Chapter 34

: Andi

T hank goodness for long cold showers.

Mostly because it’s 85 degrees with oppressive humidity, and it’s only early afternoon. Also because standing next to Brandon Nix sets my body on fire. My fingers still burn where he touched me.

As the water sluices over me, I think about the saltwater fish tank my dad bought for Benj and me right after we’d moved to Colorado. It was super cool, and Benj and I used to sit in front of it for hours and watch the fish and other reef dwellers who called our 35-gallon tank home. He’d bought something called live rock from the aquarium supply store. It looked like big pieces of rock with a lot of holes in it. Nothing special. Certainly nothing exciting. As time went on, more and more critters and creatures emerged from the rock. It really was alive.

This was before the internet, so I used to have to go to the library and get books out to look up what I was seeing to identify it. Eventually, Benj and I were able to label all the residents of our tank. There were tons of limpets, some snails, and even a crab that emerged. We had Aiptasia, of course, which is an invasive and problematic type of anemone. My dad was looking up how to kill those, but I thought they were pretty. Hands down, the coolest thing to come out of the rock was a spiny sea urchin.

Benj and I named him Spike.

Spike was super active, moving around the tank on a daily basis. My dad liked him because he ate algae. Benj and I liked him because he was entertaining. All in all, Spike was an unexpected, added bonus to our lives. Until the morning I came out to find the water in the tank cloudy and every single creature—fish and invertebrates alike—dead. Spike included, lying on the sandy gravel at the bottom of the tank, his oral surface facing up. Spike was right underneath the heater, which had a hole in it.

He’d eaten it, causing the heater to malfunction and raise the water temperature from a balmy 78 degrees to over 100. He’d boiled them all alive.

That’s how being around Brandon Nix makes me feel. Like I’m boiling alive. Maybe that’s why he has an ice bath.

Spike is the perfect analogy for Brandon. That should be his spirit animal. Comes out of nowhere, looks poisonous, is actually pretty cool and entertaining, kills you in the end.

Yes, definitely Brandon’s spirit animal.

And if Brandon is Spike, I’m the live rock. I look dead on the surface, but in reality, there are a lot of living things within me, waiting to emerge. But as these feelings, wants, and needs emerge, I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my poker face.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to die because of Brandon.

Not actually, but my career—and maybe my heart—will.

Shit. That’s the first time thinking of Brandon has made me think of my heart and feelings.

Oh no, this is not good. Not good at all.

I emerge from the shower, skin pruny and my mind even less at ease. Officiating the game today is not going to be as easy as I’d thought. I deserve this anguish. I played with fire, so I deserve to get burned. Wrapped in my towel, I dash to my bag to extract my clothes. This may be the referees’ private locker room, but I’m still sharing it with a team of three men. None of them are here yet, though I expect them to start trickling in any minute.

The last thing I need is for rumors to start about me being naked in the presence of my colleagues.

I don’t need rumors about sleeping my way to the top to surface.

I add the locker room situation to a long list of things I need to discuss with my union representative. We have a phone call set for Monday morning. I can’t let this wage thing go on any longer.

I pull on my underwear and sports bra, and then my black regulation shorts. I comb through my wet hair and let it fan out on my shoulders. I’ll put it up before the game. Sitting down, I eat my pre-game meal. I always bring the same thing: yogurt, two hard boiled eggs for protein, fruit, and rice cakes. I’ve got a fruit smoothie for right before the game as well as water and electrolyte drinks.

I don’t get stoppage time if I have a cramp from dehydration.

Hell, my entire leg could be falling off, and I’d never request they stop the game for me. It would only mean more ridicule and criticism about how females aren’t capable of performing at this level. If I’m prepared, I can prevent things like cramps and running out of gas from happening.

This is the fuel my body needs.

Mentally, I want to bury my face in a dozen donuts or a gallon of vodka. If I didn’t think it would make me vomit on the sidelines, I’d be inhaling a pint of Ben and Jerry’s right about now. How could I be so stupid as to think that I’d be fine with all this? How could I not realize that all those spicy dreams I’ve been having over the last several weeks—all starring Brandon, naturally—were not just a coincidence? It wasn’t simply because he was on my mind.

Oh no, my body was trying to get it through my brain that there was something she wanted. My brain’s always been the one to shut down. To push all my feelings into deep, dark corners where they all but disappeared. As long as the light doesn’t shine upon them, they don’t exist.

Something won’t let Brandon retreat to the dark for me.

My limpets and snails are out, and there’s no crawling back in the rock for me.

Okay, I really need to come up with a better analogy.

I’m sure today will be challenging, but I’ll get through it. Just like I do everything else. This is simply a minor inconvenience. It’s not like I’m going to die if I can’t ever touch Brandon again. If I can’t see him smile at me. If I can’t feel his lips on mine. It won’t kill me.

It just feels that way right now.

For right now, I have a job to do. Once this game is over, I’m going to give myself permission to feel a little sad for a few days. I don’t have much time to wallow. I hear voices coming down the hall. Quickly, I pull my shirt over my head and pick up my food containers.

Rico Lopez and Hamilton Regan enter the room, laughing casually. They both stop when they see me. They don’t need to say a word to let me know I’m not one of them.

It’s fine.

I mean, it’s not, but that’s why I’ll be talking to my union in two days’ time. Maybe something will get better.

We all have our own rituals for pre-game prep. I’ve reviewed footage from the teams and looked at their stats. I put my shin guards in and pull up my long black socks before tightly lacing and tying my cleats. Then it’s time to brush my hair back into a tight ponytail. Because of the heat and humidity today, I add a cloth headband to slick back flyaways.

In a few minutes, I’ll go out and walk the field. We’re all responsible for inspecting the players to make sure they’re wearing proper equipment and not wearing anything illegal, like watches or jewelry, so we’ll do that as a group.

Generally, it’s the head referee’s job to inspect the condition of the pitch and the goals, but since Mike isn’t here, I want to look for myself. Something on the field, especially the sidelines where I’ll be running back and forth as the assistant, can be dangerous to the players as well as myself.

Because of the chilly environment in the locker room—and I don’t mean the air conditioning—I head out to the field. Some of the kids from the Soccer for Sibs are running back and forth over the green grass, living out their soccer dreams. A few players from the Buzzards are out there with them.

Brandon’s one of them.

Naturally, my gaze lands on him like gravity pulling me back to Earth. As quickly as I can manage, I look away. I see Bjorn Janssen on the sidelines, so I go to speak with him.

“Assistant today, Ms. Nichols?” he greets.

I nod. “Mike Barnaby will be out in a few.” If he’s even here yet. “The event earlier today was a lot of fun. Thank you for including me in it. I’m sure you know of the personal connection.”

He smiles. “Yes. It was good of you to come as well. Too often, there are feelings of separation between players and officials.”

“I know. People forget we’re all here to create an entertaining game for the fans. I don’t set out with any agendas.” I don’t want any hard feelings about the last game I officiated here. Nor do I want him to think I’m coming in with a preconceived notion about his team.

Or any players on his team.

Trust me, I have no idea how he’s going to act.

“Most teams can say the same thing. Good luck to you.” He steps away, having been summoned by a staff member on the field. I can’t check the goals yet, but the condition of the field looks okay. It’ll have to be checked once it’s cleared, which should be any moment.

Plus, that’s Mike’s job, not mine. He’s getting paid more. He should do more.

As Brandon trots back through the tunnel to the locker rooms, I finally start to calm down. This will be okay. I can do this. I’m here to do a job that I’ve worked too long and too hard to let anyone take away from me.

Let’s do this.