Fall Into Love

by Melody Anne

  Victor Labreilla, the Falcons’ coach, who was patiently watching the train wreck of a press conference unfold from the seat next to hers, finally jumped in. “Aye, we’re going to play hard, put in a good effort, keep the passing tight, shore up our talent, take it to the opponents, put the ball in the back of the ol’ onion bag.” He tipped his head in his patented “don’t question the coach” nod.

  The reporter dropped his thumb from his mouth and scribbled in his notepad, seemingly satisfied he’d gotten something quotable. Lainey’s mind wandered again, imagining what he would chew on once his fingernails were gone. Her gaze shifted over to the hand of the female reporter next to him. She wondered if she should warn her that it wasn’t safe to wave those fuchsia nails so vigorously in front of a compulsive nibbler.

  “Lukas!” Frank Diavolo, her team’s PR manager, hissed with a jab to her side. She refocused and realized the fuchsia talons were waving at her. “Be polite. We need to make the six o’clock news if we want to sell some tickets.”

  The female reporter beamed at Frank. “Ms. Lukas? Grace Mallery from Channel 7 News. Following the events of last year’s World Cup final, there’s been speculation that you were faking the severity of your injuries in order to garner public sympathy and an endorsement deal. Care to comment?”

  “That’s a lie Mari String made up to try to get her FIFA suspension reversed,” Lainey spit out, slapping her palm on the table and losing her cool. It had taken two weeks and a team of specialists poking and prodding every inch of her body before she could use the bathroom by herself, three months before she could even run a mile, and this woman who probably never so much as stubbed her toe accuses her of faking? All the excitement from the World Cup victory had faded long before Lainey was ready to entertain the idea of an endorsement deal. By the time she’d fully recovered, it was as though the victory had never even happened.

  The reporter’s plastic-perfect face faltered at Lainey’s outburst. “Well then, let’s turn to more important things. Frank Diavolo has personally asked me to unveil the new uniform in just a few minutes. Have you seen it yet?”

  “No.” Lainey rubbed her temples. She could feel the beginning of a migraine coming on with each increasingly banal question. She knew Frank was courting Channel 7 for sponsorship, but the antics and hoops they needed to jump through were getting ridiculous.

  “Well, no time like the present.” The reporter’s high-pitched voice was the audible equivalent of a smiley face on crack. Grace walked up to the stage, then turned to her cameraman and fluffed her overly teased blond bob. “Good evening, Seattleites, I’m Grace Mallery with Channel 7 News, where serious news and serious fun come together! Buzz is building in anticipation of the American Women’s Soccer League inaugural game on May fifteenth right here in Seattle. Tonight I have the distinct honor of unveiling the Seattle Falcons’ new uniforms.”

  Frank motioned to an assistant weaving her way toward the stage, carrying a teal shirt with black piping.

  Okay. Teal wasn’t great, but it could’ve been worse. Lainey could handle teal—it was better than the animal-print monstrosity the Miami Zebras were being forced to wear.

  Grace eased the oversize jersey over her head, then defiled it by tying a knot at the side until the rayon clung to her surgically enhanced chest. Instinctively Lainey glanced at the doorway. Gabe and the rest of his teammates that had joined him in the peanut gallery were certainly enjoying the show.

  “Ms. Lukas, as team captain for the Falcons, what do you think of the logo?” Grace rotated her torso from side to side, no doubt giving all the men in the room whiplash.

  Lainey shot a quick glance to the giant falcon in mid-flight stretched exaggeratedly across the fabric. “Uh, I like the blood dripping from the claws.”

  Grace giggled. “Oh, that’s not blood. That’s nail polish, silly. Your jersey sponsor is SassyGirl Cosmetics!”

  Gabe’s gut-busting laughter echoed through the room, stealing Lainey’s chance to comment, which was probably for the best, since she had nothing to say that would fall within Frank’s preapproved commentary.

  “Gabe ‘Hometown Hero’ Havelak! Why don’t you come up here for a closer look?” Grace preened in his direction. Dozens of camera flashes went off as he took a step farther into the room. “Do you have any comments on the new Falcons jerseys?”

