Page 39 of Relationship Goals

“Ass-van,” Marino corrects, then scrunches his forehead as Tristan wheezes. “Many asses.”

I shake my head.

“Ass-load,” Tristan finally manages, giving me a look of amusement.

That’s the thing with Tristan, our golden-boy goalie. No matter how much he fucks with someone, they can’t help but feel he means well.

Usually, he does mean well. He’s not a bad guy.

Sun glints against the glass of the air-conditioned seating at the top of the field, and when I glance up reflexively, guilt slides through me all over again.

The damned owners might be up there now, congratulating themselves on orchestrating last night’s tabloid feeding frenzy.

“Is she a good kisser?” Marino asks. “She looks like a good kisser—”

“Fuckoff,” I snarl at him. “I told you to shut up about her.”

Marino blinks, a slightly confused and hurt expression playingacross his face before he turns away, storming to the other side of the field.

“What crawled up your ass?” Gold asks me quietly. “I would have thought you’d be in a better mood. Is it your mom? Is she worse?”

“I never should have told you she was sick.”

He flinches, actually flinches, at the words, and guilt oozes through me.

Gold recovers in a flash, though, cocking an eyebrow, his signature half smile on his face.

“Sometimes you’re so full of shit I nearly believe what you say.” He punches me on the shoulder, and even though it’s harder than usual, I don’t move. I just glare at him. “Dude, I know you’re upset about your mom, but she wouldn’t want you to take it out on me.”

I blink, knowing he’s right, and slightly hating him for it. And slightly grateful for it, too.

Gold might be more stubborn than I am. Fortunately for me, it’s in the opposite direction. He’s as stubbornly positive as I am stubbornly an asshole.

“We should do karaoke tonight.”

“I’m not going to fucking karaoke tonight.” I shake my head.

“It will make you feel better. We can cue up some classic Mariah Carey, let you sing out all those big feelings,” he says with a grin.

“Singing Mariah fucking Carey isn’t going to make me feel better,” I growl at him, torn between amusement and annoyance, the way I usually am around Gold’s brand of friendship. “What the fuck is your obsession with karaoke anyway?”

“I’ve told you this a million times.” He pauses, easily catching a ball someone punts at him. He tosses it in front of him, beginning a series of showy-trick bullshit with it that’s more likely to get him followers on social media than help in any way, shape, or form on game day.

I tilt my head as he continues to juggle the ball off his body, waiting with growing impatience.

Gold continues to showboat, the ball arcing overhead as he bounces it off his chest, where it lands on the back of his neck.

As soon as he pops upright, the ball sailing to his foot, I steal it, then kick it back down the field.

“Who peed in your cereal?” he asks, then sighs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not obsessed with it. I just think it’s a good way to blow off steam. You could say no, you know. I can work on the new car I just had delivered.”

He gives me an evil grin, and I know he’s goading me, but I take the bait, the way I always do with Gold.

“It’s a not a new car if you have to—”

“Rebuild it,” he finishes with me. He laughs, and a small smile finally kicks up the corners of my mouth. “Yeah, trust me, you’ve told me that a time or two before.”

“I just don’t understand why you’d spend all that time and money fixing something when you can just—”

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