Fake Empire(63)

It’s not exactly a smooth segway, but I blurt the question anyway. “Are you expecting last night to happen again?”

“Which part? When you admitted to stalking me, the skipping, or when I carried you up three flights of stone steps?”

I’m not exactly cool, sitting in the sun. But my cheeks still manage to overheat more. “Forget it.”

“I hope so.”

Against my better judgement, I meet his gaze. And since he’s no longer driving, he holds it without worrying about crashing.

“I really hope so. All of it, plus the sex.”

I pretend that doesn’t merit a response, choosing to focus on the figures on the field instead of the one next to me. It works for a while, until the actual game starts.

Crew either thinks his commentary is invaluable or is trying to prompt a response out of me, because he spews an endless stream of facts about different players I couldn’t care less about.

I alternate between smirking and sighing. Professional soccer games last for longer than I thought.

The most excitement is when the black and white ball bounces off a post with ten minutes left. But I’m not entirely bored.

It’s hot and loud. We spent the French Open in the shade sipping champagne. Yet I’d rather be here than back there.

Nearly three hours pass before the game ends. Scoreless, neither team makes a single goal. Crew continues his analysis—until the same man reappears and asks him something in Italian.

He turns to me. “The team owner wants to talk. Do you mind waiting?”

Days—maybe even hours ago—I would have given an honest yes because sitting around here for even longer is one of the last things I feel like doing. Warming toward Crew isn’t the equivalent of a personality transplant, though, so I don’t say no either. “I’ll come with you.”

Something in Crew’s expression suggests my middle ground isn’t what he considers a compromise, but he doesn’t argue, just nods.

We leave our seats, following the mysterious Italian who must work for the team. Halfway up the stairs, Crew grabs my hand, tugging me closer so that his body is the one cutting through the crowd. Once again, I tamp down the urge to fight him. I feel like I’ve proven to Crew I can handle myself. He knows I’m fully capable of shoving my way through rowdy fans. If he wants to do it for me, fine. A more concerning realization is how much I like the way it feels—having him take care of me in some small way. I’ve fought hard to establish independence. Relying on others is often setting yourself up for disappointment. I tell myself this isn’t a slippery slope, that letting Crew lead me through the stadium isn’t an indication I’m knocking down boundaries I carefully built.

I lie to myself.

The crowds thin the deeper we get into the stadium. Most people are leaving, not entering. We pass into a private section that requires our silent guide to flash his badge. The hallway is empty and quiet, the only sounds muffled by concrete walls.

Crew keeps hold of my hand, and I don’t let go either. We step into an elevator and then out into another hallway, this one carpeted and plush. Full-size photos of players line the walls.

“Antonio, can you give us a minute?”

The man accompanying us—Antonio—nods and keeps walking down the hallway for a few dozen feet before stopping.

I glance between him and Crew. “What is it?”

“I need you to wait in here.” He opens the door to our left, revealing an empty suite overlooking the field.

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

He sighs. “The team owner…well, he’s a dick. His father ran things when I got involved, and it’s been a rocky transition. I was hoping to avoid him. Someone must have told him I was here.”

“I can handle dicks.”

Crew’s smile is brief. “I can’t. He’ll hit on you, or worse, and I’ll hit him.” His voice is grim honesty. “I’d just gotten access to my trust fund when I invested in this team. It was a stupid whim, and I’m lucky it paid off. My involvement is minimal. If it becomes a mess, it will be a real pain in the ass.”

“You could just, you know, not punch the guy,” I suggest.

“I’m not going to stand by and let someone insult you.”

“It sounds more like he’d be complimenting me.”

He exhales. “Please?”

That’s what gets me. The please. I’m curious to meet this guy. But my inclination when Crew asks me to do something has become to listen, not to argue. So I agree. “Okay.”

It happens fast. There’s less than a foot of space between us, so Crew only has to take one step forward before his lips are crashing into mine. It’s nothing like an obligatory farewell kiss. His tongue teases mine. His teeth tug on my lower lip. His hands pull my hips flush against his.

The sigh when he steps back is heavy with regret and annoyance, neither of which appear to be aimed at me. “It’ll be quick, okay?”

He’s striding away toward a waiting Antonio before I can reply. I wander into the suite, feeling a little dazed. It doesn’t appear anyone watched the game from here today—everything is spotless.

I walk to the far end of the suite, looking out over the field. This is a very different view than the one from the edge of the grass. The entire field is spread out in a symmetrical rectangle, green grass separated by stark white lines.