  He flashed his media-winning smile. “Well, I’m rather partial to the Surge’s blue and white, but I’m sure the Falcons will do these jerseys proud.”

  “How about your thoughts on the Falcons’ prospects this season?”

  Before Lainey realized what was happening, Gabe was being ushered up to the stage while the assistant fetched a black folding chair and set it next to her seat. Lainey kept a neutral expression despite her heartbeat speeding up like a jackhammer. He was a legend in the US soccer scene—beloved by all of Seattle for being the golden boy who gave up a lucrative career in La Liga to play for his hometown. But Lainey had long ago decided she needed to stop idolizing great players and focus on becoming one. Today she was here as Gabe’s equal. This was her press conference. She refused to be distracted by him or anyone else.

  She forced herself to stare straight ahead and ignore the tingle bursting along her skin as Gabe settled into his chair. Unfortunately, averting her gaze wasn’t enough to stop the mix of anxiety and excitement from swirling in her stomach. He was the kind of man who could ignite all her senses equally. Even in the sweaty practice gear, he smelled amazing. Raw and masculine. He probably tasted even better . . .

  Where the hell did that come from?

  His knee brushed against her thigh under the table, sending an electric shock ripping through her.

  “Whoops, sorry about that. Little crowded up here,” he whispered, letting his leg rest against hers.

  “You could say that,” she whispered back, feeling her frustration deepen. This press conference was supposed to be increasing ticket sales for the Falcons, not the Surge. The first game was next week’s preseason match against the Memphis Belles. They needed to fill at least a third of the seats to appease the owner. The last thing Lainey needed right now was Gabe Havelak stealing her thunder. She might hate the media circus, but her determination to succeed was unparalleled. She could do this. She would do this. The country bumpkin from Nowheresville, Nebraska, who became the world’s top female soccer player could manage a little discomfort to achieve her dream of playing pro.

  “The Falcons have put together a strong lineup, but I think we’re all interested in seeing whether they can place higher than fourth.” He directed his response at the press but gave her a wink to let her know he hadn’t forgotten her little jab earlier.

  Lainey placed her hand over her microphone. “Can’t you go find your own press conference?”

  “Why would I when this one is so much fun? Consider this your ‘welcome to the franchise.’ ” He shifted in his seat, letting his thigh brush against hers. “Besides, you needed some help up here.”

  “I don’t need any help.” How could one man possibly need so much legroom? She was already squeezing her thighs together, but no matter how much she shifted over, his leg kept touching hers. She inhaled deeply before turning her attention back to the reporters. “The Falcons’ first preseason game is—”

  “Gabe! Gabe! Can you tell us what it’s like to be Seattle’s hometown hero?” a young reporter shouted eagerly.

  “You sure about that?” Gabe whispered to Lainey. The easy grin never left his face. “It feels great. It’s a huge honor to feel the support of my hometown every time I step on the field. I love this city. Seattle has the greatest sports fans in the world, and the Surge wouldn’t be the team it is without all of you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Lainey muttered. She may not be Seattle homegrown, but she was determined to play her heart out for her fans—if the Falcons could get any. All she wanted was a chance to prove to this city that she and her teammates deserved to be here.

  A
scowling reporter interrupted her thoughts with a phlegm-filled cough. “Ahem. I’m Jim Green with the Seattle Straight. Ms. Lukas, we already know women’s soccer is sexy, but during the final game of this year’s World Cup, you showed the world that women’s soccer can be bloody, too. Our readers want to know if you plan to bring the same level of bloodthirsty hunger for goals and violence to the league?”

  “Oh man, this should be good,” Gabe said under his breath just as Lainey stood up to give the obnoxious reporter a piece of her mind.

  Before she could speak, Frank clapped a hand on her shoulder and forced her back to her seat. She cleared her throat. “No comment.”

  She wasn’t going to give Gabe, who was failing to stifle a laugh, the satisfaction of witnessing her lose her cool. Again. Instead, she channeled all her annoyance and frustration into a glare in his direction.

  He mimed zipping his lips shut. She gave a satisfied nod and relaxed back into her chair.

