Chapter One

Miles

W e are the champions!

The sharp sound of the whistle reverberates through the air an exact amount of three times. It cuts through loud chants and enthusiastic claps, signaling the end of the game—and our triumph.

In all its roaring grandness on game nights, the white-striped, green field is my quiet place.

Every time I step on a pitch, a bubble swallows me. From the first whistle to the final three, everything fades—the demanding fans dissolve into murmurs in the distance, life is on pause, its torments filed away for later.

It's just me and the ball.

As the game ends, my bubble bursts. I finally look around to take in the crowded stands of the stadium, jubilant expressions painting the faces of those wearing navy-blue jerseys, arms thrown in the air and around one another, jumping up and down and waving enthusiastic scarves above their heads.

Like a mirror upside down, the other half of the arena is the polar opposite. Silent with salt-streaked faces and sunken shoulders.

In this game, like in life, happiness walks hand in hand with misery: someone's victory is another's loss. One cannot exist without the other.

Adrenaline and happiness warm every vein and vessel in my body, my cleats lighter as they pound the grass on my way towards my teammates. I join the cheerful offkey chanting as we hug and jump in a large, irregular circle.

From behind both nets and the corner arcs, cameras emerge to surround the new continental champions like hawks surrounding prey, eager to catch any content to feast on and dissect in the aftermath.

In the podium on the midfield, every player in blue shirts and white shorts receives a medal under the massive semicircular banner with bold golden letters that declare us "Winners: North America Champions League 2024".

Confetti rains upon us when Davis, the team captain, lifts the trophy high in the air to the unmistakable voice of Freddie Mercury, half of the stadium ecstatically singing at the top of their lungs.

My gaze follows the trophy as it drifts from one pair of hands to another until it falls into mine. From its two arms hang white and navy blue ribbons, the colors of our tea, as the spotlights all around the stadium cast an ever-fleeting glint on the cold metal, playing with the sterling silver.

The greatest accomplishment of my career, so far, weighs 15 kilograms, shining and chilly in my hands.

One hand wrapped in each arm of the cup, my lips kiss the cold metal for just a second. Hearing the flashes of cameras, I smile, knowing my mother will make an entire photo album with each and every single angle for posterity.

This is the first trophy of my professional career: a tournament involving the continent, and only the best soccer teams from each top league. I've performed solid seasons, scoring goals that amounted to more wins than losses and unparalleled statistics. But they don't mean much. In the end, immortality is made of kissed trophies.

Through the steel structure of the stadium, the sun has abandoned the view sometime in the second half, leaving behind remnants of reds and oranges and yellows dancing in spirals in the darkening, cloudless sky.

This is the moment for which I sacrificed so much. Nights out with friends and guilty food and times with my family. This is the moment that makes all those sacrifices worth it. Days like today, victories like this one, they make it all worth it.

So, I'm happy.

I'm proud.

I'm itching.

I'm still itching.

The distinct nagging feeling has been plaguing me for too long—and it prevails in the highest moment of my professional life.

I'm not sure when it started, but I can't remember a time when it wasn't there— an antsy itch just where my nails can't reach, like little bugs under my skin murmuring a repetitive chorus in the back of my skull.

Something's missing, something's missing, something is missing .

Games, goals, and trophies haven't been enough to quiet it. I wonder what will—or if anything can.

Forcing these thoughts away to scrutinize—or avoid—later, I focus on enjoying the moment. I tune out some less charming chants coming from the stands and follow the parade of team and trophy around the oval stadium to celebrate with the fans.

Despite the joy of the celebrations, the atmosphere somehow still feels numb, cold like the metal that surrounds us in the imposing stadium.

The traditional victory lap reaches its end, and my teammates start to scatter, some making their way back to the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, some heading to the sidelines where their families patiently await, some held up by eager reporters of all kinds who don't miss the chance to poke and prod for exclusive quotes and statements.

My hand absently reaches for the medal that hangs from my neck, as I scour the sidelines for my mom. Since I first joined the children's team all the way through high school, she drove me to every late game and early practice. She never missed a game—her presence on those bleachers so faithful that her name was carved into the seat. Not until I moved away to college and put thousands of miles between us. Her support then morphed into religious texts and calls before and after each match, but it never wavered.

