Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Read online

  I nodded, feeling happy for my mother. "That would be amazing."

  "Good." Henri settled back in his seat, folding his hands. "Now what about you?"

  I shook my head. "There is nothing to discuss."

  "Trace Johnson."

  "Does not want anything to do with me."

  "Do you love him?"

  "Does it even matter?" I dropped my head into my hands, angry that the pain in my heart hadn't lessened over the weeks since I'd seen Trace, but had just become a dull constant ache.

  "Yes."

  I looked up at Henri. "Why?"

  "I want to see you happy."

  "That's kind of you," I told him. "But Trace and I haven't spoken since he sent me away. There is no hope there."

  "If he were to come back, what would you do?"

  I blew out a harsh breath. "It doesn't matter. He won't. He's winning games now, proving he's better without me."

  Henri lifted an eyebrow. "But if he came back would you speak to him?"

  I stood up, unable to continue the conversation. "I suppose," I said, dropping the words behind me as I went back to moving bottles.

  "That's good." He touched my shoulder and forced me to meet his eye again. “I hate seeing you sad. But we do have American Thanksgiving to look forward to, non?”

  I smiled, not wanting to bring Henri down.

  “I’m going to talk to Chloe about the dinner, okay?” Henri went to talk to Chloe about the Thanksgiving dinner she was arranging, and I guessed he was probably letting her know we'd need to add one more place at the table, since Emile would be joining us. I wondered idly what Trace and his sister would do for Thanksgiving, since I knew they had no family. It would be after the next game, and if the Sharks won, there was a chance they would be on the road during the holiday. I'd tried to ignore the schedule altogether, but had found myself searching online for stats and brackets, and had spent more time than I wanted to admit to anyone admiring Trace's team photos.

  I missed him, but I wasn’t sure if I deserved to. I’d dragged him into my complicated life, potentially caused him to lose games and focus. Part of me wanted to text him, to wish him good luck in the final games, but I didn't. If he believed I was bad luck and if he was winning now that we were apart, I couldn't ruin that for him.

  * * *

  That weekend Emile arrived, and whatever needed to transpire between Maman and him must have been easily done, because when I went to dinner Sunday, they were holding hands and smiling at one another. So much for love being something to be avoided at all costs. I was happy for my mother, but my heart ached for me.

  Henri suggested we watch the playoff game between the Sharks and DC, which was in the second half when I arrived, and I didn’t feel like I could tell them we couldn’t. How could I tell them that watching Trace, even on the television, even at a distance, made my heart leap hopefully?

  But as the game drew to a close, the scoreboard showing the Sharks one point behind, I found myself just as invested as the others in the room. More.

  “No!” I cried as yet another drive by Trace’s friend and teammate Fernando was blocked near the other team’s goal. And I watched in horror as they drove toward Trace’s goal box and took a shot, sending him flying to block the ball but missing as it sailed just between his hand and the corner of the box.

  “Oh God,” I breathed, my stomach clenching. Poor Trace. I knew he would blame himself, knew he would be miserable. The game ended, and Henri told me that was the end for the Sharks, that they wouldn’t progress further in the tournament.

  “This is the farthest they’ve ever made it,” he told me. I hoped Trace would be able to be pleased and proud about how well they'd done, how far they'd managed to go.

  That night before I went home, my mother pulled me aside.

  "Cherie, I owe you an apology."

  Maman did not apologize. I froze, uncertain what to expect. "For what?"

  "For interfering in your life. For trying to force you into a relationship with Henri, for deceiving you. And for whatever part I played in breaking your engagement to Trace Johnson." She wrung her hands at her waist, dropping my gaze. “I should not have meddled.”

  All the anger and heartbreak and pain I felt melded in my chest like a fire. “No. You shouldn’t have. But it’s too late for apologies.” Anger turned to cutting pain inside me as I thought about Trace, about how I would have liked to have been there tonight to cheer for him, to console him after the loss. But because of Maman’s interference, I wasn’t.

