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.

Looking up, I make eye contact with him.

"You've got company out in the hallway."

Wrapping my towel tighter around me, I step around Mattia and head for the doors while the rest of the team continues celebrating.

When I step outside of the locker room, I see my ex-wife, Larisa, and Zílda standing there waiting for me.

"Hey," Larisa says breathlessly.

She's wearing a pair of denim cutoff shorts that barely covers her ass and a tight tank top. She's got a pair of Chuck Taylors on her feet, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Dark sunglasses cover her eyes as she walks up to me.

"What took you so long?" I ask, leaning in and kissing her cheek. "You missed the game."

"I know. I missed our flight because Zílda got sick, and I had to change her clothes at the last minute. Poor baby, she vomited all over them," she says, sliding a finger down our daughter's cheek.

Larisa turns her blue-eyed gaze my way and says in that thick Russian accent, "We had to catch the next available flight. I tried calling you and texting you, but you know."

She shrugs her shoulders as though it's not a big deal at all.

"No, I don't know."

"Well, I'm guessing you were on the field," she says, throwing her hand up.

I take our daughter from her arms and kiss my baby girl's chubby cheek.

"How's daddy's favorite girl?" I ask as she grabs my face with her tiny hands and presses her nose to mine.

"Papai!" she babbles.

My daughter just turned two years old three weeks ago, and she's as much the joy of my life as she was the day that she was born. Somehow, I seem to love her more and more each day.

"So, I uh...have this thing that I want to attend tonight. I was wondering if you'd be able to keep her," Larisa says.

"Ris, come on. You know that we've got back-to-back celebrations tonight."

"I'm sure that you can skip out on them. Your teammates will understand."

"You're serious, aren't you? We just won the World Cup, and somehow you manage to even make that all about you."

"God, Zenon! How often do I get to come to Italy? Usually, it's you coming to pick her up and flying her back here. I just want to have some fun while I'm here," she whines as I nuzzle my daughter's cheek. "Besides, the divorce was finalized last week. Don't I deserve to celebrate?"

"And you will. Just not tonight," I say, handing Zílda back to her mother. "I'll pick her up in the morning, but tonight...I'm celebrating."

"God, you're so selfish," she complains. "Is it another woman?"

"No, it's not. And to think I thought it was you who was selfish. Look, Ris, we celebrated every accomplishment you made during our three years of marriage. Tonight, it's my turn. I worked hard to get where I'm at. I'll be there to pick her up in the morning. I need to get showered and dressed so that I can get out of here," I say, kissing Zílda's cheeks again and then walking away from Larisa, ignoring the groans and complaints.

***

The house is full of guests on every level, including inside and around the swimming pool and the tennis courts down below. I mingle with a few people before making my way through the crowd.

"Hey, buddy. They've got some good shit up there on the third level. Last room on the right with the pink door," Lorenzo, one of my teammates, says.

"Maybe you need to lay off the shit, good or bad," I say, clasping his shoulders tightly.

Lorenzo sways just a bit and chuckles. His eyes are red, and he's got a faraway, distant look in his eyes. I usually avoid these parties, but at the behest of Coach Esposito, I showed up tonight. It's being thrown by one of our team's sponsors, and Coach emphasized the importance of me showing my face.

That's the only reason that I didn't allow Larisa to get by with what she always does. Too many times in the past, I've canceled plans so that either she or we could do something else that she wanted to do. My coach is also aware of that.

It would have been easy for me to stay at home with my little girl and spend some much-needed time with her. I'll have her next month for two months straight, and I cannot wait. It's been three months since I last saw her since we've been practicing getting to where we got to tonight; winning the FIFA World Cup.

A titter of laughter has me turning my head in the direction it came from. I swear it seems as if the entire world just stopped. It's her.

The woman from my games. Her smile is brilliant and warm. Hazel green eyes glow in the night, rivaling the fairy lights that decorate the trees. Those pink, plump, sultry lips are more beautiful than the rose garden surrounding us, and her golden-hued skin, with its honey glow, shines underneath the moonlight.

I swear she's the most beautiful girl that I've ever seen. Sharp cheekbones lift as her gaze meets mine, and a shy smile lights the night.

I could stare at her forever and never get tired of looking at her. I suspect that she's as beautiful inside as she is outside.

She doesn't even seem to be aware of her beauty. Somehow, my feet take on a mind of their own, and I find myself propelled in her direction with no mental awareness of what's happening.

"Hello," she greets me when I stop in front of her.

Extending my hand, I say, "Hello, I'm Zenon Diaz."

"Mr. Twenty-Four starts, three assists, thirty-four shots, four goals, and two red cards, although I call bullshit on the second one. I know who you are," she says, taking my hand and shaking it.

Pressing my hand against my chest, I say, "Damn, a girl after my own heart."

Laughing, she replies, "I'm a huge fan, Mr. Diaz."

"Zenon, please."

"Zenon. I'm Danica Maxwell."

Shaking my head, I say, "That name sounds very familiar. Not the last name but the first name."

She smiles humbly and says, "Maybe someday you'll figure out where you've heard it before."

"Maybe. You've attended the last few games that we've had at home."

"I love soccer, and I check out a game whenever I'm home."

"I appreciate the support."

"But of course."

"Can we step away from the music? Maybe find a quiet place to talk?" I suggest.

"Sure," she says, with a pleasant smile, accepting my extended hand as I lead her to the tulip gardens on the other side of the mansion.

