Page 24 of Lessons in Faking
So yes, Wren loved to drag me to the games. She loved being there. She just didn’t want to be there formyreason.
“This is kidnapping,” she protested loudly, moving to open the passenger door. Panicked, I enabled the child lock. “The only reason you want to go is your fake boyfriend, who I don’t want to see, by the way!”
Her eyes darted around, looking for another exit. Though, unless she wanted to smash the window, she had no way out. “So let me out of this car before I smash the window.”
I took one deep breath before fastening my seat belt and turning the key until the engine roared below us.
“Athalia—” A warning note played in Wren’s voice, and I tried my best to ignore it. Instead, I threw her a winning smile and pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m going to kill you one day.” I’d been waiting for the defeated sigh that followed her words. Dramatically, she put on her seat belt and officially gave up.
I could tell her that I didn’twantto go to any game. That it was in the contract, and there was no way aroundfakesupporting myfakeboyfriend. But she wouldn’t care either way, and I decided to avoid the topic of McCarthy as best as I could.
“I love you too,” I retorted carefully. “Now, just trust me when I say we’ll have an incredible time, eat lots of junk... and the next time we’re in New York, I’ll sit through anotherHamiltonshow with you. Deal?”
Her posture relaxed beside me, and out of the corner ofmy eye, I could see a smile threatening to spill across her face. She hesitated before she nodded. “Deal.”
*
In my opinion, soccer games have always been too long. Whenever I watched my brother’s high school games or we’d flown out to watch Dad play; my short attention span was simply not made for ninety minutes of... anything. Add a fifteen-minute break to that and it was almost unbearable.
Sure, the rush of a win and even the lows of a loss were exhilarating. The energy shift when the right team scored. The yelling, the screaming—it was fun. Especially when a player was family. But that was just it. There were other things to do that were more fun than even the best soccer games. I skipped most of the ones I was invited to.
Due to my contractual obligation, that wasn’t an option anymore. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was just as contractually obligated to cheer for the one guy I used to root against. Yes, that meant I could gloat a little whenever Henry would leave a hole in their defense, but it hardly mattered. My brother was on fire today. There were no holes to laugh at.
Everything that had been bubbling up within Henry over the past week only seemed to make him a better player. It’s like he channeled his annoyance, irritation, and anger into kicking that ball as hard, as fast, and as aggressively as he could. Somehow, it worked... so long as we ignored the yellow card he’d earned himself within the first twenty minutes of the match.
Now, ninety minutes in and with two minutes of overtime left, the game was pretty much settled. Our stands were roaring with chants and whistles and screams, and I was sure I heard someone uncontrollably sobbing from the other end of the bleachers.
Wren had her arm wrapped around me, pulling me into her rhythmic jumping, as if I didn’t have to kidnap her to be here in the first place. A wide grin played on her face, and her eyes followed the ball with a speed that was inexplicable to me.
When the sound of the final whistle rang across the field, Wren’s hands flew in the air, and our popcorn bucket right with them. No one around us winced—even seemed to notice—as she showered the rows in front of us with popcorn. 2–0.
She hugged me, the stranger beside me hugged me. And I let myself get swept up in the excitement of an amazing win.
An honest mistake. It wouldn’t happen again.
“That was in-cred-i-ble.” Excitement still vibrated in her voice when we pushed out of the tightly filled rows of the stands, her arm interlocked with mine. “Henry was amazing today,” she added apprehensively, side-eyeing my reaction.
I couldn’t do anything but agree. She was right. Although I didn’t watch him play often, today was one of his best performances by far.
“Maybe the key to him going pro is us fighting.” By the pitying look on her face, my attempted joke didn’t land the way I’d hoped.
And just to add salt to the wound, arriving by the sideline to congratulate my boyfriend very publicly, the first person I noticed was my brother. The proud grin on his face, how good it felt to see him happy and accomplished. I wished I could be rooting for this version of him. Maybe, in some sisterly way, I still was. But that wasn’t what revenge looked or felt like.
“You were late.”
My attention was forced onto the striker I was here to see. And he lacked a shirt. A self-righteous smile graced his full lips, but I’d be lying if I said it was the first thing I noticed. Or the second. The smooth abs and the sheen of sweat covering his entire upper body definitely came first. The bright lights illuminating the field now that the sun was setting only underlined the predicament I found myself in.
Don’t stare, Athalia.
My eyes shifted as soon as I could force them to, but the little glimpse of his bare chest I’d caught was enough to last a lifetime. I tried my best to remember what he’d said when he so rudely took over my entire field of vision with his perfect upper body.
I cleared my throat. “And you should’ve been busy playing, instead of checking whether I was or wasn’t on time.”
The dimple in his cheek almost distracted me from the damp, sweaty hair hanging over his face. Instead of retorting, he glanced Wren’s way.
The high of the win must have worn off as soon as McCarthy had made his presence known. And it seemedhis exposed chest probably didn’t have the effect on her that it had on... me?
Wait, no. There was no effect.
