The game, p.4
The Game, page 4
“One year, Sylvie? That’s it, right? And you promise to keep looking for me?”
Sylvie nodded.
I’d stayed quiet this entire time, but knew I needed to commit too. “I promise to do whatever it takes to get you back on the field where you belong. I’ll cover all of your costs—moving, medical care, everything.”
“I need to think about this. It’s a lot to ask of both of us. How does a fiancée behave anyways?”
“You don’t have much time. I’m going to assume you’re saying yes unless I hear otherwise by midnight.” Sylvie pulled her jacket off the coat tree in the corner and walked to the door. “I’m on a morning flight out of Heathrow and need to find you a place in Chicago. Be ready to move within the week. I’ll leave the two of you to hammer out the fine print.”
She was gone so quickly that Abby and I were left with our jaws hanging open, still holding hands. As the door shut, we turned to each other. She glanced down and pulled her hand free, opening and closing it like she was restoring the circulation. Her eyebrows were knit together in confusion. Maybe it was her concussion, but I had a sneaking suspicion her uncertainty was due to the fact that she couldn’t get over the fact that she’d been clinging to me, of all people.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She tapped my wrist. “It’s okay. You were quiet back there. How do you feel about all of this?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, I’m grateful to be getting another shot, but I feel bad for you getting caught up in it. I know you don’t like me very much—although, you have to admit that the spider trick was pretty funny.” I gripped the back of my neck and tried to smile at her, my fake fiancée.
She gave me a half-smirk and tried to scratch under her bandages. “Promise I’ll get you back for that someday.”
“Here.” I handed her a pencil. “Use that.”
“Thank god,” she muttered, and slid the pencil underneath her bandages.
“Will you do it, then? Move to Chicago with me? I’m serious, I’ll cover all of the moving costs, housing, food, rent and your medical bills.”
Abby stopped scratching and dropped the pencil. The long stare she threw my way stabbed into me with its intensity. “I don’t know. With the exception of the night of the party, we don’t get along. This sucks.”
“I know I haven’t done much to make you think otherwise, but take a look at my phone if you can handle the light. You should see what people are saying.” I opened one of my social media accounts and scrolled down the timeline, searching for the right image. I tapped on a picture we’d been tagged in from the party, right before our big ol’ kiss.
She glanced down at it and winced. “Ah, bad decisions.”
“Check out the comments.”
Her eyebrows climbed her forehead until they were so high they could hide beneath her bandages. I knew what she was seeing. I’d had the same reaction. Comment after comment talking about how adorable we were, how glad people were that we were together, a modern-day Romeo and Juliet—but with soccer. How hot our babies would be, support for her injury, offers to help pay for our wedding and more.
“They love us?” Her voice cracked. “Us?”
“Big-time. It’s the only reason I haven’t put a stop to it. I know you hate me, but people like us together and I can help you. If we keep up this ruse—isn’t that a great word? Ruse?—anyway, if we keep up the story, both of us can benefit.” Seeing the indomitable Abby seem so vulnerable brought out a tenderness in me that I hadn’t known existed. It had me squeezing her hand again, trying to imprint my sincerity through my palm.
“You make me look good, a reformed bad boy, and you get tons of support to heal and rest, plus plenty of PR for when you’re ready to make your comeback. I promise I won’t be a dick. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just…please, let me help you.”
“You really need an answer right now?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Be quiet for a second.”
She dropped my hand and started tapping her fingers on the scratchy sheets. Her eyes were closed, but I could see them moving back and forth like she was reading something behind her eyelids.
I started to vibrate with the need to move around, work off the excess energy and dread that being in the hospital tended to cause professional athletes. We refused to admit that our careers could one day be cut short if our bodies gave out. Being here was a terrible reminder of how quickly I could lose everything that mattered.
