Chapter Eighteen

Zoe

R ivalry is defined as the competition for superiority in the same field.

In my dictionary, it's the ninety-minute game that brings the city together and divides it in the same breath.

In those ninety minutes, passions and loyalties are ignited. The culmination of days in which the city was livelier, breathing air charged by anticipation, and decades of a tradition firmly embedded into the fabric of the city and the people. It brings about loves and loyalties that run beyond the green pitch, magnified by the recent rampant rise of the blue team, naming Boston one of the soccer cities in the United States.

One city, two teams. Rivals competing to be crowned the king of the city, even if for only a night—or until the next match.

Will Boston be red or blue tonight?

The rivalry is in my blood, too, a passion passed down to me through the generations. And though I grew up in the stands of the Boston Football Club Stadium, today feels like the first time.

After so many years watching the games from the sidelines, I'm back in the stands. Though the box with my last name remains empty; it still doesn't feel right to sit there without Grandpa. Instead I watch behind a steel veranda as the action unfolds on the field, as well as the motions I usually take part in on the sidelines.

And the reason for the changed perspective, who is currently running, ball glued to his feet like it never wants to get away.

I vehemently refused to wear Miles's jersey, though. I might be halfway down a rabbit hole, but I'm not entirely mad. Never say never and all that, but I will never, never wear the symbol of the rivals.

I've chosen to no longer be loud about my loyalties, but my love for my club will remain until my dying day.

It's an easy conclusion that my blood runs as red and white as Boston FC—one I never bothered to deny. Journalists are humans, too. We were children once, and we are humans beyond professionals in a job that's inherently coated in impartiality—a cloak I consciously wear, removing my jersey when it comes to my work.

For many of us, this profession began with a passion for a sport or a team or a club, an affinity that doesn't blind or incapacitate our performance and professionalism.

I've been so focused on remaining professional, watching through clinical lenses and analytical eyes, that I put my love for this sport to sleep.

Today, it's awake. My heart pumps like I'm running on the grass, too, adrenaline whipping through my veins.

The game is rough, every single play disputed to the last inch.

Miles is a menace with the ball at his feet; a nightmare to the defense line, only stopped by illegal contact. Always with his head up, eyes ahead, as though he doesn't have to look down to check if the ball is there. The round thing knows where it belongs—at his feet—and it won't go anywhere, even under constant threat of theft.

An opponent, often more than one, is on Miles Blackstein's heels as soon as the ball is in his possession—and when it's far away, too. I've never seen such tight marking nor a striker evading it so artfully.

His strong legs flex miles of corded muscle under white shorts and knee-high socks, and even in the distance, even with his inhumane speed, I see the contours of lean muscle.

Then comes Nicholas Hale.

Ruthless, the defender sweeps Miles into the grass right on the edge of the penalty area. I don't notice the yellow card or the wall line up. Until he gets back up, cautiously putting weight on his left foot to try it out, all I see is Miles's big frame crumpled in pain on the oppressive green grass.

I curse Nicholas and all his offspring until my Number Nine grabs the sphere with gentle hands. The whistle grants permission, and three steps later, he kicks. The air catches in my throat as his left cleat sends the ball on its way with a kiss of death. Dizzying, it tears through the air in a perfect arch, landing with a poetic thud in the far corner of the net.

Forgetting my second home is circumstantially hostile territory, I jump with arms in the air and fists closed in celebration. My fervent cheer collides with a wall of curses. Heads turn my way, eyes shooting daggers at me.

I shrug, unclenching my fists and leaving my hands up in the air in a sign of truce, the only white flag I can wave since I'm physically unable to hide or contain the gravity of my smile.

"That's my boyfriend!" I beam, explaining my suicidal moment of hysteria.

I suppose it does. To the entire world, that man is my man. This is the exact reaction expected of me, his proud girlfriend.

It should surprise me, or at least worry me, that those three words tore from my lips so effortlessly, unplanned and unpremeditated. They flew out of my mouth straight from down my chest—not from up my head. And they ring true. It feels right to scream it from rooftops and crowded soccer stadium stands, for everyone to hear and to know.

That man is mine .

As if he heard me, Miles finds me among the tapestry of red. Pointing at me, he draws a Z in the air like fucking Zorro.

That goal is for me.

