I spotted Asher and Vincent immediately. The two teams were divided into colors, the Reds versus the Greens. Asher and Vincent both sported red kits, and the crowd’s excitement reached an audible crescendo when people noticed who was on the pitch.
They studiously pretended the other didn’t exist, but at least they weren’t actively picking arguments with each other.
I tamped down a laugh when I noticed how they performed the exact same stretches at the exact time in the exact same manner.
Like I said, they were more alike than they cared to admit.
“God, he’s even dreamier on the pitch than he is off of it.” Carina sighed when Asher sank into a calf stretch. His leg muscles flexed, and half our section released similar sighs. “You’re a lucky, lucky girl.”
Her tone indicated she was teasing me more than anything else. She had a visual appreciation for athletes, but when it came to dating, her type ran toward the artsy, angsty segment of the male population.
“Shhh.” I cast a nervous glance around us. We were surrounded by parents who were more concerned with keeping foreign objects out of their toddlers’ hands than with our conversation, but there were a few members of the local press lurking around. I didn’t want any of them to overhear. “Lower your voice.”
At least the paps weren’t here. They didn’t know Vincent would be playing today, and they clearly thought a charity match for kids wasn’t a ripe breeding ground for scandal.
“Calling your brother to play a match with his rival-slash-your secret lover is a boss move,” Brooklyn whispered. “You have balls. I respect it. You deserve a feature story in Mode de Vie.”
Carina giggled while I fought an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want a feature story in Mode de Vie or any other outlet. I just want to—”
“Bone your man all the way to Sunday and back again?” Brooklyn tossed me a devilish grin. “Understandable.”
“Totally understandable.” Carina leaned over me to give the American a high five. “You have a way with words, Brook.”
“Thank you.” Brooklyn beamed. “I try.”
I scowled. “You know what? I’m sorry I introduced you guys. This”—I gestured to the both of them as they laughed at my expense—“is unacceptable.”
As I predicted, Carina and Brooklyn instantly hit it off when they met in person last night. I figured they would, but part of me had worried Carina would feel weird about me introducing someone new into our tight-knit duo. However, they took to each other like ducks to water.
Unfortunately, that meant they sometimes ganged up on me, which I did not appreciate.
“Aw, you know we love you.” Carina tossed an arm around my shoulders. “Would we be real friends if we didn’t take the piss out of you for your soap opera of a life?”
“Yeah, some of our lives are boring. We have to live vicariously through you.” Brooklyn crossed her legs, the picture of effortless cool with her high ponytail, gold hoops, and giant sunglasses. “The only thing that would make today more interesting is if Asher and Vincent got into a fight. Not that they would,” she said when I blanched. “No one wants to derail a charity match for kids. It’s bad press.”
“Don’t even put that thought out there.” I eyed the pitch again. Asher and Vincent were still ignoring each other, thank God. “It could very well happen.”
“If it does, whose side would you be on?” Carina asked Brooklyn. “Team Asher or Team Vincent?”
The blond wrinkled her nose. “No team. I like the sport, not the players. They’re way too full of themselves.”
It was a quintessentially Brooklyn answer. We’d texted constantly since the night we met, but I still didn’t know much about her. I knew she grew up in California, she was an aspiring nutritionist, and she could rock a ponytail like no other, but that was about it. She had an impressive talent for carrying on a full conversation without revealing anything about herself.
“I agree,” I said. “Take it from someone who’s related to one. Way too full of themselves.”
Carina arched an eyebrow. “This coming from the girl dating a player.”
“Well…” I caught Asher’s eye when he scanned the crowd, his gaze skimming over the different sections until it found me. A thousand fluttering wings filled my chest. “He’s different.”
My friends let out good-natured groans, but I didn’t care. The world narrowed to pools of intense green and the heat of Asher’s stare. Electricity buzzed to life between us, slipping beneath my skin and setting every nerve ending on fire.
We couldn’t do much with my brother and a thousand other people present, but we didn’t need to. It wasn’t about what we said or did; it was about what we felt.
Then, right before the teams finished their warm-ups, Asher grinned and winked. It happened so fast I would’ve missed it had I not already been looking at him, but it was enough. The thousand wings multiplied into a million, and I couldn’t keep an answering grin off my face as the players took their places for kickoff.
When I finally looked away, my friends were staring at me with amusement.
“It’s so sweet it’s disgusting,” Brooklyn said. “I want it.”
“I don’t,” Carina said. “I’d never get any work done.”
“So real.”
I pointedly stayed out of their conversation, which petered out as the match started.
We screamed and cheered for the Reds and groaned when the Greens scored a goal. The players were a mix of top-level professionals and hobbyists. It made for an uneven match at times, but the crowd’s enthusiasm and the buzzy atmosphere was so much fun that no one seemed to mind.
It was also the first match where we saw what Asher and Vincent were capable of when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe it was the relatively low stakes or the fact they were playing for charity. Whatever it was, they played so well together that the Reds dominated the first half. The combination of Asher’s offense and Vincent’s defense resulted in two goals that roused the stadium into a fit of pandemonium.
Then disaster struck.
Less than a minute into the second half, one of the Reds fouled one of the Greens. The Green player crumpled to the ground, and the cheers cut off so abruptly it was like someone had pressed mute on a thousand people.
The two sides swarmed the ref, their hands gesticulating wildly as they argued with the stern-faced man. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but no one looked happy.
Asher and Vincent wore matching scowls, and after maybe a minute of heated discussion, the ref shook his head. He’d made his decision.
Greens got a penalty kick.
