Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

  I lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. Maybe I should have spent more time trying to convince my mother to join us, but I didn’t have the energy. "Henri?"

  "I would love to see the zoo, maybe downtown?" he said.

  "Of course," I told him. "That is perfect. Maman, you're sure you don't want to come?"

  "I am tired," she said. "But we will have to talk later." Her voice lowered on this last part and it made my stomach clench with dread.

  "Oh," I said, remembering Trace's offer as I stood to go shower. "Trace has arranged for us to have box seats at his game Saturday if you'd like."

  "Amazing," Henri said immediately.

  My mother sighed deeply and said nothing.

  "I'll tell him yes," I said. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes," I told Henri. "Help yourselves to whatever you find in the kitchen."

  * * *

  Now that I wasn’t at all worried about misunderstandings between myself and Henri, we had a lovely day together. It was refreshing to spend the day with a friend from home who looked at things in a similar way to my own view as a foreigner. We walked the enormous zoo and explored the vibrant downtown, ending up at a restaurant in Little Italy for a very late lunch.

  “I’m really so sorry about everything we have put you through,” I told him.

  "I understand," Henri said easily. "I understood as soon as you arrived at my winery that it was not as your mother had said. You had not agreed to marry me."

  I winced, embarrassed about the misunderstanding. "I'm so sorry," I told him. "And I'm sorry she dragged you here."

  He shook his head. "I wanted to come. I have always wanted to see California," he said. "And you and I are friends, non?"

  "Oui," I confirmed.

  "So I was happy to visit you. And if I can help you convince your mother, I will. I have already told her several times, but . . ."

  "She doesn't listen." I imagined that Henri's soft-spoken manner wasn't much of a match for my mother's fiery determination. Still, it was a relief to know he was on my side.

  "She means well," he said.

  I appreciated his defense of my mother, but I wasn't sure if she did mean well at all. She meant to get her way, but I thought perhaps she had lost sight of exactly why.

  "Do you like Trace?" I ventured.

  He smiled. "I do. I like that he is not pretentious like I would imagine professional athletes would be. He is very . . . approachable."

  I felt the grin on my face as a little surge of pride filled me. "He is."

  "You like him very much," Henri suggested.

  Heat scaled my neck and I felt it color my cheeks. "I do."

  Henri smiled at me in a way that felt sincere and understanding. "I'm happy for you, Magalie."

  If only my mother could be happy for me.

  * * *

  We spent the next few days sightseeing around San Diego, my mother doing her best to act unimpressed as we visited the foothills to taste local apples, went to the beaches, and even drove up to Hollywood. Trace and I texted, but I didn't get to see him again, and I found that I missed him.

  By the game on Saturday, I was exhausted, not just because I'd done more driving and touring than I had in a four-day period ever before, but because my mother never let up in her relentless assertions that Trace was wrong for me.

  As we settled into the box seats at the edge of the soccer pitch under the warm San Diego sun, I had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

  Chapter 34

  My Heart is a Moron

  Trace

  I came through the tunnel to take the field, and my eyes went straight to the boxes. Magalie was there, and my heart flipped over inside my chest. I was happy to see her.

  I'd spent the week trying to figure out what was going on inside me. I missed her every second. I thought about her all the time. I wanted to talk about her constantly, but Erica had a limited tolerance for moony Trace, and she was a little scarce anyway. I'd talked a little bit to Max, who seemed weirdly interested in my love life, but nothing stood in for actually spending time with Magalie, which I hadn't done since I'd dashed away on Wednesday morning under her mother's disapproving glare.

  Her mother was at the game too, looking bored and annoyed, and so was Henri, who smiled as he caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up.

  I didn't know how I was supposed to feel, and letting my mind work over the strangeness of the entire scenario hadn't been especially helpful. My puppy dog side was thrilled every time I thought about Magalie and over the moon to actually see her. But my intellectual side—tiny though it might be—realized there was a lot here that possibly wouldn't work out. She was an intelligent beautiful woman, and maybe her mother was right—maybe a meathead athlete wasn't the right fit in the long run. Plus, there was the fact that she really only needed me for a stand in. Temporarily. And that someday she'd probably go home to France. Where I definitely do not live. We had issues.

  But my heart didn't care. It was holding fast to the words she’d started to say on my patio, to the way she’d clung to me in her bed.

  I grinned up at them, running as close to the box as I could on my way to the goal, and then tried to breathe deeply and focus on the task at hand. This was the final game of the regular season, and it was our last chance to add points to our season total and potentially get to playoffs. We were somewhere in the middle of the conference, but this game and the ones being played by other teams in the Western Conference would seal the deal. In other words, this game was important.

  I rolled my shoulder a few times as the game got underway, and was relieved that the ache had lessened significantly. Chicago’s striker was at the box a few times, lined up perfectly once, but our defense was strong today. I was focused, and everything felt good, and there was no score moving into the second half. Coach was encouraging in the locker room—no one had screwed up terribly at least—and I felt the pressure to keep Chicago from scoring.