The wings of my butterflies drag with a pang of guilt at my team's loss. But that's not what I celebrate. It's Miles's success, never his team— never my team's demise.

"Fuck your boyfriend!"

The distinct shout fires from a couple of rows ahead, closer to the lawn, from the pursed lips of a middle-aged man with cheeks that match his red jersey.

Little does he know, this time next year, he'll be bowing at my boyfriend's feet.

Logically, I understand the man's wrath—here I am celebrating his loss on their own stands. Zoe-before-Miles would have easily ignored the comment. Hell, a few months ago, I would have fully agreed with this red-cheeked, round-bellied, soccer-loving man .

Fuck Miles Blackstein indeed.

"Yes, sir. I plan to! It'll be my pleasure!"

Another man shoots daggers at me as his hands cover little ears by his side, the kid watching me with a pout. I would apologize, but I'm unsure what they're upset about: my brash reply or the fact that their team is now losing by one goal.

I also don't feel apologetic in the least.

I know nasty comments are a constant in an athlete's life. Miles has undoubtedly been bombarded with worse than a simple fuck you , but the wave of protectiveness that washes over me doesn't leave space for reason. Miles has been nothing but fiercely protective, so I reciprocate.

Camila's signature unrestrained laughter, boisterous and contagious and utterly unladylike, fills my ears even through the loud noises of an ebullient stadium.

I bump her shoulder, and our eyes connect in a pause that becomes a countdown. When it hits zero we crack in a fit of laughter. Soon, we're cackling, then wheezing, and turning heads our way once again.

I can't even muster the oxygen to care about the fact we look like mad girls.

When the whistle screeches the game is over, the giant screens on either side of the stadium show a bright 1 on each side of the dash under each team's symbols. The final result is a tie, one goal for each.

Camila and I remain in place, seats forgotten behind us with the frenzy of the game pumping in everybody's veins precluding us from sitting still through the final minutes.

The seats empty with the steady flows of feet shuffling up and down the concrete steps. But some fans linger back, too, immortalizing the night in clicks and flashes , pictures and videos, trying to capture the attention of their favorite stars with homemade signs and requests in big, bold letters.

Shirtless, sweaty skin shines under the spotlights as Miles and Nicholas approach after trading jerseys. I glower at Nicholas with lingering resentment, still seeing him tackle my fake-boyfriend to the ground with the violence of a different football.

If he were the kind of person that frowned—like humans —he would have. As it is, Nicholas Hale defies the reputation of my evil eye as he remains thoroughly unbothered. He doesn't even trip once.

Miles locks his gaze on mine, a crooked grin appearing instantly. It works like a key unlocking my arms, and they open wide. He jogs the last steps and invades my space. I squeeze him, and, damn, his deodorant is effective.

While Miles rushes to me, Nicholas does the opposite. His stride slows, measured and purposeful, like he slows the clock and time ticks in tandem to the pace of his steps. All so he can properly take in the girl on my side.

Camila wears her giant grin and dramatic white bootcut jeans, her brother's name and number in a jersey knotted around her waist.

Nicholas eyes her like it's his name on her back.

I realize I'm holding my breath when Rodrigo manifests out of thin air with Portuguese words, and all the oxygen swooshes out .

"Oh my God!" Miles points a finger in their general direction.

At the same time, I whisper-scream. "What was that ?!"

I slap his finger down, looking into wide eyes that mirror my own.

"You saw that too, right? That wasn't a product of my imagination. There was something there!" He tries to raise his index finger, I try to slap it down again.

"He likes her," I confirm, failing to conceal my grin.

"My man is down bad." Miles smothers a noise that awfully resembles a giggle. The sound tugs at the corners of my heart so hard it aches.

"Little Z! Long time no see." Rodrigo extends his fist to bump mine, like we're besties or bros. Looking at his grin, one would never guess he used to hover like a helicopter parent, all heavy side-eyes and disapproving grunts every time I hung out with his sister. Until one day, seemingly randomly, he sat down and watched The Vampire Diaries with us. We bonded over our common dislike of Damon. Then we repeated the process with Gossip Girl —and Chuck. We're haters.

He's weaseled his way into our weekly girl-dates, now twice-a-week affairs, as we make our way through Grey's Anatomy . It's unclear which controversial character we'll choose to dislike, only that we're loyal fans of the old seasons, refusing to watch past season ten.

