Page 1 of Flawless

PROLOGUE – ZENON

“...the next goal is crucial!”

“Oh! It came off the rear corner!”

“It bypasses Stone! Stone with the charge! Great save by Diaz!” the announcer shouts as I block the net and redirect the ball in the opposite direction.

The noise is thunderous in the stadium, and everyone is on their feet as we receive the free kick after the foul by Channing.

“He’s managing to hold off Saylor! It’s a direct finish in the back of the net. The finish is sublime!” the announcer shouts.

I rush to my teammates, hugging them for the victory we just accomplished over the New Zealand team.

We begin to maneuver away from one another and congratulate our opponents on a good game.

I glance into the crowd to see if I can spot Larisa and Zílda. Disappointment rushes through me, overshadowing this amazing win that we just scored when I don’t see them anywhere.

She promised me.

She fucking promised me that she would bring my daughter to the championship game.

“Good game, man!” Jaime, a player from the opposing team, says, clapping my back.

“Same, man,” I say, passing him and still scanning the crowd.

She’s not here. My shoulders slump. But after a minute, my gaze lands on a woman who has attended the last couple of games.

She’s standing with another woman, and they both glance down onto the field. It feels as if our gazes meet only briefly. Yet, in that moment, I feel a powerful connection.

Thick, curly, brown hair with honey-blonde highlights bounces around her shoulders as she moves along the aisle. Full, pouty lips tinted pink tilt up into a half smile when she turns back to stare at me.

The crowd swells, and just like that, she disappears into the throng.

“Hey, are you going to the party?” Mattia asks.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there in a few hours,” I say distractedly, moving towards the locker room.

The excitement is palpable as several people pop bottles of champagne and pour them over our coaches' heads.

“Azzurri!” My teammates chant the name of our team repeatedly all around me.

I remove my shirt and toss it into a nearby basket as I join in with the chant, accepting a bottle of champagne from someone. Turning it up to my lips, I take a deep pull on the bottle and then set it down as I open my locker.

I enjoy sharing this moment with my team, but it would be nice to have someone to celebrate with tonight.

“Amico, you’re looking down,” Mattia says as Coach Bianchi begins giving his victory speech and discussing taking off before we’re back in a few weeks to practice for the next season.

Shaking my head, I say, “She didn’t show.”

“Damn. I’m sorry, man. She promised you that she wouldn’t miss this one, too.”

“I sent her the plane and game tickets. Even paid for the hotel for her to stay in while she was here.”

“Are you going to reconsider fighting for joint custody?”

“I’m thinking that’s exactly what I’ll have to do,” I say. “I’m tired of battling with her to spend time with my daughter.”

“Aye, Diaz!” Coach Esposito, another coach, calls.

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