Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(18)

Not that I ever expect to see that color up close. I’m expertly talented at earning that rich amber, tinged furious ruby red. Pissing her off is easy, and for safe emotional distance, preferable.

But the competitive voice inside me itches to prove I could just as easily make Willa smile. That I could playfully poke and tease and sweet-talk her until her eyes turned toffee-colored sunshine again.

A vuvuzela blasts nearby, interrupting my thoughts and ringing in my ear. Almost instantly the tinnitus escalates painfully in my left ear, the most damaged one. Freya must notice that I wince because she sets a hand on my neck and rubs gently. Some people might find my family’s comfort with each other’s bodies odd, but it’s how we all are and it makes sense, given half of us were raised by or were raising the other half. Freya’s like a second mom—she rubbed my back while I puked and wiped my ass for a fresh diaper probably as much, if not more so, than my own mother.

My phone buzzes with a message from her. We can go. Aiden forgets how painful loud environments are for you. You know he just loves you and wants you to be integrated, but he’s an ass about it, sometimes.

I huff a silent laugh, replying, It’s okay. I like watching Willa. I’m just going to have a monster headache afterward.

Freya’s hands pause on my neck, then resume, after she types, Do you *like* like her?

Sighing, I shake my head. I said I like watching her. She’s good. That’s it, Frey.

At halftime, UCLA’s up four-one, but twenty minutes into the second half, USC’s managed to put three more past our goalie who needs to have her eyes examined. The two teams are now tied, and they have no business being tied. UCLA’s objectively better.

At this point, Old Ryder would be running his mouth nonstop. Before I lost my hearing, it was the one time I was as chatty as the rest of my siblings. Standing in front of the television watching a Premier League match. When I was older, at the many games my siblings played, hollering, cheering, correcting. I saw the field, I got the game, and I had no problem yelling about it.

Willa’s defenders keep falling away from goal-side stance. The goalie’s stepping too far out of the box. Willa’s goddamn midfielder needs to push up and hold possession longer. Willa, though, I have nothing to say to her. Not one single correction. She’s technically flawless. She’s incredibly fit. She balances possession and passing perfectly. She’s no one-trick pony but instead has countless moves to keep her defenders tripping over her. She’s been sprinting for sixty-five minutes and she’s not even starting to show fatigue.

Times flies as I watch her, the minutes of regulation play dwindling to only a few before stoppage kicks in. Willa isn’t just a talented player, she’s the kind of athlete that comes once in a generation. If anybody belongs on a professional field, it’s her. An odd sensation of pride tightens my chest which I immediately dismiss. Willa’s not mine to be proud of. She’s not even my friend. She’s someone I can root for, though, even if she drives me nuts.

Just as I’m tying up my thoughts with that tidy concluding bow, Willa cuts a sick move around a defender, passing to a teammate I recognized earlier as her roommate, Rooney. Rooney one-times it back to her, and on her first touch, Willa rips it into the upper ninety, scoring again. She’s secured the lead with less than a minute left in regulation.

Instinctively, I’m on my feet, clapping with all the UCLA fans. Without thinking, I lift my hands and set my fingers inside my lips, releasing a long, shrill, celebratory whistle that stuns Freya and Aiden. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t look at them. I look at Willa on the field and refuse to even begin to analyze what I just did.

Willa jumps into the arms of her teammates who tug her braid and smack her ass. Her smile is wide as she floats down the field in their arms. When they drop her at the top of the center circle, Willa faces toward the stadium, hands on hips, gaze scouring the stands, like she’s searching for something. I can’t tell whether or not she’s found what she was looking for before she turns back toward the field.

The oddest sensation settles beneath my ribs. My chest is tight, burning, tangled. I’m looking at Willa Sutter, the pain in my ass who goes from zero to ninety on the rage-o-meter, who smacks off my ball cap and scowls at me like that’s what she got a full ride for, not soccer. I’m here at her game, my rib cage constricting as my heart whispers scary, unwelcome feelings. I turn toward Freya and type, Can we blow this popsicle stand? I’ve got a migraine brewing.

Freya nods, failing to hide her smile. “Migraine, huh?”

I ignore that not-so-subtle hint and swing an arm over her shoulder. Just as we leave the stadium, the buzzer ends the game.





Ryder





Playlist: “The Universe is Laughing,” The Guggenheim Grotto





A nudge to my shoulder makes me look up from my seat in the lecture room’s front row. Willa gives me a cautious, inspecting frown as she settles in next to me, this time on my right side. I feel myself stiffen as she opens her notebook and her arm inadvertently brushes mine. Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, chill-the-fuck-out breath, but that just makes the situation even worse.

A soft scent hits my nose. Citrus and sunscreen, a wisp of flowers. Roses maybe? It’s the same one that infused her apartment, until the mouthwatering aroma of what she’d been cooking eventually overwhelmed it. I take a cautious breath in again. She smells like summer, like a hike through fields of wildflowers. I picture it perfectly, Willa ripping the flesh of a California orange with her teeth, slathered in SPF that does nothing to stop the freckles that pepper her nose, a rose blossom tucked in her wild curls.