“Fine,” she said as she slowly opened her eyes. “Fine. I can’t even begin to afford the PT and surgery I’m going to need to get through this. But I still don’t like you and only trust you as far as I can throw you. That hasn’t changed. If we do this, I want everything in writing and I want you to agree that this is a business relationship. No more kissing unless it’s scheduled and agreed upon by both of us. For publicity only.”
“No problem. I’ll get Sylvie to write it up. Even the no-kissing part, although I think you’re being a bit hasty given how hot our first one was.” I tried to grin at her, sort of-kind of half-joking.
She glared at me.
“Fine, fine, even the no-kissing clause. You’ve got it.”
“All right, you’ve got yourself a fake fiancée, then.”
“Fair enough.” We shook on it, her a lot harder than I expected given the extent of her injuries. I gripped her hand tightly in return and used my thumb to tickle her wrist. She flushed and glanced at her hand, frowning as if it had betrayed her. Her gray eyes seemed to X-ray my entire body and soul, cataloguing every fault, every immature action, every one of my secrets. I felt like I was coming up short, but she nodded and grabbed the remote without another word.
“Want to watch a game or something?” she asked as she laid her head back.
“Sure. I don’t have anywhere to be and I’ve got new clothes over there. This recliner is actually pretty comfy to sleep on. Whatever you want.” Is this our first date?
She smiled and I realized that it was slightly lopsided, only one side of her mouth twisted upward and one cheek dimpled while the other seemed to hold itself back, more reserved, the wait-and-see type. The freckles on her nose wrinkled.
“It’s not a date, you know.” Either she was a mind reader or I’d said that last thing out loud. My bad habit of losing any minimal filter that existed between my brain and mouth seemed worse around her.
“Whatever you say, Stabby, whatever you say.” I grinned and she flicked on the TV, resolutely ignoring me. But she didn’t stop me as I snuck out a hand to wrap around hers, and her fingers pressed gently back into mine as they intertwined.
Chapter Five
Abby
“Dammit, dammit, dammit, Matti,” I whisper-shrieked at my helpful assistant whose long strides outpaced my slow crutching by a mile.
“Sorry, what?” He turned back with his hands on his hips, shirt sleeves pushed up to show off the colorful, complex tattoos that covered his arms. The pose called out how devastating his body was. Broad shoulders, lean hips, ropy quadriceps and calves. He also hadn’t tied the drawstrings of his joggers and they sagged a bit, showing off the waistband of his Calvins and a smooth swath of skin.
I shuddered and forced my eyes back up to meet his, which were twinkling knowingly at me like little blue stars. “My eyes are up here, sweet cheeks,” he said as he tapped the corner of one of them. “What’s up?”
It would totally be my luck to have the hottest, most annoying fake fiancé on the planet. “It’s these crutches. They’re harder to maneuver than I thought with the broken collarbone and taped-up ribs.” I winced in pain.
“Should have listened to the doctor about taking your pain meds and the wheelchair,” he reminded me in an entirely unsympathetic tone. “Now, where did Sylvie park my baby?”
I snorted, because of course he was the type of guy who called his car “baby.” It was probably some ridiculous red sports car that could zoom zoom every woman on the planet out of her panties.
“Ah-ha!” Matti shouted and took off running toward a distant flashing light and beep while I slowly crutched along behind him, trying to hold back my whimpers. I caught up with him as he was popping the tiniest little hatch on the tiniest little car I’d ever seen. At least I’d been right about the size. Not much else, though.
“This is your car?” I asked in complete disbelief. It was miniature, it was turquoise and it had a vanity license plate. FUS-STUD. “What’s a fussy stud?” I asked trying, and failing, not to laugh.
“Fußball stud,” he proclaimed with pride. “Because I play fußball and I am, obviously, a stud.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? Do you take anything seriously?”
“Of course I do, don’t be absurd,” he snapped, more offended than I’d expected.
“I’m just surprised this is your car, had you figured as a supercar kind of guy not a—” I squinted at the name plate and insignia. “A hybrid Fiat 500?”