  “Why don’t we run the clip of the infamous incident? Maybe it’ll loosen your tongue,” Green insisted.

  In the far corner, a video played on a huge screen. Thirty-six seconds left in stoppage time. Lainey takes off at a sprint toward the goal and launches herself at the ball coming in a low drive across the net. Her diving header connects a millisecond before String’s cleat blasts into her face, knocking her out cold. The audible crack of her skull is amplified by the microphones throughout the entire stadium, and Lainey lies motionless.

  Lainey closed her eyes, feeling like her guts had just been ripped out and put on display. It was the first time she’d seen the footage. The pain, the fear, the excruciating disappointment of missing the biggest moment of her career flooded back. This whole day was overwhelming. She belonged on the field, not in front of the cameras like some Hollywood actress.

  “Do you have any comments on Lainey’s goal?” Grace Mallery purred in Gabe’s direction, who looked perfectly relaxed, leaning back with his chair balanced on its hind legs like the cool kid in junior high.

  “I think the goal speaks for itself. It was the most beautiful sequence of soccer I’ve ever seen. Why don’t we get a photo of Lukas and me on the field instead?” he suggested with a wink. A symphony of cameras flashed in his direction. He rewarded them with his trademark grin. “What do you say, Lukas? Want to get your first feel for Chester Stadium?”

  Any chance of saying no was drowned out by the cajoling of the reporters urging her onto the field. She rose from the table, clenching her fists, and followed him offstage.

  Hometown Hero, my ass. More like Hometown Ego. This was her press conference, and now Gabe was stealing all the attention away from the Falcons. The Surge already had every advantage over her team: a five-man coaching staff, a full crew of physiotherapists and trainers, a salary cap a dozen times higher, and the adoration of tens of thousands of fans. But it wasn’t just about resources. Gabe had some sort of mystical power over the media and, if she was being honest, over her, too. If she had just a fraction of his charm, the Falcons might have secured a broadcast deal ages ago.

  She hobbled down the dark concrete corridor leading to the field, wishing that her first time walking through these hallowed halls was not in borrowed, too-small, three-inch heels. She heard a flash of cameras behind her. Discreetly, she reached her hand behind her to smooth her skirt.

  Yep. Butt sweat.

  With a deep breath, Lainey stepped out into the heart of Chester Stadium. The delicious smell of fresh grass filled her nose and wiped away her fears and doubts. The stands wrapped around the field like loving arms, goalposts rising mightily like David Beckham’s finely sculpted legs. So what if this wasn’t how she pictured her first time? There may not have been adoring fans packing the stands and screaming her name, but then again, that shit really only happened in bad sports movies. At least she was out of the pressroom, which would from here on out be referred to as the asshole of Chester Stadium.

  “Hey.” A hand pressed softly into her back. It was an innocent touch, but it was enough to send Lainey tumbling forward on her death stilts. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her upright before she kissed the dirt.

  Lainey clutched those arms—those nice, muscular arms—to steady herself. She twisted around, discovering that those arms were attached to an equally appealing chest. She inhaled the rich, male scent enveloping her and let her gaze travel up to his face to see if it matched the fantasy crafted in her mind.

  “You!” She tried to disentangle herself, but Gabe’s lazy smile said he was more than comfortable to hang on a little longer.

  “I thought you might like an excuse to get out of that pressroom.”

  She tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled his ear toward her lips. “I don’t need you to rescue me from anything. Got it?”

  Flash. Flash. Flash.

  Dozens of cameras captured the moment.

  A picture is worth a thousand lies, Lainey thought with dread. She righted herself and tried to project an aura of competence and respectability.

  “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. That’s media lesson one-oh-one,” Gabe whispered to her, standing uncomfortably close.

  “I am smiling,” she whispered back through gritted teeth.

  “That’s a snarl, not a smile. No need to be nervous; there’s only a dozen or so reporters here and none from any of the national networks. Just relax and enjoy it,” he added, striking a ridiculous pose for the cameras like he had just scored a goal. “Plus, we make a good-looking couple, don’t you think?”

