake girlfriends, I decided that three days should be enough.

Either way, I won’t wait any longer. I’ll give her the space she needs, but I won’t leave her to navigate the inevitable ramifications from the popularity of our relationship.

I tip my head back under the spray, feeling the warm water wash away the sweat of a game down the drain. Securing the towel around my waist, I hurry, wishing I could teleport to her in the blink of an eye.

Among the chaos of a happy locker room, I chuckle as I watch the newbie, Leo, struggling to reach his boat shoes hanging from the high ceiling.

It can be a heavy environment on the days when losses or injuries haunt us even off the field—we have to shoulder them until the next game.

On the days we succeed, joy and pranks and bursts of boisterous laughter can be heard from the other side of the stadium.

The pranks are part of the welcoming party and last until we get bored. Poor Leo. If there’s one thing about adult athletes, it’s that we don’t get bored of these childish antics.

I sit and check my phone. Not many people have my number, but I find a few text messages waiting.

My mom, always the first one. I smile, though I don’t type. She knows I’ll call her on my way home. It’s our ritual; a religious video chat in which she repeats over and over how proud she is.

Something from my father too, gone with a swipe. Some old friends from high school and college, and my manager.

Charles: Great game. Keep it up and the sharks will be on your door.

I shoot him a quick thank you, glad he didn’t mention meeting Zoe—and praying he wouldn’t follow up with the same demand again. Or anytime soon. He has a lot of opinions and as many words—too many—about my girlfriend. Particularly her job. Since the kiss that never happened, he’s become a reliable warning about being wary of whom I trust—that I should be careful sharing a bed with the enemy.

Much to my dismay, we’re not sharing beds.

Yet, hopefully.

Although Zoe being a spy would explain her unexpected acceptance of my pretend proposal…

The cotton is efficient, soaking the roaming droplets of water from my skin in record time. I forgo half of the products I would normally apply, pulling my pants on as I half listen to one of the new picks going on a passionate ramble about some video game I’ve never heard of. To be fair, I’ve never been a fan of such games, either.

“In a rush, Blackstein?” Davis raises a brow at me as he gathers his toiletries for the showers.

He’s a good captain, always putting his neck on the line for the team, though his attitude towards our adversaries isn’t one I fully understand. Provocative and bloodthirsty, he thrives on instigation and aggression, a version of passion that I don’t believe belongs in soccer.

“Of course, he is,” Gus, the goalie, pipes from his seat. He hasn’t even taken his jersey off, too busy smirking at his phone. “Can’t make the lady wait,” he quips slyly.

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