WITH MOST OF GABE’S SOCIAL MEDIA UNDER CONTROL, I GO back to regular intern duties: research, fetch someone coffee, make copies, get someone else coffee, go through tabloids with Katie, make more coffee. Mara seems to have forgotten that she hates me and is soaking up the praise for some clever copy she wrote for a press release. I go out to dinner with Katie on Wednesday night, take Watford for a long walk in the park, and go back to the Lily Pond to enjoy the peace and quiet there.
The piano video hit two million views just after lunch Thursday, and it looks like the cooking lesson with Maria will be a close second. I’ve got to figure out our next big thing.
I mean Gabe’s next big thing. Not ours. There’s no our. He only invited me to the game so I could get more footage. Probably. I think. He didn’t exactly clarify in the dozens of slightly flirtatious work-related texts.
By the time I’m picking out my outfit for the game, I’m weirdly anxious to see him face-to-face. I guess it’s because we’re friends now. My friend is going to play soccer tonight. I want my friend to do well.
My friend is super hot and sometimes when we’re together I forget my own name.
Scratch that. Gabe is a client and we have a good working relationship.
Good. Working. Relationship.
I ride the red line out to Soldier Field, then walk the last twenty minutes, planning to get my ticket and sit in a quiet corner, hopefully unnoticed, of the Media Deck. It’s an open area with a great view of the field, and a perfect place to get some footage for Gabe’s feeds. Lots of rich folks and big companies impress their guests with these seats, but it’s also where all the coaches’ and players’ wives and girlfriends hang out. I wanted to wear a hat, but Emma gave that a hard no. She wanted me to wear a Fortunato jersey, but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Instead, I chose a simple white peasant top with ruffled sleeves and the one pair of jeans I own that fit me perfectly. I think it’s a pretty casual combination, but not too casual.
Once I enter the suite, I realize I’ve hit the perfect note. There are middle-aged white dudes in khaki cargos and polo shirts, a handful of professional-looking younger people in office attire, and some beautiful women either in sundresses or jerseys and jeans. Em said that WAGs—wives and girlfriends of the players—would cover the fashion spectrum throughout the season.
Not that I fall into that category by any means.
I take a seat in a leather chair in the far corner and drop my purse in the chair next to me, hoping people will think it’s occupied. There’s a big flat-screen hanging just a few feet from me, so I see the game better than I can over the railing. My purse trick works because I’m left in my corner all by myself.
Just like every other soccer game I’ve ever watched, both the home and opposing teams walk onto the field holding the hands of little kids from local soccer programs. Gabe is paired with a girl with the cutest pom-pom pigtails. She looks up at him with undisguised devotion. He boops her on the nose, and she laughs and hugs his leg.
I remember worshipping a soccer player like that once. Back when The Cheating Bastard was still Uncle Geoff and played for the English National team, they held a friendly match here in Chicago. He must have pulled all the strings because we had seats almost on the field. We met Geoff after, and he gave me a game jersey that smelled like grass and sweat, but I wore it anyway because I was eight or nine and he was my hero. He and Emma had rented a big cabin in Michigan, and we spent the rest of the week there, riding Jet Skis, fishing, and having the best vacation of my life.
It makes me feel horrible, but sometimes I think it would have been easier if he’d left Aunt Emma a widow. It’s not that Uncle Geoff should be dead by any means—he doesn’t deserve that—but then I could mourn the man I imagined him being instead of missing the man I thought he was.
The first half of the game is ugly. Seb blocks seven shots on goal, but two sneak past him, and our offense can’t get anything going. Our players make stupid passes and don’t clear the ball from the box. Gabe gets slide tackled and jumps to his feet, clearly pissed that it didn’t draw a card.
“That’s a yellow,” I say half to myself and half to the ref who can’t possibly hear me. “Come on! Book him!” I’m not the only person yelling at the field, so I don’t feel ridiculous that I’ve gotten sucked into the game.
By halftime, the Media Deck is filling up. People are leaning against the railing and sitting in every chair, except the one next to me. A woman I know I’ve seen somewhere sits next to my purse. She gives me a little wave, and I smile back.
The team returns after halftime with a new attack and looking fresh. Gabe is keyed in. His footwork is so fast that no one can keep up with him. He intercepts passes meant for the opposition, and he always seems to be in the right place at the right time. But despite everything, he can’t get a clean shot.
My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw in anxiety. Just before my molars are ground to nubs, he manages to punch one over the goalie’s head. I jump to my feet, cheering out loud.
The woman beside me is on her feet too and gives me a double high five. “Are you here for Gabe?”
“Oh no! I mean, yes, but not like in a romantic sense or anything. I work on his social media stuff. Actually, I’m an intern for his publicist. So I just follow directions.”
Nicely handled. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Why can’t I use Gabe’s favorite communication method and shrug my way through life?
She laughs. “I’m Blanca. Seb’s girlfriend.” She waves toward the goal. “You’re Maddie?”
Oh my gosh, why does Seb’s girlfriend know my name?
“Don’t look so shocked. We had Gabe over for dinner last week and he said nice things about you. He mentioned you’d be here today. I’m glad someone is here to see him play. He’s had a rough go of it after the World Cup and all.”
“Yeah, I bet.” My happiness that Gabe talked about me fades. He’s a world-class talent, and his family never watches him play. Not even his sister, who lives here.
It’s the eighty-eighth minute, and we’re still down by one, when Gabe gets a long pass that’s just barely onside. Watching him dribble down the field—even though I know it’s only a matter of seconds—stretches into a painful eternity before he shoots left-footed. It skids under the goalie’s glove.
I’m on my feet, Blanca’s holding my wrist, and we’re screaming together. “Two goals!” Fans bang their drums, yelling his name, as he slides on his knees into the corner. His teammates practically attack him, piling on to celebrate. As he gets to his feet, he faces the suite, kisses two fingers, and—it could be my imagination—points them right at me.
It’s ridiculous, but the little motion hits me like an arrow through the chest. I press my free hand to the spot just above my heart.
“You’re sure you’re not here in a romantic sense?” Blanca gives me a huge grin.
“I think it was to the crowd.”
“If you say so.”
I excuse myself to get a drink because I’d gotten so sucked into the game that I forgot to eat. Most everything has been cleaned up, but I manage to grab a water bottle. As I turn, I feel someone staring at me.
His forehead is wrinkled in confusion, like he’s trying to solve a math problem. I guess a2 + b2 = c2 because I see the solution pop into his eyes.
“Maddie?” he says, grin spreading across his face. “Is that you?”
I swallow the grit that’s suddenly filled my throat. “Hey, Uncle Geoff.”