Page 60 of Relationship Goals

“Are we the only two in the box tonight?” I ask. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“Yeah, this box is one of the perks of the job, and I figured you might not want people listening in while we talked about the game and the business. Plus, it’s a great place to talk without being overheard.” She gestures vaguely at the fan section behind one of the goals, and sure enough, they’re setting up what looks like an entire brass band and drum line, practically every seat filled with people in gold and black face paint and outrageous outfits.

“Wow.” My eyebrows raise behind my thick black glasses. “They seem serious.”

“That’s one of the best parts of this team, in my opinion. The Aces’ superfans are something else.”

“How so?”

“You know,” she says slowly, turning to look back at me, “Luke has his own little fan club over there. They’re obsessed with him. They gave him his own chant and everything.” She nudges me with her elbow, and I sip my beer, intrigued. “See?”

Sure enough, a fan dressed in a full wolf suit, like a mascot, is heading down the bleacher-style seating as people high-five them. There’s a poster with glittering, fluorescent letters in their hands, and I strain to read it.

“ ‘Hunt the Wolf,’ ” I finally manage.

Michelle lets out a surprised laugh.

Slight unease grips me. “I take it that’s not the normal chant?”

“Nope. I think they did that for you,” she says, her nose crinkling in sympathy. “Is that weird?”

“A little,” I admit. “Part of the job.”

It is part of the job, and I invited that kind of crap as soon as I kissed him outside the little Italian restaurant. It’s my fault, and I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable about it.

I should feel grateful that people care enough to make hand-lettered signs and bring them to Luke’s game. Shouldn’t I?

No sooner has the slimy feeling of discomfort and guilt hit me than I’m standing up, waving to the wolf-costumed fan holding the sign.

See? I can do this. I can be fine with constantly being on display and scrutinized. Just part of the gig.

Someone tugs on the wolf’s arm, and they finally see me, then jump up and down, holding up their sign. I give an exaggerated laugh and blow a kiss at them before settling back down.

I’m fine with it.

Michelle’s gaze pins me, though, and I get the very uncomfortable feeling that she sees right through my bullshit.

“Sometimes it’s better to own the narrative,” I tell her carefully.

The beer tastes better on the third sip, I decide, and it only shakes slightly as I put it back in the cupholder.

“Right,” she says, and I know I haven’t fooled her at all.

“Okay, tell me what to expect. For the game, I mean.”

“How much do you know? About soccer?”

I give her a look. “Assume I know nothing.”

She grins at me, then steals a fry from the boat on my lap. “You got it.”

By the second half, I’m in love. The game is fluid, more graceful than I expected, and I’m constantly surprised by how engaged I am, especially considering the goals are few and far between.

The athletes themselves are stunningly graceful and fast, and none of them more so than Luke Wolfe, who I can’t stop staring at.

He’s magnetic all the time, but on the field? He’s unbelievable.

It seems unlikely that a man of his size and bulk should be able to move as fast as he does, and the way his foot finds the ball like it’s an extension of himself…

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