Page 76 of The Kiss of Deception

I suppose it does. To the entire world, that man is my man. This is the exact reaction expected of me, his proud girlfriend.

It should surprise me, or at least worry me, that those three words tore from my lips so effortlessly, unplanned and unpremeditated. They flew out of my mouth straight from down my chest—not from up my head. And they ring true. It feels right to scream it from rooftops and crowded soccer stadium stands, for everyone to hear and to know.

That man is mine.

As if he heard me, Miles finds me among the tapestry of red. Pointing at me, he draws a Z in the air like fucking Zorro.

That goal is for me.

The wings of my butterflies drag with a pang of guilt at my team’s loss. But that’s not what I celebrate. It’s Miles’s success, never his team—never my team’s demise.

“Fuck your boyfriend!”

The distinct shout fires from a couple of rows ahead, closer to the lawn, from the pursed lips of a middle-aged man with cheeks that match his red jersey.

Little does he know, this time next year, he’ll be bowing at my boyfriend’s feet.

Logically, I understand the man’s wrath—here I am celebrating his loss on their own stands. Zoe-before-Miles would have easily ignored the comment. Hell, a few months ago, I would have fully agreed with this red-cheeked, round-bellied, soccer-loving man.

Fuck Miles Blackstein indeed.

“Yes, sir. I plan to! It’ll be my pleasure!”

Another man shoots daggers at me as his hands cover little ears by his side, the kid watching me with a pout. I would apologize, but I’m unsure what they’re upset about: my brash reply or the fact that their team is now losing by one goal.

I also don’t feel apologetic in the least.

I know nasty comments are a constant in an athlete’s life. Miles has undoubtedly been bombarded with worse than a simple fuck you, but the wave of protectiveness that washes over me doesn’t leave space for reason. Miles has been nothing but fiercely protective, so I reciprocate.

Camila’s signature unrestrained laughter, boisterous and contagious and utterly unladylike, fills my ears even through the loud noises of an ebullient stadium.

I bump her shoulder, and our eyes connect in a pause that becomes a countdown. When it hits zero we crack in a fit of laughter. Soon, we’re cackling, then wheezing, and turning heads our way once again.

I can’t even muster the oxygen to care about the fact we look like mad girls.

When the whistle screeches the game is over, the giant screens on either side of the stadium show a bright 1 on each side of the dash under each team’s symbols. The final result is a tie, one goal for each.

Camila and I remain in place, seats forgotten behind us with the frenzy of the game pumping in everybody’s veins precluding us from sitting still through the final minutes.

The seats empty with the steady flows of feet shuffling up and down the concrete steps. But some fans linger back, too, immortalizing the night in clicks and flashes, pictures and videos, trying to capture the attention of their favorite stars with homemade signs and requests in big, bold letters.

Shirtless, sweaty skin shines under the spotlights as Miles and Nicholas approach after trading jerseys. I glower at Nicholas with lingering resentment, still seeing him tackle my fake-boyfriend to the ground with the violence of a different football.

If he were the kind of person that frowned—like humans—he would have. As it is, Nicholas Hale defies the reputation of my evil eye as he remains thoroughly unbothered. He doesn’t even trip once.

Miles locks his gaze on mine, a crooked grin appearing instantly. It works like a key unlocking my arms, and they open wide. He jogs the last steps and invades my space. I squeeze him, and, damn, his deodorant is effective.

While Miles rushes to me, Nicholas does the opposite. His stride slows, measured and purposeful, like he slows the clock and time ticks in tandem to the pace of his steps. All so he can properly take in the girl on my side.

Camila wears her giant grin and dramatic white bootcut jeans, her brother’s name and number in a jersey knotted around her waist.

Nicholas eyes her like it’s his name on her back.

I realize I’m holding my breath when Rodrigo manifests out of thin air with Portuguese words, and all the oxygen swooshes out.

“Oh my God!” Miles points a finger in their general direction.

At the same time, I whisper-scream. “What was that?!”

---