“Buy a new one,” he interrupts in a gruff growl.
“Is that supposed to be the way I sound?” I ask him, amusement finally winning all the way out.
“I can color my eyebrows in with marker if you want a more realistic impression,” Gold tells me blandly. “Maybe find a pair of those black fuzzy caterpillars and superglue them to my face.”
“Sorry we weren’t all born as handsome as you are, ass,” I tell him.
“You think I’m handsome.” Batting his eyelashes, he pretends to flip his hair over a shoulder, and I snort in spite of my shitty attitude. “I mean it, though, man. I’m sorry about your mom. I know you don’t like to talk about it, or anything, or even talk, but I’m here if you need someone to listen.”
“Or to sing karaoke with,” I grumble.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, laughing. “So, you coming over tonight to help me with my new-old car, or we going out?”
My jaw clenches, and I’m saved from having to answer when thecoach blows his whistle again. “Wolfe, you’re up. Gold, get in goal. Set pieces.”
He didn’t have to tell us what he wants—it’s the same thing every Friday after drills. Corners are my specialty, and I know that’s what he wants to start with, because that’s what he always wants to start with.
We’ll break for lunch, and then it will be time for physical therapy and one last strategy film watch before our game tomorrow. My feet eat up the turf as I jog onto the field, dribbling a ball easily, an extension of myself.
I crave it: the schedule, the predictability, the rules, the physical exertion.
Game days are different, of course. There’s no set plays like in American football—there’s a fluidity to it, art and skill and technique all combining with heady adrenaline in an addictive biochemical elixir.
But my usual flow state’s off today, and I pull right, the first ball arcing wide and pinging against the bar.
Gold jogs out of the goal and shoots me a look I don’t need to be telepathic to understand.
It’s pity, and he thinks my mom’s the reason why I’m out of it today.
If only he knew the half of it.
He doesn’t know it’s because the woman I’m supposed to be romancing on the owners’ orders could be the girl of my dreams, and if I don’t do it, I can kiss spending more time with my family goodbye—and Abigail Hunt will likely hate me forever if she finds out.
Gold passes the ball to me, and I set back up for the piece, inhaling deeply.
I’m not the type of man to give up on either thing so easily. I want both: off the fucking LA Aces and a real shot at whatever I’m feeling with Abigail.
My breath slows, my pulse following where my mind tells it to.
I take a step back, and another, then speed up as I head back toward the ball.
This time, it sails into the net easily, Gold misreading my feint and heading the wrong way.
If I can still misdirect the goalie who knows me better than anyone, I can do this thing with Abigail Hunt. She won’t find out the reason I asked her on a date was because two greedy motherfuckers in suits told me to. She can’t.
Gold passes me the ball again, and I set up, this time using my left foot.
I’m Luke fucking Wolfe.
I’ve always managed to play both sides and score.
This time won’t be any different.
Chapter Ten
Abigail
Friday lunch withMichelle seemed like a great idea yesterday.