Her warm, well-manicured hand fits into mine perfectly. She gives mine a little squeeze with light laughter. The touch, the squeeze, and the laughter all shoot straight to my groin.

We spend the next couple of hours talking about everything from our favorite music, books, and entertainers to the types of cars we drive, soccer, politics, and our interests. I find it easy to talk to her and wonder where she's been all my life.

"So, how did you end up living here in Italy?" I ask.

"My career brought me here."

"What do you do for a living?" I ask, realizing that's one of the few topics we haven't discussed.

Smiling, she asks, "You genuinely don't know?"

"No, I don't."

"Can we leave it that way?" she asks softly, looking away from me and up at the moon.

We're sitting on a fountain, and Danica leans back, placing her hands behind her. Her long, elegant neck is exposed, and her tiny breasts point at the sky. Through the sheer, yellow dress she's wearing with a royal blue, fitted slip underneath, I see the outline of her beautiful curves, and I want more.

I want more than just to see them. I want to touch them, taste them, and know what they feel like underneath me and against me.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks in a low, husky tone.

"Waiting for?" I ask, thinking I've just spoken something aloud that I shouldn't have.

"You're watching me, planning on the perfect moment to kiss me, and looking at my nipples that are erect and outlined in the moonlight. You want to taste them," she says so matter of factly.

Chuckling, I hold my head down and scratch the back of my neck.

"Guilty as charged."

Danica sits up straight and stands. She moves directly in front of me. When she reaches for my hands, I remain seated on the fountain and tug her until she's leaning down toward me. I grab the back of one thigh and squeeze it until she lifts her foot onto the fountain.

"Have a seat," I say, patting my lap.

She looks down at my lap with a smirk and then straddles me.

"That will work, too," I say as she drapes her arms around my neck.

Running my hands up and down her back, I relish the satisfied purr that she releases as she leans into me.

"Are they as soft as I imagine?" I ask when she presses her forehead against mine.

"What? My breasts?"

"No. Your lips," I say before I gently suck the bottom one.

The next time I stick my tongue out to trace her lip, she sticks her tongue out, as well. For several seconds, that's all we do; not kissing, just touching tongues. It's the most intimate thing I've ever done on a first kiss with a woman that I don't know.

My hands drag down her back as I finally move from her mouth to her neck. She tastes like honeysuckle, and her whimpers are sweet and shoot straight to my cock, causing my erection to grow.

"You've found my spot," she moans as she wiggles in my lap.

My hands shift underneath her, pulling her dress from underneath her ass. I'm generously rewarded with a handful of ass.

"Commando," I grunt into her neck as I suck, lick, and bite.

"Could be your lucky night."

"Could be?"

"If you make me feel just right," she purrs like a feline.

My hands slip a little further, and Danica shifts, allowing me to slide my fingers across her lips. She's wet and swollen, and I can't help but tug them.

"Zenon," she moans when I slip my fingers inside of her.

"That's it, sweetness," I murmur in her ear. "Work that pussy, meu querido," I encourage her.

"Ahh, Portuguese. The language of love," she giggles before she collapses into a moan when I thrust a third finger inside of her.

"Tu falas demais," I tell her. "Someone might hear you."

"I'll be quiet," she whimpers.

"Good," I whisper before silencing her whimpers with a kiss.

The kiss is tangy and spicy and reminiscent of summer days. My thumb rubs against her clit while my other three fingers move back and forth inside her gently.

I pull my fingers out of her and slip them into my mouth, slowly dragging them out and savoring her juices. When I finish, I rock forward and pull my wallet from my back pants pocket. Wrapping my arms around her back, I remove a condom from my wallet and hand it to her.

She works on opening it with her teeth while I replace my wallet. And when she unzips my pants, pulls my dick free, and wraps her hands around me, I damn near cum on contact. It's been eight months since I last had sex.

I'm not usually a guy who has random sex with a stranger. And I don't usually have it unless I'm in a relationship. My last relationship ended eight months ago. She walked out of my house, taking my heart and our daughter with me.

Tonight, I'm pushing all my feelings and regrets about my failed marriage to Larisa to the back burner.

Danica lifts, allowing me to shift and slide into her. She opens wide for me and then hums.

"Mm....mm so good," she says as I fill her up.

Sliding up and down my shaft with her arms locked around my neck, she weaves a beautiful web around me that I can't escape if I tried.

My hands slide up the sides of her body, molding themselves to her curves and delighting in her softness.

"I don't make a habit of this," she says to me as she rocks back and forth and up and down.

"I want more," I growl in a guttural moan. "Need more," I share, sinking my teeth into the side of her neck.

"Me too," she says, bringing her head down to capture my lips.

Every part of her feels perfect in my arms, on me, and against me. When we break our kiss, I tell her, "You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Danica."

Her laughter is light and lilting. "I've heard that once or twice," she says, winking at me.

"Can I take you home with me tonight?" I ask.

"I thought you'd never ask," she moans as I feel her pussy convulsing around my dick. "Yes, Zenon!" she cries out as she cums, pulling me under with her.

It's not until the next morning after she leaves my bed that I know who she is.

Supermodel Danica Maxwell, also known as, Nica.

I smile when I make the discovery. For one night, she wanted to be known for the girl that she is and not the woman the world knows and loves. It's that first person that I instantly fell for. The one who carved a place in my heart.