As if he can read my dirty thoughts, Ren pins me with those unnaturally intense eyes—catlike and pale as the ice he skates on. “I’ll just go get them, then…”
“Great idea.” I step to one side, as Ren goes the same way. We both laugh awkwardly. Then Ren tries for the other side, just as I do, too. “Jesus,” I mumble. So mortifying. Were the earth to open up and swallow me whole, this moment would be significantly improved.
“Here.” Ren’s hands land warm on my shoulders again, his touch gentle, unlike most of the guys on the team, who seem incapable of not knocking into me like they’re the Hulk. While I flinch before incoming contact with them, there’s something graceful and controlled about Ren.
“I’ll go this way,” he says. “You go that way.”
Like a revolving door, we finally manage to move past each other. Once Ren’s strolling away, I’d like to say I don’t glance over my shoulder to ogle the guy’s backside from the revealing contours of a locker room towel, but I’m not in the habit of lying.
“Fraaaaankie,” an obnoxious voice yells.
That’s Matt Maddox. Evil yin to Ren’s pure-goodness yang.
“Jesus, keep me strong,” I mutter.
In our little nature metaphor, in which I’m the thundercloud and Ren’s the sun, Matt’s the reeking sulfurous geyser that everyone runs away from. While Ren is warm and always gentlemanly, Matt is, in short, a natural disaster of grade-A douchery.
Matt crosses the locker room and closes in on me, not for the first time. Not by a long stretch.
Bracing myself for impact, I pocket my phone and prepare to mouth-breathe. I’m used to the stank of our locker room, but post-game, the guys smell extra ripe, and I have a sensitive sniffer. I gag in here regularly.
Slinging a stinky arm around me, Matt jars my whole body. I clench my jaw and try not to wince. “Where’s your phone?” he says. “I think we need a selfie, Frank.”
I duck and shuffle backward, out of his reach. “And I think you need a shower. You do your job, Maddox. I’ll do mine.”
He rakes his sweat-soaked dark hair back from his face and sighs. “One of these days, I’m gonna crack you.”
“I’m a tough nut, champ.” Turning, I unearth my phone, swipe open to the camera and angle it over my head so it cuts out Matt and catches the guys behind me. Nobody’s in a state of extensive undress anymore—a few bare chests, most everyone almost done putting on their suits. Fans eat that shit for breakfast. “Smile, boys!”
They all whip their heads my way, plastering on dutiful grins as they say, “Cheese!”
I have them so well trained.
“Thank you.” Pocketing my phone, I head toward the exit. “Don’t forget, drinks—not in excess—and burgers at Louie’s. Uber if you plan on getting shitfaced anyway.”
On a chorus of “Yes, Frankie” echoing behind me, I shove open the door, buoyed by the satisfied purpose of a woman whose life is ordered and predictable. Just how I like it.
At Louie’s, I throw off my blazer and push up my sleeves in preparation for the meal I ordered. Suits and greasy bar food aren’t the best combination, but there’s never time to change after my post-game duties before we head out, so I’m stuck sporting my usual work outfit.
Like the rest of the staff and players, on game day, I wear a suit. The same one, every game. Black peplum blazer, matching ankle-cut dress slacks, and a white dress shirt with black buttons. My cropped slacks show off my Nike Cortez sneakers in our signature black and silver, and my nails are of course painted their usual glossy black with silver shimmer on the middle finger, because it makes flipping people off extra festive. The whole look is very Wednesday Adams, with a similar and intended repelling effect. People leave me alone. Which is how I like it.
“Double cheeseburger,” Joe, our bartender, says.
“Thanks.” I nod and pull the plate my way.
Nice thing about Louie’s is they give our orders first preference—bunch of hungry jocks need food stat after a game—so not ten minutes after arriving, sleeves rolled up, grease drips down my wrists as I bite into my burger. I hold it over my plate and lean to trap my drink’s straw with my mouth, taking a long pull of root beer.
Louie’s is one of those hole-in-the-wall gems of an LA burger joint that feels fewer and further between with each passing, granola-crunching year. I swear, even just four years ago when I moved here, LA was still the land of the greasy burger and the world’s best street food. Now it’s all juice bars and whatever shit GOOP says will flatten your stomach.
As root beer fizzes happily in my belly, I extract a pickle from my sandwich and crunch on it. “Life’s too short to give up burgers.”
Willa grunts in agreement from her seat next to me. She’s dating Ren’s brother Ryder and they try to come down for a handful of games each season, so this isn’t the first time Willa and I have talked, but it is the first time we’ve bonded over the sad turn for the healthier that Southern-Californian food has taken. Or more accurately, I’ve been monologuing about it for five minutes straight while she grunts and eats and seems to agree with me. I tend to fixate on something, then talk longer than most people about it, which I’ve learned annoys people sometimes, bores them others, and every once in a while, manages to interest them similarly.
Unfortunately, I usually only recognize in retrospect when I’ve monologued. I swear, I’m not making that up. I cannot tell when it’s happening. Everyone knows the saying “time flies when you’re having fun,” and that’s the only way I can explain how my awareness works when I’m in a groove, talking about something that I like—I have no sense of how long it’s been.
Because this isn’t my first time around Willa, though, I know she and I are comfortable enough around each other that she’d shut me up or change the subject if she wanted to. We’ve only hung out a few times since, as a professional soccer player, she’s pretty busy, but we’ve clicked at the handful of games she and Ryder have attended.
“Glorious burgers,” she says thickly around a bite. “I could never let them go. I mean Coach would kill me for eating this, but goddamn, there is nothing better than a double cheeseburger after a long day. I don’t care what my carbon footprint is. Kill that cow and get it in my belly.”
Ryder leans away from his conversation adjacent to us and says to her, “I’ll overlook that environmentally insensitive comment because you’re a good kisser, Sunshine, and I cook plant-based for us eighty percent of the time.”
Sheepishly, Willa smiles up at him. “Sometimes I wish those doodads around your ears didn’t work quite so well, Ry.”
Ryder uses cochlear implants, which I can barely see amid his thick blond hair. Like Ren, Ryder is a handsome guy. Short beard, bright green eyes, and Ren’s cheekbones.
Willa and Ryder live up in Washington State, where Willa plays for Reign FC, and their place is nestled in the middle of the woods. To look at them, you can totally picture it. Ryder gives off an outdoorsy vibe with his plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and boots. Willa fits with him in her warm, practical clothes—a UCLA hoodie and ripped-up jeans, no makeup in sight to accentuate her big amber eyes and pouty lips. She has an incredible head of hair that’s untamed waves and curls, no product, no styling. Just wilderness beauty.