Page 37 of Forging Legacy

“I’m glad for you, truly. Good luck getting your transcripts updated in time for graduation, though.” I laugh derisively, and then I realize he probably doesn’t care too much about his college transcripts if he’s headed off to be a professional soccer player.

“Come to the combine today,” he says, his voice low. “I’d love to have you there cheering me on. Yelling Moyer and having it be me you’re calling that …”

I frown. “Won’t you have your family there? And your agent and all that?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” He leans forward, closer to me. I can smell his soapy scent, his deodorant and laundry detergent, and his tangy Wyatt aroma. “But they’re not you.” I take another bite of the pastry, and Wyatt pulls out his phone. “I’m going to text you the info and your name will be at will-call. You don’t have to talk to my mom or Grand or Lolly.” He winks. “I hope you can make it.”

Wyatt leaves the coffee shop, and I sit with the tray of buttery deliciousness, worrying about what to do. I’d love to see Wyatt in his element, wearing little shorts. I’m so happy for him that he seems to have dealt with the albatross, although I can’t help but wonder if his next steps ought to include some mental health support for the trauma that got him into that state to begin with.

I stare at the details in my phone about the soccer event. It won’t be crowded with fans—most likely just family members and press folks. Since I already finished absolutely everything school-related, my only alternative would be another day glued to my couch watching sad television.

I dash home for a hat and sunglasses and make my way to the stadium along the Mon River. By the time I arrive, the athletes have begun their activities. The stands have pockets of families, many holding up signs, but there are a few scattered individuals in the bleachers. I make my way toward the seats behind one of the goals, avoiding eye contact with Wyatt’s mother and grandmothers, who I can clearly see up in one of the fancy boxes along with a man who must be Wyatt’s father. I can hear them shouting, and I glance to the field in time to see Wyatt receive a complicated pass from a coach.

Wyatt flicks a foot, seemingly effortlessly, and the ball sails into the net right in front of me. I can’t help but whoop. And then he cycles through the drill several more times, scoring with each opportunity—sometimes off his left foot, sometimes his right, and sometimes using his forehead to nudge the ball into the net.

He’s magnificent out there, totally in control of his body on the field. Other players sometimes crash into him, but he doesn’t lose the ball. At times, he moves his foot on top of it, pulling it around the grass like it’s attached to his shoe. I see people on the sidelines taking note of Wyatt’s work, making phone calls, whispering to one another, and pointing at him. A ball of pride swells in my chest as if I had something to do with his success out there.

One of the coaches blows a whistle and the players break into teams wearing black shirts and white shirts. They start a game, and I wish I had paid attention during any of the times I worked with Thora at these events. I have no idea what’s going on with the game, but I can see Wyatt’s family pumping their fists and hollering whenever the ball is near him. Wyatt doesn’t break his gaze from the field, though. He’s focused, determined, dodging around other players with ease.

After a few minutes, he breaks free of a crowd of players, shakes off an elbow, leans back on one foot, and kicks the ball into the corner of the net past the diving hands of the goalkeeper. The stadium erupts into cheers, and I’m caught up in the moment, jumping to my feet to wave my hat around. And then he sees me, and I freeze. The whole stadium seems to melt away as he smiles at me and gives me a little wave. My cheeks heat as he wiggles his fingers in my direction.

Someone calls him off the field, and he disappears into a tunnel. I sit back down and try to pay attention to the action on the field, wondering if I should stay or go now that Wyatt is apparently done with his performance. I’ve made up my mind to head home and call him later, but someone puts a hand on my arm, stopping me as I go to leave.

It’s a man with a camera, which seems to be recording. “Pardon me, miss,” he says, his voice indicating a long history with a lot of cigarettes. “You’re here with Wyatt De Luca?”

I frown. “I don’t know anyone with that name.” I try to shove past him, but he chuckles and stands in my way.

“Right, right. Goes by Moyer, doesn’t he? I’m doing a little story on his family. Thought it would be good to include some quotes from the girlfriend. What’s your name, honey?”

I stare at the man, not knowing how to respond. I know Wyatt is guarded with the press and I can’t imagine he’d want to reveal anything about a romantic relationship in the news. He can’t really avoid his parents coming up since they’re part of the sport. But I feel pretty confident he’d support me telling this guy to fuck off. Except I don’t say that because I’m too overwhelmed. I shove past the man and hurry toward the exit gate.

Chapter29

Wyatt

I feel fucking fantastic.I had an incredible morning and Brian pulled me aside the second I stepped off the grass to let me know today is going to be an offer day.

For the first time, the idea doesn’t fill me with dread. I’ve got my mom and dad in the stands, my legal shit sorted out, and a signed document from the courts ordering my biological scum rag to stay the fuck away from me and my entire family.

Plus, my girl is in the stands watching. I know I can’t really call her my girl … Fern is my professor–instructor if we’re being technical. And I’m moving to Mexico, and she’s moving to London. But she’s here. She came over to watch me because I asked her to, and that means the world to me.

I’m practically floating when I step outside the locker room to catch my breath and calm down while I wait for Brian to call me up to the conference room to sign paperwork. I lean against the brick of the stadium exterior, smiling at the train going past, and the barges on the river. This stadium has been my home base for almost my entire life. I spent hours here after school, running around while my parents finished work. Once Dad retired from playing and started coaching, I spent even more time here, running drills alongside the team like some bratty kid. Except, I could always keep up.

I hear a shout and glance toward the sound. I see a woman hurrying toward the light rail station and a crusty man with a camera in hot pursuit.

It’s … Fern. What the fuck? “Hey!” I push off the brick and start following them, my cleats loud on the sidewalk. I shouldn’t run and risk stumbling in my awkward footwear, but I will if I need to. Fern hears my voice and whips around. Her eyes are wide with concern until she sees me, and I watch as she immediately seems to relax. “Fern, is this guy bothering you?”

“Fern, is it?” The guy pulls out a notepad and starts writing shit down.

“Who the hell are you? Don’t say her name.”

He smiles and shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, kid.”

“Moyer, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” My agent’s voice appears over my shoulder, and I see him approaching from the corner of my eye. He stops beside me, hands on his hips, glowering at the cameraman. “Fuck you, Pella. You trying to get another libel suit? I will sue you before you get to your car.”

The man—Pella, apparently—grins and shakes his head. “I just do what I’m told. Take it up with BuzzTalk.”

He stalks toward the parking lot, chuckling, and I glare at Brian. “Who is that guy? He was following Fern.” I gesture at her.

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