Page 16 of Relationship Goals

There’s hardly a knickknack or picture in the whole office. Whereas I would’ve had my desk decked out in pink florals and pictures of all my favorite people, Michelle’s desk is sterile. A large monthly calendar pad dominates the desk space, along with an engraved clock.

Other than her computer and one expensive-looking fountain pen, that’s it.

Some of my hope for starting a friendship with Michelle shrivels up.

“So, they’ve assigned you to me,” she says briskly. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I swallow my disappointment. She blinks at me, leaning back in her office chair.

“If you’re too busy for me to shadow you, I get it,” I tell her. “I do not want to get in your way at all, and I’m sure you’ve got a ton going—”

“Stop right there.” She holds up a hand, and I snap my mouth shut. Michelle shakes her head, and not one strand of glossy dark brown hair dares escape from her bun. “I’m sorry—you misunderstood me. I could not be morefreaking relievedto have you around, and I don’t care how unprofessional that sounds.”

For the first time all day, I’m rendered truly speechless.

“Listen, this place is…” She pauses, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head as she tries to figure out what to saynext. “Sports franchises, especially these bigger ones, always come with a lot of history and baggage,” she says carefully, then spreads her hands wide. “That’s the whole point of the film you’re doing, right? I mean, the IFF scandal should have created a sea change in the sport.”

“Should have?” I ask, leaning my own arms against her desk, engrossed. “You mean there haven’t been as many changes as there should have been?”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not sure what I meant.”

That doesn’t seem to be the case at all, but, for once, I keep my mouth shut.

Good on me.

“Sorry. Tristan—Mr. Gold—frazzled me before you came in. I guess what I’m trying to say is this is an old boys’ club. I can’t speak for all the franchises, but this particular one…” She trails off. “You signed an NDA, right?”

“I will be,” I tell her slowly. “You should know, though, that even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t go blabbing to anyone. I know how hard it can be to have your life on display to the world.” I take a deep breath to bolster myself and forge onward. “I’m here so I can get a sense of what it’s like to be a woman in professional soccer, and that kind of background knowledge is exactly what I need.” I’m speaking in a hushed, near reverent tone, as sincerely as I possibly can.

“I don’t want to come off as ungrateful,” she says, waving her perfectly manicured fingers at me. French-tipped, short almond, cute but professional. Everything about her appearance is definitely a carefully cultivated choice. “Iamgrateful. And I love my job.”

Her mouth presses thin.

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” I say simply. And I do. We have to be grateful. We have to be the right mix of feminine without being too assertive. It’s a high-wire act between friendly and bossy,and one misstep leads to getting called a bitch or a bimbo. “It’s a lot. I get it.”

She exhales, nodding slowly, and I don’t have to say anything else.

We sit in silence, watching each other, and slowly, Michelle grins at me. “What do you know about soccer?”

I cringe, shooting her a pained expression. “Not as much as I should.”

“Well, you’ll learn fast.” Her smile turns positively beatific. “I played through my sophomore year in college, until a knee injury sidelined my chances of finishing out the season or going pro. It gave me enough credibility to land a job with one of the smaller IFF teams, and, ah, now I’m here.”

“I’m sorry about your knee. That sounds awful.” I had my fair share of injuries on the physical set ofBlood Sirens, but nothing at that level.

She sighs, steepling her hands on the paper calendar in front of her. “It was. I won’t lie. My dreams evaporated after the third ACL surgery.” One shoulder shrugs, the black collar moving with it. “And I’m lucky to be here. This is…” She gestures vaguely with one hand, a diamond-studded ring on her pointer finger catching the light. “I like being around soccer still.”

“I’m glad,” I manage, even though it sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than me. “You know, Luke Wolfe said something weird about the owners.”

She stops, her brown eyes widening, then narrowing as she meets my gaze. I audibly swallow, realizing my misstep.

“Wolfe and the owners butt heads a lot,” she says carefully. “I’d take whatever any of them say with a grain of salt where the other is concerned. I would also watch yourself around the owners. Mr. Treadwick and Mr. Pugilisi can be…unpredictable.”

“Right,” I say, feeling chastised.

“Why were you talking with Luke Wolfe?” She angles her head at me.

“Oh, they asked him to show me around the place.” It’s my turn to wave a hand.

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