Page 13 of Relationship Goals

My heart seems to stop, my stomach sinking.

“What do you mean?” My mouth somehow forms the words, completely detached from my brain.

“You haven’t really been very nice to me. So, why?”

I grunt. She’s not wrong. “You’re trying to learn more about pro sports, right? I can help.” There goes my promise to not explain soccer to her. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t help her, but I’m starting to feel like that conviction flew out the window as soon as I saw her mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief.

She lifts an eyebrow. “You want to help…me?” Abigail’s disbelief hangs heavy in the question.

I can’t say I blame her.

“Fuck.” I rake a hand through my hair. “No.” Shit, shit. I need to fix this.

“Uh—”

“I think you’re pretty,” I rasp, interrupting her. “I’m not good with people.” To my utter surprise, both of those statements are true. “You made me laugh.”

I don’t laugh easily, but this woman disarmed me nearly immediately.

Abigail tilts her head, studying me. “Why should I go with you? You haven’t exactly been a peach to hang out with.”

Why? How the hell do I tell her a why when my reasons are completely fucked?

All I have ever wanted was to play pro soccer. It’s all I know how to do. I’m not ready to quit my dream. I can make this work, then get home to my mom.

I can’t let Abigail Hunt and the deal with the owners slip through my fingers.

I should have been nicer to her. Too bad I’m notnice.

She’s still watching me, a careful expression on her face.

“Because I know a really great Italian place, and I might be a stubborn ass, but I can help answer questions about soccer or the IFF.” It’s the best I can come up with. There. I’m selling it now, and when I tell the owners I tried, I’ll mean it.

“And you think I’m pretty?” she presses, a faint pink coloring her cheeks, like this information is brand-new to her.

I grunt in affirmation, and when her eyebrows raise in clear skepticism, I grind my molars.

“I think you’re out of my league, and too nice for me,” I finally force out. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re stunning.”

Her hands go to her hips, and my skin prickles in awareness at her careful perusal.

“Italian for dinner, then. Am I…meeting you there? Does this place have a name?”

“So you’ll still go?” I ask. Hope tightens my throat. God. Maybe Iwillget to finish out the rest of my good soccer-playing years and be able to help my mom out while she’s sick.

Maybe Icanhave it both ways.

A smile blooms on her face, and I blink. I wasn’t lying. Abigail Hunt is stunningly pretty.

“Mm-hmm,” she says softly, then wags a finger at me. “But you better be nicer to me.”

Shame slides through me, ice-cold.

“I’ll pick you up,” I tell her.

I’m not agreeing to be nicer. I don’t know if I can be.

“Here.” I hold out my phone. “Put your number in, and your address.”

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