  “I understand,” she said, her eyes dark and deep as she looked into mine. “But I don’t want you to live by my words. I was wrong. I have been wrong about so many things.”

  My anger ebbed, replaced by an exhausted acceptance of the shredded state of my heart. I shrugged. "It doesn't matter now, Maman. And I think maybe you were right about some things."

  "Not about love," she said firmly, meeting my gaze. "I was hurt and scared. And I was wrong."

  I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure it mattered anymore. I was tired, and had been for weeks. And all I wanted was to go home. It was a short week, thanks to the Thanksgiving holiday, and I needed to figure out how to make something called "dressing," which Chloe had said Adam insisted was necessary with the turkey for dinner. I had done a quick search, and it seemed to be made with bread, and therefore was unlike any salad dressing I'd had before. I would need to do some research in order to get it right.

  "Maman, I forgive you. But I'm tired. And I have to make some kind of salad dressing this week that is very complicated, I think. Some kind of American tradition." I wasn’t sure if I really forgave her, but I didn’t want to talk anymore tonight.

  She nodded, her eyes wide and more understanding than I'd ever seen them. "All right," she said. Then she kissed me and sent me home.

  Chapter 40

  Poky and Painful Soup

  Trace

  Standing in the goal box as the final seconds ticked away at conference championships, understanding washed through me. We had lost. We would not go on to playoffs. This was the end of the season for the Sharks.

  Disappointment washed through me as the other team high-fived us, and darkness threatened to overtake my mind as we went back into the locker room, all of us quiet on the heels of the loss.

  However, for the first time in a long time, I accepted the loss, knowing it hadn't been my fault. If anything, I played one of the best games of my life. For once, it was only that the other team was better. And they deserved to go on to play for the cup.

  It was weird. We'd lost the game, but I didn't feel empty. I looked around at my teammates, and realized I was actually kind of eager for a little time off.

  "It was a spectacular season," Coach told us. "And each and every one of you should be proud. You've earned your time off. Go see your families, enjoy some turkey and pie, and get your butts back here after Christmas for practice. We've got games starting in January."

  "No rest for the wicked," Hammer called out, grinning.

  "You oughta know," Max told him.

  We were on the charter jet, heading home—and there wasn't a guy on the plane who wasn't enjoying the ease of charter travel. It's no secret that a lot of MLS teams fly commercial, and that was definitely true when Theo was the owner. But now that his ex was in charge, she chartered flights for our playoff games. There's something to be said for having a wealthy owner—and a woman, too.

  “Boys, there’s something we need to discuss before we land,” Coach Hendricks said as we were getting close to home. He stood and the assistant coach was behind him. Each of them had a bottle of champagne in both hands.

  “Coach, we lost. Did you miss that part?” Toofer called out.

  “No,” Coach said. “We made it to playoffs, and we impressed Marissa somehow.” ‘

  “What does that mean?” Max asked. “Impressing Marissa?”

  “It means,” Coach said, popping the cork on one of his bottles while he hand
ed the other to Hamish. “She’s not selling the team! We’ll pick up a few new players in the draft, but the roster doesn’t change. We’re safe!”

  Hamish popped the second cork and two more popped at the front of the plane. Soon, we were all sipping champagne and toasting one another. At least one thing was settled.

  As the big Durnish defender settled back in beside me, we bumped our glasses and drank.

  "What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Hamish?" I asked him. I knew he had something like ninety-three siblings, though he rarely talked about his royal family or his home. "Going home?"

  "Nay," he said, rubbing a hand over his dark beard. "The Durnish don't eat turkeys to celebrate treason. It's just another day for us."

  "You take the UK view of American freedom, I see," Max chimed in.

  "Truth be told, I don't give a shit about it," Hammer said. "But if one of you wanted to invite me over to feast with you, I'll wear the feckin' flag and sing Yankee Doodle all day long." He grinned at us, and Max chuckled.

  "It's not going to be a big deal at our place—just me and my sister, her boyfriend and my mom."