“I’m environmentally conscious,” he huffed as he slung my backpack in the hatch, helped me slide into the front seat and laid my crutches in the back.
“Sorry. I’m grumpy, hungry and hurting. While I’m usually grumpy, it’s not always this bad. I guess we’re still getting to know each other.” It was the understatement of the century.
He sighed and clenched his fingers around the steering wheel. “Yeah, early days,” he said with his eyes downcast. “Which is why I’ve planned something very exciting for us.”
“Can’t you take me home? I feel and look like garbage,” I complained.
“You are always grumpy, aren’t you? No, I’m sorry, but Sylvie wanted us to be seen today with you leaving the hospital and all. So I made a little plan, and we don’t have to be there long, but we need to get photographed as part of our reputation rehab.” He seemed genuinely contrite. “I know it’s not going to be fun with your injuries.”
“Fine, fine. I get it,” I grumbled and slumped down in my seat. My knee and ribs were screaming at me. “Where are we going?”
“A little park near my apartment,” he muttered as he checked his mirrors before signaling and turning out of the parking garage. We pulled out into traffic as the clouds moved in and a gentle rain started. The windshield wipers thunked back and forth like a metronome.
“A park?” I asked, not sure I’d heard correctly,
“Yeah, I’d planned a picnic,” he said sheepishly. “But London weather…”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed harder than the situation called for. Because of course the consummate good-time guy with the environmentally friendly mini-car, this prankster extraordinaire, would have planned a picnic in a park with London’s dicey weather.
“Fine,” I managed to splutter. “Let’s have a damn picnic.”
* * * *
I wasn’t laughing thirty minutes later as I surveyed the scene. The park had been a no-go due to weather and we’d ended up sitting in one of the parking lots at Stamford Bridge stadium because we couldn’t figure out anywhere else to go.
“What do you mean this isn’t romantic?” He gestured impatiently at the blanket across the hood of the car, which was slowly getting soaked in the drizzle, and the adorable wicker picnic basket that looked like it was wilting. We remained inside, in our seats, waiting for the photographer to show.
“To start, Matti, we’re pretending to have a picnic in the stadium parking lot of a club that fired both of us. Our picnic blanket is emblazoned with the emblem of that same club and it’s raining,” I answered. “What about this strikes you as romantic?”
“I’m really sorry. The park would have been better,” he said with a frown.
“Yes, the park would have been better.” I sighed. “Come on, the photographer is here.”
There was no way I could sit on that blanket given my injuries. We figured we’d do a quick photo of us standing in front of it in a fake clinch. “I’m sorry. I’ve never even had a girlfriend before, much less a fiancée. I’m going to do stuff wrong. Going to screw this up, I know it.” He looked worried, like really and truly worried. I reached out without thinking and took his hand. The crease between his eyes flattened as my fingers pressed into his palm.
“We’ll be okay,” I tried to reassure him, even though I highly doubted it. The dislike between us was too strong for this thing to go anywhere but down.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He let go of my hand and wrapped an arm loosely around my waist. “Is this where we make all of our promises of devotion?” he asked, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes. I’d never met anyone who could change moods on a dime the way quicksilver Matti seemed to be able to, and it drove me nuts trying to predict his reactions.
“Sure…” I said slowly.
“Okay. I promise that I will maintain this fake exclusive relationship for as long as you want to be in it. I’ll handle all of the care, costs, everything that you need for the duration. How about you?” His voice was serious, but a little nervous. There seemed to be a hitch in his breath as he asked me the last.
“I promise that I’ll do whatever it takes to be the best fake fiancée in the world. That if I want out, for whatever reason, I’ll talk to you about it first. And exclusivity. I promise that, okay? I’ve never been one for dating and I can’t see myself being interested in anyone for the time being.”
Matti let out a relieved-sounding sigh and pulled me closer—more gently than I would have imagined for such a big guy with a bull-in-a-china-shop personality—taking care not to jostle my bandages and injuries. I ignored the sharp pain in my ribs as I reached up to drape my arms over his shoulders.