Death, taxes and my mother's unconditional support are the only certainties in my life.

It's the sporting director, though, that catches my eye when he sticks an arm up. Andrew Bass hasn't stopped grinning for the past hour. I wonder if his joy is a product of our victory, of all the attention he'll get after tonight, or the fat bonus that'll soon rain on his bank account.

"Miles B!" I'm the only Miles on the team, and probably the only Miles within a radius of miles, but for some unknown reason, he always insists on adding the B. He targets me with an embrace, slapping my back. "Congrats, my man!"

Keeping one arm draped around my shoulders, he walks us in the opposite direction. He's congratulated me on the win before, and the last thing I want is to waste time repeating the same pleasantries.

"Thanks. Again." I disentangle myself from his limbs, eager to be done with whatever this is.

"Not about this," he says, grinning at the gold dangling from my neck, tapping it one, two, three times too many. "You won Man of the Match, too. Go and accept it. And you're on flash interview duty too."

I fold my lips into a thin line, annoyed that my limited time is running out, wasted by formalities. I'm happy for the award but I don't have long until the one person who came here for me is on a plane, flying to a far-away home

"Plus, the interviewer is a hottie."

His suggestive wink makes my stomach churn in disgust. Careful to keep a plain face, I nod toward the press spot. Then I'm off and finally free from him.

Plastering my charming smile high and bright on my face, I hone in on the paper wall with the names and logos of the competition's sponsors, right in front of the tunnel to the locker rooms.

The adrenaline is wearing off, the exhaustion of ninety minutes running in the 120-yard-long, 80-yard-wide pitch, up and down, again and again, is catching up. My body weeps to get this over with so I can go hug my mother, take a shower, and go home.

And then my eyes land on her—her presence drawing me in like a magnet with a merciless pull to everything in its magnetic field—and everything quiets into a serene stillness .

My steps stutter for a heartbeat, recovering quickly enough that the eyes that still remain—a half an hour after the match has ended—wouldn't have noticed.

Right hand curled around a microphone sporting the logo of a famous sports channel, and left hand clutching the famous Man of the Match award , she stands tall and proud even in her petite frame of what can't be more than five feet and a couple of inches, and infuriatingly beautiful.

Her infinitely long raven waves a dark cloak falling graciously on her back, long bangs like hands cupping her face, bringing out the vibrant turquoise that sits brightly around her pupils.

Drawing in a deep inhale before my steps close the distance, I mentally prepare—not for a quick interview, but for a new round of longstanding combat.

Zoe Westwood is a journalist, but not a friend or fan of mine. She's also my neighbor—my front door neighbor.

Five scarce feet separate her door from mine; five feet that might as well be an ocean, a desert, an entire galaxy.

"Hey, love! To what do I owe the pleasure of having you here today? Missed me that much?" I inflict the same cheerful charm I know she despises.

Though Zoe is the picture of perfect composure, her knuckles whiten as she grasps the objects with more force than necessary.

"Yes, Blackstein. I missed you so much I could barely breathe." The queen of ice and sarcasm wrinkles her nose. "Especially without your lovely smell."

I frown, looking down at myself. I'm covered in sweat and dirt from the grass, but I don't think I smell that bad. I hope.

Fuck, no. I won't let her get in my head and make me squirm with a single sentence.

I ignore her snide remark, ready to point out that it never bothered her before. And it hits me. I've never seen her down on the sidelines before.

"Is this your first time here, love?"

No answer is the answer.

I can't help myself, I enjoy teasing and torturing her a little more than I should. "So, I'm your first guy? Aw, now I'm a little nervous. Might even be blushing at the honor." I make a show of touching my cheeks like I'm flustered.

She doesn't make an effort to hide the way her eyes do a full roll, a pirouette, before she faces the camera on some blonde guy's shoulder, effectively dismissing me as she focuses her attention on what I assume is the anchor of her sports channel, words coming to her through the earpiece in her right ear.