  "And I'm planning to baste myself in gravy and soak in a tub of cranberries. Alone," I said.

  "Not a chance," Fuerte chimed in. "Mama's expecting you, Trace. Hammer, you can come too."

  Because spending the day with Erica's future mother-in-law was exactly what I wanted. I guessed it was better than nothing. In the past, Erica and I had done our best to ignore any holidays that screamed of big family gatherings, since we had no family at all. But this year, she was excited to join Fuerte's family, and I was . . . less excited.

  I was trying hard not to think about Magalie, to wonder what she would do for the holiday. In a way, she was as alone as I was. Unless her mother and Henri were still here. And she did have Adam and Chloe. So she was better off than I was, actually.

  Now that the season was over, part of me wanted to close the circle with her. I'd walked away in a swirl of confusion and fear, not to mention the enormous pressure of trying to save my career. I'd thought I would just forget her, that the feelings I had would sink to the bottom of all the others as I focused on the things that mattered to me. But they didn't sink. Those sharp-edged feelings bobbed at the top of the murky Trace feeling-soup inside me, and I needed to do something about them. They were poky and painful.

  "That's too bad," Hamish said to Fuerte. "I was going to join Trace in his hot tub of gravy. That sounds like a food challenge to beat all others."

  "Might not be good for the hot tub," I said, contemplating the realities of the proposed challenge. It was a good distraction from the other thoughts fighting for center stage in my head.

  As we got off the plane, Fuerte fell into step next to me. "Let me know about Thanksgiving, man. I don't want to force you. Talk to Erica, maybe."

  "Yeah," I said, glad to have friends who cared enough to invite me at all. "Thanks, I will. I'll let you know. I appreciate being included though, please let your Mama know that." Fuerte's mother had included Erica and me in Sunday dinners since Fuerte and my sister had been dating, and while I didn't always make it, when I did, it was good. Her place was warm and comfortable, and seeing Fuerte with his tiny mom gave me a new view of the guy. And seeing my sister so happy was the best.

  As I headed home, I pondered how to approach the lingering feelings and doubts I had about Magalie. She hadn't reached out, so maybe it would be an intrusion for me to contact her. But maybe I could find out how she was doing, just reassure myself that I'd done the right thing. Once I was home and before I could think too much more about it, I dialed the number Adam had given me. We weren't close—we weren't even friends, really—but he'd said if I ever needed anything, I should call.

  "Hello?" Adam answered on the third ring, just when I'd had time to second-guess my decision.

  I leaned forward on my couch, my body suddenly on alert, still undecided if this was the right thing to do. "Yeah, hey. Hi Adam."

  Moron.

  "Hi," he sounded confused.

  "Sorry, yeah. It's Trace. Johnson."

  He laughed. "I only know one Trace. What can I do for you? Awesome game today, by the way. I'm so sorry to see it end, but it wasn't because you guys didn't play your hearts out."

  I wondered if Magalie had watched the game with him. "Thanks for that. Yeah, it was a tough loss. But . . . listen . . ."

  He waited, saying nothing.

  "This is a little weird, I mean . . . I probably shouldn't be calling you. Or calling at all. But I just . . . I keep thinking about Magalie. Is she . . . I mean . . ."

  "Yeah." His voice took on a harder edge, and I sensed some defensiveness there. "You kind of did a number on her when you left."

  That wasn't what I wanted to hear. Guilt pooled inside me. "But now. I mean, it's been a while."

  "I think when you really care about someone it takes more than a while to recover." Still the toneless voice, the veiled anger. "On the plus side, the back rooms at the winery are more organized than ever before."

  "Oh." I took a breath, my mind spinning, feeling like I needed to fix this. "Do you think . . ." God, I couldn't find the words. "The thing is . . . maybe I made a mistake."

  "Yep."

  "Do you think if I—?"

  "Look," Adam interrupted. "I care about Magalie. And I know you guys didn't know each other long, but I think she really cares about you too. And she's not doing well since you split up." He took a breath. "Trace, you don't have to propose. I mean, that was stupid in the first place. But if you wanted to see her again, maybe give it another chance—"

  It was my turn to interrupt. That was what I wanted to hear. "Yeah."