  Max and Fuerte kept driving down to their goal, the crowd screaming around us every time, but Chicago was always there, pushing us back. And just as we neared the fifteen minute mark, they broke away, one of their strikers driving down a pitch that looked utterly empty from where I stood. There was nothing but green open grass between him and me, and the guy was moving like a fucking speeding train, the ball ahead of him.

  Shit, shit, shit! Every nerve in my body was dancing, trying to anticipate where he'd shoot, where I needed to be.

  And for the first time in my life, the box felt too big, the goal too tall. I felt small and incapable standing there in the middle of it. And where the hell was Hammer? Where was Isley?

  I started to panic, my heart rushing the blood through my body too fast, too loud. And I swear to God, I could hear Magalie's voice above everyone else's as the crowd screamed at me to block it.

  "Get it, Trace!"

  But I didn't get it. The ball flew past me, right by my left ear. I should've had it. I should've blocked it easily, but I missed. And the disappointed hush that fell around me was crushing.

  I retrieved the ball, tossing it back to midfield as the rest of my team seemed to materialize from thin air around me.

  What the fuck had happened?

  I would have written it off as one bad play, maybe been able to walk away from it and vow to do better.

  But it happened again. And as the game ended with Chicago beating us two zip, I knew I'd lost the game for the Sharks.

  More importantly, I worried that I'd lost the edge.

  Whatever talent I'd had before, whatever had gotten me this far, maybe it had abandoned me. I had never been superstitious like other guys, but now I had to wonder—did I get just one thing? I’d said my whole life that my one thing was soccer. Was trying to have Magalie too just too much to ask of the universe? Had I traded soccer for love?

  At any other time, I would have told myself that was ridiculous. But today, I wasn’t sure.

  Confusion and heartbreak filled me, and I glanced
up to the boxes as I left the field. Magalie's eyes were big, worried, and Henri looked sad. But Magalie's mother wore a tiny little smile, and actually lifted a hand to wave at me. The knot of confusion inside me tightened painfully.

  After getting reamed by the coach and having one too many reassuring pats from teammates who should have been fucking furious with me, I didn't feel like seeing anyone. But I'd promised to have an early dinner with Magalie and her mother. And as bad as I felt, I knew I'd feel worse if I let her down. Maybe I could use the time to figure out something about the confusion inside me.

  I sat in the locker room for a while, not moving, trying to understand what the hell had happened.

  Erica texted me a few times, trying to be reassuring, but I couldn't even answer her.

  Soccer was the one thing I'd always counted on, always known I could handle. I was good at it, and it was good to me. Until now.

  Playoffs were not a sure thing for the Sharks now, thanks to me. We'd have to wait and see how the other teams did this weekend.

  Finally, I showered and packed up my stuff and went to meet Magalie at the restaurant we'd chosen on Shelter Island. I made the mistake of listening to the radio on the way over, the announcers using our loss to speculate about sales for the team. Marissa had been quiet since the last buyer had come to watch, and no one knew exactly what was going on. Fear formed a tight wad in my gut.

  I pulled into the parking lot, trying to let the setting sun and beautiful setting push away the darkness I felt rising inside me, but it was impossible to forget the loss today—the loss I'd basically been responsible for.

  "Trace!" Magalie called to me as I entered the restaurant from a table by the window, and when I turned to head toward where she sat with her mother and Henri, she stood and met me halfway across the floor.

  "Are you okay?" she asked, concern making her eyes shine.

  I didn't have a good answer. I wasn't okay—not about the game, not really about anything. But I nodded and pushed a smile across my face. "Sure," I said.

  "You played well," she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice. She'd brought guests to see me do the one thing I excelled at, the thing I was famous for. And I hadn't been able to do it. I might as well have been a twelve-year old on some kind of goodwill boondoggle, standing in the goal at a pro soccer game. I was worthless.

  I joined Henri and Mrs. Caron at the table, doing my best to greet them appropriately, but the darkness inside me seemed to be expanding, making me doubt everything from my worth as a player to my value as a human being.

  The meal was painful, and I did my best to be polite, but mostly it happened around me. At one point I excused myself, convinced I could think my way out of the shitty mood. Magalie followed me outside and we stood together on a patio beneath tall leaning palm trees.

  "Trace," she said, stepping to face me. "You can't blame yourself for the loss."

  I tried to smile at her, but Magalie's sad face made me think of how much happier she'd look if I hadn't sucked today at the game. And there was a tiny finger of doubt inside me that was trying to point at her, to blame her.

  "You don't have to try to make me feel better," I told her. "I sucked. I lost."

  "But it's a game, Trace. Surely you can't win all the time?"

  I lifted a shoulder. That was true. We had lost before, but we'd never lost in a way that was so clearly on me. "Right. It's just a game. But it's also my entire life."

  "No," she shook her head. "Your life is about people who care for you, not about a game."

  Was she saying she cared for me? Telling me again? Did it matter? "It's my job," I said, speaking the only truth that mattered. "And if I'm not good at it, I lose it. And if I lose it, I'm nothing. I have nothing."