He twitched as my cold, damp hands clutched his neck. “Sorry, that tickles. Can we seal this deal with a kiss? For the cameras, of course.”
“This is one of those times, scheduled and approved, I guess.” I glanced over at the photographer who’d popped out of her car with a jacket over her head to protect her camera from the rain. Her long-distance lens pointed right at us as we stood next to his silly car and the sodden blanket. “Fine, but I want the sickest ring you can imagine for all of this and I’m keeping it when we’re done, too.”
“Deal,” he said quickly and leaned in, stopping right before our lips brushed, waiting for me.
“Deal,” I said softly in an echo of his certainty and closed the distance between us to press my lips against his. I pulled back before either of us let our tongues get involved in the fake kiss and rested my forehead against him. “Just, please, please talk to me about stuff, okay? We’ve got to communicate or this whole thing is going to go up in flames.”
His nostrils flared and his eyes opened wide. Those guileless blue eyes met my own with an honesty that I so wanted to believe, but still wasn’t completely ready to trust. “I promise.”
* * * *
It had turned out to be an excellent Thursday evening. Matti had taken off after helping me up the stairs to my apartment. My jammies were on backwards and I was talking a blue streak to my cat while high on pain meds. Somehow, I managed to blast a mostly coherent text to my teammates explaining that I needed help packing since I was moving to the States in less than a week.
“Merow,” whined Spock, plaintively, as he jumped on my bed to perch his furry butt on my pillow. The little bugger had been hiding when Matti had carried me through the door and this was his first foray out from the closet. Teresa had been taking care of him while I was in the hospital, but he was still pissed at my abandonment. I set my crutches carefully aside and plopped back on my bed as my phone started pinging with responses.
Everyone wanted to bust my lady balls for not telling them about my secret engagement and express their support and outrage over the team cutting us because of our relationship. I felt guilty for continuing the lie, but I’d already told Teresa the truth about Matti and she’d sworn herself to secrecy. No one else could know. I gave up on responding after I sent an incomprehensible emoji stream that even I couldn’t translate.
“Are you ready for a big move? My little fuzzy guy?” I scratched behind his ears and Spock purred while butting his head against me. “There’s going to be a new man in our lives, buddy. His name is Matti. It’s okay if you hate him. I do. In fact, if you could give him a good shredding at least once to pay him back for that mean trick he played on me, I’d really appreciate it.”
The consummate cat, Spock spat out a disgruntled-sounding meow and leaped off the bed. Noted—my cat already liked my fake fiancé more than me. Just like everyone else in the world. I sighed, wallowing in the gloom of my one-woman pity party.
Matti would be the first guy I’d ever brought home to…meet my cat? How pathetic. I’d never really dated, only barely lost my virginity, and since then it had pretty much been a small army of battery-operated boyfriends that took care of everything I might need a man for.
Like any professional sport, soccer was a limited-time gig and I had to make the most of it. Grab the most sponsorships, hustle the hardest, save the most. Because I was damned if I was moving back to the U.S. with nothing to show for it. Damned if I’d listen to my parents ask me if I was ever going to do anything with my degree in sports management from that fancy-shmancy Northwestern University. Couldn’t I have at least gone to Madison? Met a nice guy from Fox Point if I wasn’t going to stick to my hometown like my sainted brother?
“Spock, am I doing the right thing? I’m scared. What if I won’t ever be able to play again?” I awkwardly curled up on my side, my sore ribs supported by soft pillows, and he hopped back up and marched over my legs, turning himself into a furry comma against my stomach. His purrs rattled my battered body, but the meds were kicking in and that reassuring rusty engine sound soothed me.
“Hmm. You’re right, one thing at a time—rehab first, then sorting out Matti Shellenberg.” I yawned, my jaw cracking loudly. “Prepare yourself, my friend, the team is coming over tomorrow to help me with packing. Buddy, we’re heading home.”