  "I'm not going to say anything to her, okay? But we're having her and her mother and Henri for Thanksgiving this week, and—"

  "Her mother is still here?" A little spike of fear went through me. I’d been afraid of lots of things—zombies, vampires, spiders—but Mrs. Caron was the most fucking terrifying thing I’d ever encountered.

  Adam chuckled. "Yeah. But she's a little different than before."

  "What?" What does that mean?" Like she’d grown more limbs? Or morphed into an actual deathly spider?

  "Trace, man. I have all kinds of respect for you as a soccer player. You're kind of my hero, dude, and I don't say that lightly. But when it comes to Magalie, she's starting to feel like family, and I'm still pissed at you about the way that all went down. So if you want to come to Thanksgiving and try to make things right, then come. But no drama and if you make her cry again, I might kill you. Or try. Three o'clock. We're doing it at the winery."

  I thought about that, how things could go wrong if she didn't want to try again. "But if she's not interested, it'll ruin your evening."

  "Nah. And I wouldn't invite you if I didn't think she'd want to see you." A flare of hope erupted in my chest at that.

  "Okay," I said slowly, and then my mind went back to the conversation with Hammer. "So this is definitely pushing, but there's another player, Hammer, who—"

  "Are you kidding? Bring him! Bring the whole team if you want. I'd love that."

  I was less sure that Chloe and Magalie would love that, but I thanked Adam and hung up. I had a lot to think about, and only a couple days to do it.

  First, I needed to make sure Erica wouldn't be mad if I didn't spend Thanksgiving with her.

  Chapter 41

  Pilgrim's Pride

  Magalie

  Thanksgiving was not something I was especially excited about. Though I was interested in learning more about the country in which I was living, a holiday built around eating as much as possible didn't make sense to me.

  "It's not really about the food," Adam was trying to explain.

  "But everything I read about it talks about the food more than anything else," I said. "And pilgrims. Sometimes they talk about pilgrims."

  "We don't do a lot of pilgrim stuff at our dinner," he said. "But maybe I'll dress up like one if that w
ill add to the ambiance for you."

  "Please," I said, grinning at him over the tasting counter.

  "Just be sure you're all here by two-thirty or so."

  "It's so early for dinner," I said, anticipating my mother's response. Though my mother had been less predictable since Emile had shown up and told her he loved her. She'd softened, and now I found her smiling often and sometimes staring off into space. Or into Emile's eyes. It was a little unnerving. It turned out their arrangement had been based on many things, but love had been one of them—it had just taken them a while to discover it. I was happy for her.

  "Well, that's so that you can eat at least twice," Adam explained.

  "Oh my God."

  "Trust me. It'll be a good day. We'll watch American football, eat, drink and just be together."

  I took the information back to Henri, Maman and Emile that night, and we laughed about the strange tradition we were going to witness.

  A little pang of loneliness echoed through me, and I couldn't help but think of the American man I wished I would be spending the day with. I wondered what Trace and his sister did for the holiday. I knew he was finished with his soccer season, and wondered what he was doing, and if he ever thought about me.

  * * *

  Thursday dawned sunny and bright, and there was a tiny undercurrent of something in the air that hinted at fall.

  "We don't really have fall in San Diego," Chloe told me as we arrived at the winery and I remarked on the weather. "More like a cooler version of summer." She pressed sparkling wine mixed with cranberry into our hands and smiled broadly at us. "Welcome. We're so glad you could come celebrate with us."

  We'd been greeted on the patio, but we entered the tasting room through the arched doors to find it had been transformed. A huge television sat in one corner, surrounded by two couches and lots of chairs. At the other end of the open space was a long table, festooned with orange and gold leaves, and draped in a white tablecloth. There were place settings for more people than I thought were necessary. We were only six, but there were settings for at least four more. I shook my head, maybe this was part of the tradition.