I take the opportunity to look at her—at all of her. Black pants hug her ass flawlessly before flaring just below her knee and widening so much towards her calves that I can't see her footwear. She's slightly taller, so they're not flats, but still short as fuck next to me; so tiny I could tuck her under my arm and she'd barely reach my chin. The white sleeveless silk turtleneck disappears under a brown belt that cinches her waist, making it impossible to ignore every elegant slope and curve of her body.

She is class, calm, control.

Zoe doesn't warn me before adjusting the angle of her body, but I take her straight posture, her nod, her pristine smile as the indication that we're live.

"Congratulations on this unprecedented win for the team, Blackstein. What an historic night—particularly for you— after scoring the winning goal." My eyes abandon her face to inspect the little statuette she thrusts into my hands. It's ugly and heavier than it looks, but what matters is what it represents: I'm doing my job right.

"Thank you. It really is a night I'll never forget. Of course, I'm happy to receive this award, but in the end, what's most important is the club and our achievements as a team—that trophy we're taking home."

I'm grateful her first question is the usual. I manage to babble something coherent as my mind is imprisoned in all things Zoe Westwood. That has always been the frustrating truth.

Since the beginning, she sucked my mind into her gravitational pull and has yet to return it. When she's around, my brain ignores the existence of everything except for her.

It's extremely frustrating, this lust.

Zoe nods like I say something groundbreaking, proceeding with her questions. Our eyes don't waver as we ask, answer, listen—a routine procedure that, with her, becomes a subtle dance privy only to the two of us.

"Tell us about your plans for celebration. I'm sure fans in Boston are anxious to know when they'll get to see their heroes."

"We're definitely looking forward to celebrating with our fans and showing them the cup." I chuckle. "And with the people who love us, of course."

I punctuate my final sentence with a wink.

I wink at Zoe.

A wink that she sees as an insinuation.

A wink that becomes the fragile wings of a butterfly.

And a chain of events is in motion .

That familiar perfect blend of anger and annoyance uniquely reserved for me sweeps her eyes for a flash, quickly replaced with mischief and machinations.

And I know, I know , I won't escape retaliation.

Worry and dread knot my brain, my stomach and all the organs in my body, knowing what she's capable of—pretty much anything, where I'm concerned. I see it in the dance of blue and green of her eyes, all her thoughts and intentions taking shape and form inside her head.

But her smile, her voice remains polished and professional. Almost friendly.

I know better.

"Miles." My name rolls off her sly smile with the care of someone who lays it on an altar.

For a sacrificial ritual.

She holds the sword, too.

My chest constricts like she's tied it into a knot and tightened with nothing but that sweet tenor.

The insane urgency to savor the fact she's addressed me by my first name—only my first name—is loud. The way her raspy voice rolls around my name like she knows it intimately.

But I can't, because her sweet, sweet tone is cataclysmic.

"Rumor is you—"

I don't know what I'm doing. Only that my feet move of their own volition and crush the notion of personal space between us. My arms fly around her frame, crush her against my chest, those white knuckles curled around the microphone nestled between our bodies so that our fronts never quite touch.

With her voice tucked inside my arms, my eyes fall shut forcing all other senses on high alert .

Surrounded by green fields, flowers sprout in my nostrils, her raven hair velvet where my cheek rests against her head.

"Please, don't," I say.

My plea for secrecy is a whisper breathing against her ear.

This closeness, unbearable and not enough—our skin not one inch away and not one centimeter touching.

So close, so far.

It robs me of all rational thought. For that short heartbeat in which my breath meets hers, my mind is empty and so full of her .

But I force my hands to let go and back away, though not entirely. I can't stop myself from lingering, fixing her hair, brushing her bangs from her eyes and the longer strands behind her back.

The touch finally jolts Zoe awake like it stings.

She blinks.

Her eyes aren't crystalline Caribbean seas. They're deep oceans, dark and turbulent with rage that hits me with the force of a storm and drags me back to reality.

A reality in which other people exist. Other people exist around us, all wearing wide eyes, wider mouths.

And all around us, unblinking cameras stare, reminding me that our bubble isn't just ours.

Our bubble belongs to the entire world.