Chapter Twelve

Miles

S he tastes like sweet alcohol and all the things my dreams are made of. Disconcerting and intoxicating and unreal.

Zoe Westwood tastes like all the things that make her were made for me.

After years of falling asleep to conspiracies of what her lips would feel like under my mouth, taste like in my tongue, I finally have the answer.

She tastes like every kiss in the world will never be enough—like a lifetime will be too little.

Soft and hard, all at once, the press of her mouth against mine begs and demands.

A gasp parts her lips, as though she, too, is stunned. I find my way in. Without hesitation, her tongue tangles with mine like she's been searching for me, too, and her nails curl into my scalp, grip as punishing as mine on her waist.

A kiss written to be my undoing.

A kiss meant to steal the last of my sanity.

Until she ends it .

She hovers, and I breathe her in, the warmth of her exhales bathing my tingling lips.

I want to stay right here forever, just like this. But I need to see her face, flushed cheekbones and dark lashes.

The rough brush of my thumb against her swollen lip pulls her drunk pupils to mine, and I'm floating on a bubble, disconnected from any reality that isn't Zoe Westwood, mesmerized by sheer beauty. The world pales behind her, dim and muted and utterly inconsequent.

My bubble is made of glass, though.

And we have an audience.

From the stands below, eyes and cameras are set on us, unflinching, unblinking, tainting our kiss.

Or perhaps they simply show the full picture—so I can see the kiss for what it is.

Deception.

The kiss, a deception.

It deceived me.

The game ended with a Blue victory.

All I feel is defeat.

Other than the soundtrack of a roiling stadium, there was only silence. There still is.

My fingers tap against the wheel to the low tune of Noah Kahan, one of Zoe's favorites, uncompelled to fill it for once. For once, it doesn't sound like a challenge to me—daring and demanding I break it .

It's a short drive from the stadium to our building, and the traffic is both fortunately—and unfortunately—light.

I run my tongue over my lip for the thousandth time. I don't know if it searches for something, or tries to erase it.

Either way, all I find is the lingering taste of disappointment.

It was a lie.

Our first kiss was a lie. Just another one, just like everything about us.

Lies, lies, lies.

I feel wronged by the universe and Venus and all the fairy tales I've been told.

How can lies feel so real, so raw, so right ?

They shouldn't. They aren't supposed to.

They're supposed to taste foul, burn down my throat and coat my tongue with the ashes of my dying hopes—not sweet euphoria and electrifying serenity.

As it is, all my insides glitter with infinite tingles and giggle with giddiness. Under the hurt, a foolish part of me is infinitely happy.

Because she kissed me.

Zoe fed me her sweet venom. One time, one taste, and I became an addict with no self-preservation. I just want more, knowing all too well it could poison me—knowing all too well I'd gladly die if it meant I got to savor her only once more.

It thrills me as much as it hurts, but I can't fault her for the expectations—the fantasies—created in my head. Zoe held her end of the bargain. If anyone is guilty of anything, it's me—wanting and hoping for more.

With the whispers in the wind, uncertainty flickered for a fleeting moment, soon far gone behind her frozen walls. So, Zoe straightened her shoulders, removing her warmth from me entirely to let me bathe in cold realization as she methodically dropped to her seat, locking eyes made of ice with anyone that dared to even think of her—freezing them out.

I regretted ever asking her to come.

Too seduced by the prospect of having her in my arm and being in her orbit, I led her straight to inhospitality that greeted her by hands that should've hugged her. Hit after hit, she survived and counteracted, cutthroat and classy.

As soon as the chronometer hit 90, we smiled our way out, eager to be far away.

Clearing the remnants of my disappointment from my vocal cords, I speak in a soft whisper, so as not to startle her. "I'm sorry."

Zoe unglues her gaze from the tinted glass it's been stuck to since we exited the garage, tracing the fleeting life of the Boston night as it runs away from us.

She jerks an unaffected shoulder. "I'm used to that kind of environment."

"You shouldn't have been treated that way. I should've—"

"I'm used to it."

A new surge of blind anger turns my knuckles white around the wheel.

Why is she used to being treated with anything less than the respect and adoration she deserves? Who's treated her so rudely, so constantly, that she's gotten used to that kind of treatment? That she's convinced herself it's remotely okay?

"You're used to it?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"Did I not behave according to your expectations? "

"What?" My frown whips to her as abruptly as her change of subject.

"Was my performance subpar?" Zoe crosses her arms. "You seemed rather entertained by other pretty performers."