  She stared at me for a long minute, saying nothing. "We are all more than what we do. The game does not define you."

  It occurred to me then that this woman didn't understand me at all, and I used that kernel of belief to wedge some distance between the way my heart wanted to lean into her and the truth of our situation. "It does, actually," I said. "You know," I went on, stepping away from her. "I just need a minute, okay?"

  She didn't say another word, but the emotion dropped from her face as surely as if a switch had been flipped. "Okay," she said, and she disappeared back inside.

  Mrs. Caron appeared next to me only a minute later, causing me to force down every ugly thing I might have said to her.

  "Your team played well today," she said.

  I turned to gauge her expression. Was she being sarcastic? "Not especially," I said.

  "The other team was better, that is all."

  Fury bolted through me and my hands turned to steel fists. They were not better. They got lucky. Because I fucked it away. "Sure." I said through my teeth.

  "You know that you are not a good fit for my daughter, don't you, Trace?" She stared at the side of my face because I refused to look at her. I didn't need this right now. I didn't answer. "I think you know that. I think you see that this will not work out in the long run."

  She paused, letting that little nugget sink in. The problem was, though I wanted to tell her she was wrong, I couldn't. Someone else probably was a better fit for Magalie. Someone serious and smart, who didn't rely on his brawn to see him through.

  "I think you will let her go. You will realize she deserves more than you can give her, that she needs someone worldly and wise, someone with a stable future."

  I was none of those things. I had none of those things. She was right. But that wasn’t what was glowing to life inside me like a neon sign, making me certain nothing could ever work between Magalie and me. It was the painful knowledge that I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t have love and soccer, and right now, I had to choose the game. Mrs. Caron just gave me a good excuse to leave.

  I turned to look at her, seeing for the first time beyond the angry woman fighting for no reason. I saw a woman who wanted the best for her daughter, who was just doing the best she could to ensure she got it. A little part of me still wanted to fight, to tell her that I was the best thing for Magalie. That I loved her. But it didn’t matter now. I was exhausted and beaten, and I could let this tiny terrifying woman be right. "Maybe you're right," I told her.

  My heart screamed at me to stay and fight, to be the guy Hammer had said I was—the guy who never gave up. But I thought maybe I’d never really been that guy. I was a guy who would always fill a temporary role, be good enough for a little while, but not forever. "Please tell Magalie I'm sorry."

  I turned away from her and went around the outside of the restaurant, back to the front. I gave the hostess a wad of cash for our meal and left, getting into my car and driving myself home, my mind and body going darker and darker with every mile. I was condensing around the pain, around the knowledge that things with Magalie were over.

  It was better for us both. Having Magalie in my life, having the distraction, had led to this, to this loss today. I’d been distracted, my focus had been split. And that had turned into disaster for the team.

  Walking away from Magalie would help me return my focus where it needed to be, to the thing that had gotten me this far.

  My team, my game. My identity.

  Interlude 2

  Max Winchell

  Yeah, so, Trace is kind of single-minded. The thing is, that's how pro sports are, right? When you're that good at something, you get a little superstitious about it. It's easy to believe it could all fall apart—after all, regular people don't get that lucky, right? And if you're lucky enough to be amazing at your sport, and say, be a fucking genius, then the odds of being lucky anywhere else? Well, they're slim.

  But the thing is, numbers don't lie. And honestly, I did a little rejiggering when the algorithm matched these two because . . . well, even I have a bit of self-doubt now and then. And Magalie is gorgeous and soft-spoken, and refined . . . and well, you've met Trace.

  I once watched him suck down mayonnaise packets
one after another until he'd eaten at least thirty of them on the bus home from a game in Los Angeles. I think he was trying to prove some kind of a point, but I think we all learned that eating that much saturated fat in one sitting doesn't do you any digestive favors. There was only one bathroom on that bus. Dark days for us all.

  But the match is good, I'm one hundred percent confident. Somehow, Magalie's good manners and refined upbringing are a match for Trace.

  Okay, maybe on this one I'm only about eighty percent confident.

  Seventy-nine percent. Let's go with that.

  Chapter 35

  Love is a Weapon. Pew! Pew! Pew!

  Magalie

  Trace didn't come back inside the restaurant, but my mother did, wearing a smile that told me she'd gotten something she wanted. My stomach soured.

  "Where is Trace?" I asked, looking around, my heart beating more rapidly than it should have. Something was wrong, and confusion threatened to swamp my mind.

  "I think he finally sees that this thing between you is not right. Not for you." Maman took a delicate sip of her sparkling wine, and as I watched her, a tenuous thread inside me snapped.

  "What did you do?" I asked her, hissing the question as I leaned over the table.

  Just then, the waitress approached. "Your bill has been taken care of. Can I bring you anything else? The gentleman well overpaid. I'd be happy to open another bottle of wine, if you like."

  "No thank you," I said, as pleasantly as I could manage. "We are on our way out." Trace had overpaid and then left. A little sliver of my heart cracked and then crumbled away, sifting into dust inside me.

  I stood and glared down at my mother, who seemed intent on finishing her wine.