Sylvie nodded.
I’d stayed quiet this entire time, but knew I needed to commit too. “I promise to do whatever it takes to get you back on the field where you belong. I’ll cover all of your costs—moving, medical care, everything.”
“I need to think about this. It’s a lot to ask of both of us. How does a fiancée behave anyways?”
“You don’t have much time. I’m going to assume you’re saying yes unless I hear otherwise by midnight.” Sylvie pulled her jacket off the coat tree in the corner and walked to the door. “I’m on a morning flight out of Heathrow and need to find you a place in Chicago. Be ready to move within the week. I’ll leave the two of you to hammer out the fine print.”
She was gone so quickly that Abby and I were left with our jaws hanging open, still holding hands. As the door shut, we turned to each other. She glanced down and pulled her hand free, opening and closing it like she was restoring the circulation. Her eyebrows were knit together in confusion. Maybe it was her concussion, but I had a sneaking suspicion her uncertainty was due to the fact that she couldn’t get over the fact that she’d been clinging to me, of all people.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She tapped my wrist. “It’s okay. You were quiet back there. How do you feel about all of this?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, I’m grateful to be getting another shot, but I feel bad for you getting caught up in it. I know you don’t like me very much—although, you have to admit that the spider trick was pretty funny.” I gripped the back of my neck and tried to smile at her, my fake fiancée.
She gave me a half-smirk and tried to scratch under her bandages. “Promise I’ll get you back for that someday.”
“Here.” I handed her a pencil. “Use that.”
“Thank god,” she muttered, and slid the pencil underneath her bandages.
“Will you do it, then? Move to Chicago with me? I’m serious, I’ll cover all of the moving costs, housing, food, rent and your medical bills.”
Abby stopped scratching and dropped the pencil. The long stare she threw my way stabbed into me with its intensity. “I don’t know. With the exception of the night of the party, we don’t get along. This sucks.”
“I know I haven’t done much to make you think otherwise, but take a look at my phone if you can handle the light. You should see what people are saying.” I opened one of my social media accounts and scrolled down the timeline, searching for the right image. I tapped on a picture we’d been tagged in from the party, right before our big ol’ kiss.
She glanced down at it and winced. “Ah, bad decisions.”
“Check out the comments.”
Her eyebrows climbed her forehead until they were so high they could hide beneath her bandages. I knew what she was seeing. I’d had the same reaction. Comment after comment talking about how adorable we were, how glad people were that we were together, a modern-day Romeo and Juliet—but with soccer. How hot our babies would be, support for her injury, offers to help pay for our wedding and more.
“They love us?” Her voice cracked. “Us?”
“Big-time. It’s the only reason I haven’t put a stop to it. I know you hate me, but people like us together and I can help you. If we keep up this ruse—isn’t that a great word? Ruse?—anyway, if we keep up the story, both of us can benefit.” Seeing the indomitable Abby seem so vulnerable brought out a tenderness in me that I hadn’t known existed. It had me squeezing her hand again, trying to imprint my sincerity through my palm.
“You make me look good, a reformed bad boy, and you get tons of support to heal and rest, plus plenty of PR for when you’re ready to make your comeback. I promise I won’t be a dick. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just…please, let me help you.”
“You really need an answer right now?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Be quiet for a second.”
She dropped my hand and started tapping her fingers on the scratchy sheets. Her eyes were closed, but I could see them moving back and forth like she was reading something behind her eyelids.
I started to vibrate with the need to move around, work off the excess energy and dread that being in the hospital tended to cause professional athletes. We refused to admit that our careers could one day be cut short if our bodies gave out. Being here was a terrible reminder of how quickly I could lose everything that mattered.
“Fine,” she said as she slowly opened her eyes. “Fine. I can’t even begin to afford the PT and surgery I’m going to need to get through this. But I still don’t like you and only trust you as far as I can throw you. That hasn’t changed. If we do this, I want everything in writing and I want you to agree that this is a business relationship. No more kissing unless it’s scheduled and agreed upon by both of us. For publicity only.”