"Excuse my fucking language, but what the fuck are you talking about? What's that even supposed to mean?"

She doesn't answer right away, staring ahead, working her delicate jaw with barely restrained violence. When she does, she repeats her earlier tactic and changes the topic again so quickly, I might get whiplash. "So is that why you're leaving? Because your team is full of snakes and spiders?"

There it is, the other elephant in the room—the secret that got us here.

I want to understand what the hell she meant before, what bothered her so much—unlike the treatment she received, to which she didn't bat an eye. And I kind of really want a fight to purge the turmoil that's seized me. But if she doesn't want to elaborate, respecting her wishes is the least I owe her.

I will the combativeness away with a sigh.

"If you're expecting a big fallout or something, there isn't one. I…" I sigh again. Suddenly, there's only exhaustion where there was anger. "The club is great. State of the art facilities and technology, talent and excellence…"

"But…" She shoots me one of her signature looks, loaded with a scrutiny that reminds me of her job.

Would it be smart to tell her the truth? To give her more ammunition against me in her already full hands.

Ultimately, it isn't a matter of whether I trust her—it's a matter of whether she trusts me.

Because I do. Or, at least, I want to.

With my next words, she'll know it too .

"It feeds off hatred. For the rival. More than it feeds off that pure love and passion for their own club. You hear the fans shouting insults against their rival more than you hear them chanting their support for us. The president is happier with the rival's failure than our own victories.

"We won the fucking Champions League, and everyone's first impulse was to take a jab at our rivals."

The red light swings as I shake my head, shocking even myself with words. I'd been keeping so much hidden inside for so long that I hadn't noticed it's been robbing me.

"I understand rivalry, I do. I enjoy it. I thrive on competition. I don't mind the provocations. But blind hatred? Hatred that trumps the love for your own team? Those are not the values I want to stand for, or what I want fueling me. I can respect that some might, but that's not who I am."

I chance a look in her direction to read her face. Lately, I think I can do it intermittently—whether I've been getting better at learning her nuances or she's getting sloppy at hiding.

Right now, she's a perfectly clean canvas, no hint as to what's happening behind her eyes.

"It's stealing the joy this game gives me. I used to go on the pitch and feel peace. Crowds of screaming people only feet away, yet it was just me and the ball and the net."

The only place in the world where I'm not still waiting for everything I want. I become it. Where all those nagging bugs are asleep, their voices shushed under the adrenaline. Though, these days, they've been unusually quiet, I realize now.

"I don't feel that peace anymore."

The weight of the confession debilitates my voice. It's strangled and suffocated. Zoe allows me all the space and time to tell my truth, listening intently.

"I—Sometimes I wonder if I'm actively looking for reasons to justify my betrayal. But, in the end, whether it's all in my head or not, the answer is the same. I'm not happy anymore. And I'm not willing to sacrifice my happiness any longer."

She wears a look of loss for direction in waters deeper and darker than she anticipated. This kind of vulnerable honesty is foreign to her. She doesn't know how to navigate it—hers or someone else's.

Opting for a joke, Zoe tries to lighten the somber mood. "So you're a romantic…"

I tilt my head with a pointed look, telling her I see right through her. With a sigh, she slumps into the seat, staring ahead at the traffic. If I squint a little, I can almost see her mulling over my words in her head.

"Your contract ends at the end of the season."

"It does."

"You're allowed to sign with another team 6 months before your current contract expires. You can start negotiations before. You're not doing anything wrong. Why are you so keen on keeping it a secret?"

Because I'm not leaving for just any other team, am I?

I'm trading my current club for its historical rival. The highest treason in sports.

I wait for Zoe to connect the dots herself. She's been inhabiting this world her entire life—she grew up in it. She knows its intricacies as well as I do.

Emotions run hot and untamed in sports, so ridiculous accusations will come, vicious tongues saying I wasn't committed to my team—perhaps hoping to sabotage it from the inside.

But I am. Contrary to what will be said, I will be fully committed to this team until the last minute I wear the blue colors.

Every time my cleats hit the grass, I leave it all on the field—whether it's practice or a friendly game or the Champions League finals. I don't know how to do it any other way.

With the season underway, any rumor would only disrupt our good streak, and that's something I won't be responsible for. No matter what colors I'll wear in the future, this still is my team, and I will fight for it until the last day on my contract.

When our season ends, I'll walk away with the certainty I've given my all in each practice and every game. Then, the public opinion can judge and convict me for my betrayal.