"I suppose colluding with the enemy keeps you busy," Rodri says, throwing one of the famous side-eyes in the direction of my fake-boyfriend.

I roll my eyes but greet his fist all the same. "I saw you two days ago when I came over to help Camila with her latest acquisition."

Which is code for a heated ice cream scoop.

Since her brother couldn't join her because of his strict athlete diet, Camila called, eager for company to try it, only to realize she couldn't. She forgot she'd eaten all the ice cream. Rodri erupted into maniacal cackles, so we had no choice but fix the heartbreak with an order of waffles and fries for dessert. After each of us ate a bowl of soup for dinner, of course, because we're healthy like that.

"I trust you've been keeping my little sister out of trouble."

Camila's snort steals any answer I might want to provide. "More like she's been asking for trouble."

I glower at her, jutting my chin out. "I have done no such thing."

Her brow points at me. "Yeah? What would you call announcing to an entire stand of pissed off fans your nighttime activities and plans with the dude who just stole the victory from them?"

The sudden need to hide the new crimson in my cheeks ignites my urge to burrow further into Miles's glistening chest, but I hold strong and still.

I don't dare look up to see the smirk I know claims his face as he tastes the words. "Our nighttime activities and plans."

Rodrigo perches forward, inked forearms against the steel bar. "I would be mad at how little regard you show for my sister's safety, little Z, but I'm too intrigued. Care to share these plans with the class?"

Crimson must burn brighter, because the bark of Miles's warning is biting. "Shut your mouth, Castro." He effectively shuts the defender out by turning his back on his chuckles. "I do have plans for us tonight. Stay close. "

Nicholas breaks from his typical silent self, commanding our attention by clearing his throat. "Actually, we could all head to my place. For dinner."

For a moment, the simple suggestion stuns all of us into silence. If it makes him nervous, he doesn't show it.

I would wonder if he's done it with the purpose of throwing us out of balance, but then it clicks.

"We'd love to." I rush to break the silence in the still loud stadium. "Right?" I elbow Miles in the gut to shake the frown that wiped the smile off his face.

He seems wounded, certainly not from me who barely made a dent in his hard abs. "Actually, I thought we could—" Angling my back towards our friends, I widen my eyes, willing him to catch up. The crease between his browns disappears as realization takes place. "Of course, man. We're in." The dimples make an appearance. "As long as the next one is at our place.

Our place . As in, Miles and Zoe's new house. We'd spent the past week in a whirlwind of house-hunting—in reality, we only visited four places, but I was thoroughly overwhelmed by the second—until my fake-lover declared it was done.

I don't know which palace he picked. I didn't want to interfere. Although I agreed to move in with him until my attacker is caught, his forever home will only be my temporary refuge.

We all know Rodrigo's answer, so my partner in crime jumps in before the Portuguese defender can decline his, and therefore his sister's, presence.

"What about you, Mi-mi? Will you let our boy third-wheel?" At the random nickname, the guys shoot dirty looks in my fake-boyfriend's direction. "That would be cruel of you, and I don't see you as a cruel girl."

"You've known me for all 5 seconds, na?ve child." Her sunny smile goes sinisterly dark. "Call me Mi-mi again, and you'll see just how cruel I am."

And the sun shines on her face again.

It's a little unsettling, and I have to shake myself before I get the reins back in my hands.

I point to Camila. "You are coming." Then to her sibling. "You can come if you want. Though your presence is not required." Rodrigo opens his mouth, but I clap my hands. "Hurry, boys. Go clean up. You stink. And I don't want to face hungry Camila alone"

Miles catches his bottom lip between his teeth, clamping hard, and his heated mutter pools low in my somersaulting belly. "So hot when you're bossy."

His gray gaze glints with a language of our own, crafted together somewhere along the way, and I answer in like.

He reads it in the angles of my smile.

He frames my face in his hands. And he puts his mouth on mine.

The simple, soft press of his lips against mine.

He exhales deeply, breathing butterflies right into my lungs, making my heart stutter. When he pulls back, his nose brushes mine like he wants to prolong contact by any means possible.

Then he's off, leaving me with the commentary of the non–twins and a racing heart.

"Ew."

"Disgusting."

"I hate people in love."