“No problem. I’ll get Sylvie to write it up. Even the no-kissing part, although I think you’re being a bit hasty given how hot our first one was.” I tried to grin at her, sort of-kind of half-joking.
She glared at me.
“Fine, fine, even the no-kissing clause. You’ve got it.”
“All right, you’ve got yourself a fake fiancée, then.”
“Fair enough.” We shook on it, her a lot harder than I expected given the extent of her injuries. I gripped her hand tightly in return and used my thumb to tickle her wrist. She flushed and glanced at her hand, frowning as if it had betrayed her. Her gray eyes seemed to X-ray my entire body and soul, cataloguing every fault, every immature action, every one of my secrets. I felt like I was coming up short, but she nodded and grabbed the remote without another word.
“Want to watch a game or something?” she asked as she laid her head back.
“Sure. I don’t have anywhere to be and I’ve got new clothes over there. This recliner is actually pretty comfy to sleep on. Whatever you want.” Is this our first date?
She smiled and I realized that it was slightly lopsided, only one side of her mouth twisted upward and one cheek dimpled while the other seemed to hold itself back, more reserved, the wait-and-see type. The freckles on her nose wrinkled.
“It’s not a date, you know.” Either she was a mind reader or I’d said that last thing out loud. My bad habit of losing any minimal filter that existed between my brain and mouth seemed worse around her.
“Whatever you say, Stabby, whatever you say.” I grinned and she flicked on the TV, resolutely ignoring me. But she didn’t stop me as I snuck out a hand to wrap around hers, and her fingers pressed gently back into mine as they intertwined.
Chapter Five
Abby
“Dammit, dammit, dammit, Matti,” I whisper-shrieked at my helpful assistant whose long strides outpaced my slow crutching by a mile.
“Sorry, what?” He turned back with his hands on his hips, shirt sleeves pushed up to show off the colorful, complex tattoos that covered his arms. The pose called out how devastating his body was. Broad shoulders, lean hips, ropy quadriceps and calves. He also hadn’t tied the drawstrings of his joggers and they sagged a bit, showing off the waistband of his Calvins and a smooth swath of skin.
I shuddered and forced my eyes back up to meet his, which were twinkling knowingly at me like little blue stars. “My eyes are up here, sweet cheeks,” he said as he tapped the corner of one of them. “What’s up?”
It would totally be my luck to have the hottest, most annoying fake fiancé on the planet. “It’s these crutches. They’re harder to maneuver than I thought with the broken collarbone and taped-up ribs.” I winced in pain.
“Should have listened to the doctor about taking your pain meds and the wheelchair,” he reminded me in an entirely unsympathetic tone. “Now, where did Sylvie park my baby?”
I snorted, because of course he was the type of guy who called his car “baby.” It was probably some ridiculous red sports car that could zoom zoom every woman on the planet out of her panties.
“Ah-ha!” Matti shouted and took off running toward a distant flashing light and beep while I slowly crutched along behind him, trying to hold back my whimpers. I caught up with him as he was popping the tiniest little hatch on the tiniest little car I’d ever seen. At least I’d been right about the size. Not much else, though.
“This is your car?” I asked in complete disbelief. It was miniature, it was turquoise and it had a vanity license plate. FUS-STUD. “What’s a fussy stud?” I asked trying, and failing, not to laugh.
“Fußball stud,” he proclaimed with pride. “Because I play fußball and I am, obviously, a stud.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? Do you take anything seriously?”
“Of course I do, don’t be absurd,” he snapped, more offended than I’d expected.
“I’m just surprised this is your car, had you figured as a supercar kind of guy not a—” I squinted at the name plate and insignia. “A hybrid Fiat 500?”
“I’m environmentally conscious,” he huffed as he slung my backpack in the hatch, helped me slide into the front seat and laid my crutches in the back.