"Right. It'll be a scandal. People will talk, rage, point fingers. So why transfer precisely to the rival?" She addresses the big question—the peak of the scandal. "I mean, I'm sure half of the teams in the country want you. Maybe even Europe."

Her interest piques, and she twists in her seat to get a better look at me.

When Zoe fortuitously stumbled upon my plans of transferring to my current team's eternal rival—literally stumbling into my future boss as he left my place—she promised she wouldn't say a word. Not that she had any evidence, but these days a rumor is enough—and something I can't afford during the season.

After a thorough negotiation, we came to a begrudging: when the time comes, Zoe will detonate the bomb in an exclusive interview.

The whole episode escalated the tension in our strenuous relationship. We never discussed it again—not until she almost took the scandal to Monterrey.

Then, I accidentally created a different one, which has been our sole focus the past six weeks.

Now I don't deny her statement. I have plenty of other teams knocking on my door with enticing checks. Contracts of a lifetime, as my thorough agent reminded me yet again tonight.

Earlier, he pulled me aside to once again advise me to rethink my decision, to remind me of the huge mistake I'd make should I choose to go ahead with my decision. All for my own sake, of course. I might come to regret my foolish stubbornness—and that's the last thing he wants, because he worries. With all the large hands knocking on my door, I should reconsider my priorities, he advised. Because money isn't one—not in the same way it is to him. It's a factor, of course, but not the deciding one.

I meet her eyes. "I like Boston," I say, punching my foot on the brake at another red light.

"Why?"

Yeah— why?

I expected it, Zoe's favorite word—her innate need to understand, to reason and rationalize every little thing. Every decision, every action, every emotion.

I can't satisfy her expectations with an answer I'm not fully sure I have.

"I found my home here." The green light ricochets on her irises with each blink. "When you find your place in the world, you grab it, teeth and claws." My left foot eases on the clutch and I face the street again. "You fight for it."

Once again she's quiet, processing as I worry I said more than I had intended.

A ringing phone startles us just as the car nosedives into the garage. Our night quickly approaches its end. Despite all the ways it went sideways, I don't want it to end just yet.

"Hi, baby! How are you? How's that nasty injury?" Mom fires before I can greet her, worrying about the minor injury that left me out of today's match.

"Hey, Mom. Almost all good."

She squints. "I love these calls, but the quality of HD TV is much better for seeing you."

"And he doesn't speak, so that's a plus," Zoe mumbles from her side of the car, then snaps a comic hand on her mouth with wide eyes.

On the other side of the line, mom leans closer to the screen like she'll get a better view that way. "What's that, honey?"

My cheeks hitch higher with a grin. "Zoe is here. We're heading home."

"Oh, I did see you two on TV!"

Her smile is conspiratorial before she waves her free hand, demanding I put my girlfriend on the line. Meanwhile, said girlfriend tries and fails to melt into the leather seat.

I click the safety to lock the doors, lest she decides to jump. The glare she shoots is deadly, unamused with my joke.

"Zoe!" My mom beams through the phone, absolutely delighted. "Hi, honey. It's so nice to finally meet you! My son has been talking about you for ages."

"Hi, Ms—"

"Julia."

"Julia." Zoe tries a smile. "Hi. It's nice to meet you, as well. Miles does seem to have the habit of speaking a lot."

Mom laughs, amused at my expense. "Always been that way, my boy. Couldn't stand a minute of silence, always had to fill it."

"By all means." I stretch across the console until my face is within the screen frame. It puts me right above Zoe's shoulder, so I let gravity do its job and lean my head on her. "Please continue to speak like I'm not here, don't feel compelled to measure your words."

Zoe rolls her eyes a little as my mother laughs softly, and both fill my chest with indescribable warmth.

"I just wanted to see that pretty face I made. But it was a pleasant surprise to meet you, Zoe, and confirm you're real—rather than just a dream my son's been having every night for years."

Zoe's eyes bounce to me again in the small square on the corner of the screen.

"Love you, Mom," I sing-song in panic, before she exposes me. "Byeeee."

"I love you, honey. Bye." She winks as her hand moves to end the call.

We stay like that until the screen goes black, with the faint reflection of intimacy. I remove myself to my side, afraid she'll pull back first. I'm not too proud to recognize my heart isn't strong enough to take another rejection tonight.

I glance at the safety lock, then at her. "Thank you," I say.

Zoe nods once.

The doors unlock with a clunk under my finger, and she's gone.