  “Quit photo-bombing my press conference!” The only thing a photograph of Lainey in dress clothes next to a muddy, geared-up Gabe Havelak would accomplish is convincing the public that men were the real athletes. “I’m not here to look beautiful. I’m here to sell tickets, and no one is going to take me seriously dressed like a tax accountant when you’re all suited up in your practice gear.”

  “Waitress,” Gabe whispered back, making her realize her voice had elevated to a shout in her last tirade.

  “What?”

  “You look like a waitress, not a tax accountant. But a hot waitress.”

  Lainey grunted in frustration, pushed herself from his grip, and carefully stepped as far away from him as she could manage—which wasn’t very far at all considering her heels kept sinking into the grass. She said a silent prayer for redemption to the soccer gods. Destroying beautiful sod was as grave an offense as blowing a penalty shot over the crossbar.

  “Just remind them that the tickets for the women’s league are much cheaper than ours,” Gabe whispered earnestly as Lainey stumbled away, clenching her fists.

  2

  And what a field it is, folks. Twenty-six-thousand-seat capacity. John Chester was passionate about soccer, and it shows in this construction. Little-known fact: he played in England’s Football League Second Division in the 1940s before starting Chester Pharmacies. Unfortunately, John Chester passed away before the inaugural game in 1996.

  —Behind the Surge: A Documentary of Seattle’s First Professional Soccer Team

  STANDING AT THE EDGE of the field, Gabe watched Lainey fidget uncomfortably in her button-up shirt. He’d never seen her out of uniform. And when she was on the field, it was hard to notice anything beyond her uncanny ability to find the back of the net from any angle. But even in the ill-fitting dress-up clothes she was a knockout. Mile-long legs and an impossibly cute girl-next-door face, complete with a smattering of freckles and warm brown eyes.

  A handful of Gabe’s teammates emerged from behind the crowd of reporters to join him on the field. None of them had been able to resist the opportunity earlier to sneak past the pressroom on their way to the showers to find out more about the women with whom they’d soon be sharing Chester Stadium.

  “So that’s your star player, Americano? Meh. In Brazil our athletes are sexy. Strong. Dynamic. She looks like a waitress,” his teammate Zazu said.

  “Yeah, but a pretty waitress. The kind that keeps y
ou coming back every day even though the coffee’s weak and the food is stale.” Gabe had been a fan of Lukas’s since she first burst onto the scene out of nowhere during last year’s Women’s World Cup. It wasn’t just her looks that had him riveted. It was the passion that was blazing out of her, like an aura. It had been a long time since he could remember feeling that kind of fiery enthusiasm for the game. Lainey Lukas was without a doubt the most exciting female soccer player in recent history, but she might also be the world’s worst interviewee. He almost felt bad for her, but that little dig at the Surge’s prospects of winning this season had stung.

  “Pretty? Let me see. Damn, she could serve me all night long.” Gabe knocked Johnny Darling’s hand off his shoulder. The nineteen-year-old up-and-comer played with a finesse beyond his years, but he had the libido and maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. “You gonna tap that, Gabe? Send a little ‘Hometown Hero’ charm her way?”

  Gabe smacked Johnny on the back of the head but smiled inwardly. His reputation with the ladies was exaggerated, but he wasn’t about to correct anyone who thought otherwise. Not when that reputation fueled a series of lucrative promotional gigs.

  “Why does she keep touching her hair?” Zazu asked with curiosity.

  Gabe didn’t answer, but he knew. Years of cultivating his own media persona made him extra perceptive of people’s on-camera quirks and fidgets. Every time she absentmindedly tucked a wayward brown lock behind her right ear, she quickly untucked it, letting it hang down in front of her eye. She was covering the infamous scar that the media was clamoring to get a close-up of. How could no one else but him understand what really happened that day? The entire soccer world had come to a standstill at that moment. No one cheered when the final whistle blew. The stadium was hauntingly quiet as everyone held their breath, wondering if the star of the tournament, who had just scored the most spectacular goal, would be okay. It was one of the darkest clouds to hover over an international sporting event, and now, more than six months later, it was still marring Lukas’s career.