“Sorry. I’m grumpy, hungry and hurting. While I’m usually grumpy, it’s not always this bad. I guess we’re still getting to know each other.” It was the understatement of the century.
He sighed and clenched his fingers around the steering wheel. “Yeah, early days,” he said with his eyes downcast. “Which is why I’ve planned something very exciting for us.”
“Can’t you take me home? I feel and look like garbage,” I complained.
“You are always grumpy, aren’t you? No, I’m sorry, but Sylvie wanted us to be seen today with you leaving the hospital and all. So I made a little plan, and we don’t have to be there long, but we need to get photographed as part of our reputation rehab.” He seemed genuinely contrite. “I know it’s not going to be fun with your injuries.”
“Fine, fine. I get it,” I grumbled and slumped down in my seat. My knee and ribs were screaming at me. “Where are we going?”
“A little park near my apartment,” he muttered as he checked his mirrors before signaling and turning out of the parking garage. We pulled out into traffic as the clouds moved in and a gentle rain started. The windshield wipers thunked back and forth like a metronome.
“A park?” I asked, not sure I’d heard correctly,
“Yeah, I’d planned a picnic,” he said sheepishly. “But London weather…”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed harder than the situation called for. Because of course the consummate good-time guy with the environmentally friendly mini-car, this prankster extraordinaire, would have planned a picnic in a park with London’s dicey weather.
“Fine,” I managed to splutter. “Let’s have a damn picnic.”
* * * *
I wasn’t laughing thirty minutes later as I surveyed the scene. The park had been a no-go due to weather and we’d ended up sitting in one of the parking lots at Stamford Bridge stadium because we couldn’t figure out anywhere else to go.
“What do you mean this isn’t romantic?” He gestured impatiently at the blanket across the hood of the car, which was slowly getting soaked in the drizzle, and the adorable wicker picnic basket that looked like it was wilting. We remained inside, in our seats, waiting for the photographer to show.
“To start, Matti, we’re pretending to have a picnic in the stadium parking lot of a club that fired both of us. Our picnic blanket is emblazoned with the emblem of that same club and it’s raining,” I answered. “What about this strikes you as romantic?”
“I’m really sorry. The park would have been better,” he said with a frown.
“Yes, the park would have been better.” I sighed. “Come on, the photographer is here.”
There was no way I could sit on that blanket given my injuries. We figured we’d do a quick photo of us standing in front of it in a fake clinch. “I’m sorry. I’ve never even had a girlfriend before, much less a fiancée. I’m going to do stuff wrong. Going to screw this up, I know it.” He looked worried, like really and truly worried. I reached out without thinking and took his hand. The crease between his eyes flattened as my fingers pressed into his palm.
“We’ll be okay,” I tried to reassure him, even though I highly doubted it. The dislike between us was too strong for this thing to go anywhere but down.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He let go of my hand and wrapped an arm loosely around my waist. “Is this where we make all of our promises of devotion?” he asked, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes. I’d never met anyone who could change moods on a dime the way quicksilver Matti seemed to be able to, and it drove me nuts trying to predict his reactions.
“Sure…” I said slowly.
“Okay. I promise that I will maintain this fake exclusive relationship for as long as you want to be in it. I’ll handle all of the care, costs, everything that you need for the duration. How about you?” His voice was serious, but a little nervous. There seemed to be a hitch in his breath as he asked me the last.
“I promise that I’ll do whatever it takes to be the best fake fiancée in the world. That if I want out, for whatever reason, I’ll talk to you about it first. And exclusivity. I promise that, okay? I’ve never been one for dating and I can’t see myself being interested in anyone for the time being.”
Matti let out a relieved-sounding sigh and pulled me closer—more gently than I would have imagined for such a big guy with a bull-in-a-china-shop personality—taking care not to jostle my bandages and injuries. I ignored the sharp pain in my ribs as I reached up to drape my arms over his shoulders.
