Someone helped the injured player off the pitch, and there was another small commotion when the Greens indicated they were subbing in a new player.
I squinted, trying to make out the new player’s face.
When I did, my heart plummeted to my toes. A cold sensation crawled down my throat and filled my lungs.
“No fucking way.” Carina verbalized my sentiments exactly. She grabbed my arm, her eyes the size of dinner plates.
I hadn’t seen the sub during warm-ups. I didn’t know why he was at the match or why he was in London, period, but there was no mistaking that dark hair or cocky smile.
My stomach curdled with disbelief as he jogged onto the pitch.
Of all the people who could’ve subbed in for the injured Green player, it had to be him. Rafael Pessoa. My ex-boyfriend.
Asher and Vincent’s heads snapped toward him like lions sensing prey. Their bodies went rigid, and identical shadows darkened their faces.
Oh, no. Oh nononono.
“This is not good,” Carina said. “This is not good at all.”
Brooklyn’s brow puckered. She didn’t know about Rafael, so she had no clue why we were freaking out. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Well.” My mouth tasted like pennies. “I think you’re going to get that fight you were hoping for.”
ASHER
“What is he doing here?” Vincent spat from his spot beside me.
I wasn’t sure who he was talking to since he wasn’t aware I knew about Scarlett and Rafael, but I replied with the obvious anyway.
“He’s the sub.”
“No shit. I meant what he’s doing here, at the match.”
They were the first words we’d exchanged all day. We’d greeted each other with stiff nods in the locker room, and I suppose I had to thank him later for agreeing to play at the last minute. However, I preferred to live in denial about that for as long as possible.
Was it mature? No.
Did I care? Also no.
I didn’t have an answer for why Rafael was in London when he lived in Brazil and played in Spain, but one of the other Reds piped up with an explanation.
“I heard he’s thinking of transferring back to the Premier League. Maybe he heard about the match and wanted to participate,” he said.
A low growl rumbled through my chest.
I’d never been a big fan of Rafael, but after Scarlett told me about the shitty, cowardly way he broke up with her, I despised that man with every fucking fiber of my being.
Judging by Vincent’s scowl, he felt the same way. He regarded the Brazilian forward with more loathing than he’d ever directed toward me.
The match resumed, cutting our conversation short, but a new tension suffocated the pitch. The first half had been for fun; this half was for vengeance.
I didn’t want to win against the Greens. I wanted to crush them.
Unfortunately, despite his assholishness in his personal life, Rafael was a good player, and he managed to score with a header ten minutes into the half.
Frustration poured through my blood.
Rafael and I matched each other step for step for possession of the ball. I triumphed after I successfully kicked the ball away from him and caught it before another player could swoop in, but I barely had time to gloat before he fell to the ground, clutching his knee.
The ref blew his whistle, and the match paused. Boos rose from crowd.
“He tripped me,” Rafael said when the ref came over to investigate. He gestured toward me, his eyes gleaming with…were those tears?
Jesus Christ. He should quit football and go into acting.
“That’s bollocks. I didn’t touch him!” I fumed.
Vincent came up beside us. “Ref, you saw that play! We all did,” he argued. He pointed at Rafael. “He always pulls this crap. Like Donovan said, he didn’t touch him.”
Either he wanted to win enough to swallow his distaste and defend me, or he simply hated Rafael more than he hated me. Or both.
I cut a glance in his direction.
It was ironic Vincent was backing me up on this when he’d done the same thing as Rafael during the World Cup. In fact, what he did had been a million times worse. The difference between getting red carded in the World Cup and giving the opposing team a penalty kick during a charity match was the difference between Mount Everest and a molehill.
However, Rafael had a history of diving, a.k.a falling to the ground and/or feigning injury in order to draw a foul. Vincent only did it once—on the biggest stage possible with the worst consequences for me imaginable, but it was still once.