He twitched as my cold, damp hands clutched his neck. “Sorry, that tickles. Can we seal this deal with a kiss? For the cameras, of course.”
“This is one of those times, scheduled and approved, I guess.” I glanced over at the photographer who’d popped out of her car with a jacket over her head to protect her camera from the rain. Her long-distance lens pointed right at us as we stood next to his silly car and the sodden blanket. “Fine, but I want the sickest ring you can imagine for all of this and I’m keeping it when we’re done, too.”
“Deal,” he said quickly and leaned in, stopping right before our lips brushed, waiting for me.
“Deal,” I said softly in an echo of his certainty and closed the distance between us to press my lips against his. I pulled back before either of us let our tongues get involved in the fake kiss and rested my forehead against him. “Just, please, please talk to me about stuff, okay? We’ve got to communicate or this whole thing is going to go up in flames.”
His nostrils flared and his eyes opened wide. Those guileless blue eyes met my own with an honesty that I so wanted to believe, but still wasn’t completely ready to trust. “I promise.”
* * * *
It had turned out to be an excellent Thursday evening. Matti had taken off after helping me up the stairs to my apartment. My jammies were on backwards and I was talking a blue streak to my cat while high on pain meds. Somehow, I managed to blast a mostly coherent text to my teammates explaining that I needed help packing since I was moving to the States in less than a week.
“Merow,” whined Spock, plaintively, as he jumped on my bed to perch his furry butt on my pillow. The little bugger had been hiding when Matti had carried me through the door and this was his first foray out from the closet. Teresa had been taking care of him while I was in the hospital, but he was still pissed at my abandonment. I set my crutches carefully aside and plopped back on my bed as my phone started pinging with responses.
Everyone wanted to bust my lady balls for not telling them about my secret engagement and express their support and outrage over the team cutting us because of our relationship. I felt guilty for continuing the lie, but I’d already told Teresa the truth about Matti and she’d sworn herself to secrecy. No one else could know. I gave up on responding after I sent an incomprehensible emoji stream that even I couldn’t translate.
“Are you ready for a big move? My little fuzzy guy?” I scratched behind his ears and Spock purred while butting his head against me. “There’s going to be a new man in our lives, buddy. His name is Matti. It’s okay if you hate him. I do. In fact, if you could give him a good shredding at least once to pay him back for that mean trick he played on me, I’d really appreciate it.”
The consummate cat, Spock spat out a disgruntled-sounding meow and leaped off the bed. Noted—my cat already liked my fake fiancé more than me. Just like everyone else in the world. I sighed, wallowing in the gloom of my one-woman pity party.
Matti would be the first guy I’d ever brought home to…meet my cat? How pathetic. I’d never really dated, only barely lost my virginity, and since then it had pretty much been a small army of battery-operated boyfriends that took care of everything I might need a man for.
Like any professional sport, soccer was a limited-time gig and I had to make the most of it. Grab the most sponsorships, hustle the hardest, save the most. Because I was damned if I was moving back to the U.S. with nothing to show for it. Damned if I’d listen to my parents ask me if I was ever going to do anything with my degree in sports management from that fancy-shmancy Northwestern University. Couldn’t I have at least gone to Madison? Met a nice guy from Fox Point if I wasn’t going to stick to my hometown like my sainted brother?
“Spock, am I doing the right thing? I’m scared. What if I won’t ever be able to play again?” I awkwardly curled up on my side, my sore ribs supported by soft pillows, and he hopped back up and marched over my legs, turning himself into a furry comma against my stomach. His purrs rattled my battered body, but the meds were kicking in and that reassuring rusty engine sound soothed me.
“Hmm. You’re right, one thing at a time—rehab first, then sorting out Matti Shellenberg.” I yawned, my jaw cracking loudly. “Prepare yourself, my friend, the team is coming over tomorrow to help me with packing. Buddy, we’re heading home.”
