Page 41 of Rumor Has It

Becky had done her best to not ask about Wren’s ex situation. Especially not after Wren had texted her earlier in the week that Andy had tried to get back with her. It wasn’t and couldn’t be any of Becky’s business. She had no claim to Wren. Andy and Wren had been together for over a year. She just had to accept that. She’d been so curious about all of it. Had they been sharing a bed? Had one of them been sleeping on the couch? Did they have a guest room? It wasn’t any of her business. Katie had talked her down more than once this week.

Wren made a face that bordered on nauseous, but she shook her head. “Nah, honestly. She’s either been throwing parties in the living room, very obviously trying to piss me off and trash the place simultaneously, or she’s been passed out on the couch. So, not really. I expect a trashed apartment, maybe some missing clothes, and probably a passive aggressive note stuck to the fridge when I make it back tomorrow night.”

“Wait. That’s awful,” Becky was outraged. She almost offered to fly back with Wren, if only to help clean up.

“Honestly, I just hope she locks the door when she leaves. Well, and I hope she’s gone.” Wren ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t pulled it back yet. It looked a bit wild from her slow, steady walking warm up.

Becky bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back all that she really wanted to say. “I hope she’s gone, too.” Her eyes widened when she realized that could be misconstrued. “I just mean, you shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

Wren grinned at her, those damn dimples digging in deep. “You gonna play nice today? Or should I ready the stretchers?” She teased, changing the subject, nodding at the field.

“Oh my God. Be less dramatic,” Becky said, scoffing.

“Me?” Wren asked, looking offended. “You know what? I’m going to not even dignify that with a response. The last thing I need is to piss you off before the game even starts.”

That got a giggle out of Becky. “Oh yeah? Scared Wrensington?”

“You wish,” Wren shot back, though her eyes decidedly caught on Becky’s mouth.

Becky lifted her chin, cockily. “Then I guess I’ll see you back out here to kick your ass.”

That stupid scarred eyebrow lifted. “Is that so?”

Shit, she was confident. It made Becky swallow nervously, and she absolutely hated that. “Yep.” Jesus, that was lame.

“Well, good luck then, Becky,” Wren said, holding her hand out for Becky to shake.

She did shake Wren’s hand, a little rougher than necessary. “I don’t need luck, but thanks anyway,” she shot back. She let go so she could do her best sashay away. She hoped Wren watched her go, but she never once turned around to check.

The last thing Becky had wanted to do in her first match against Wren, both professionally, and since their relationship had shifted to whatever it had become, was get a yellow card. Especially since her parents were somewhere in the stadium. The first half of their match had been the cleanest half of soccer Becky had ever played. It wasn’t until they were nearly thirty minutes deep into the second half that, well, things took a turn. Namely, Wren got sent the perfect ball from Courtney Sinclair, and Becky was about to lose a footrace. Wren one-on-one with a keeper, statistically speaking—because yes, Becky did have every single one of Wren’s stats memorized—would absolutely result in a goal for Wren, and all of Riptide, obviously. If Riptide went up now, Becky knew that it would almost guarantee them the win. It’s not that she didn’t believe in her team’s offense so much as she was really good at stats and knowing when fouls were worth it. She had really hoped this exact scenario wouldn’t present itself in tonight’s game. She had been hoping, near praying, that her team would take an early lead and that if Wren got the jump on her, she could eat her pride and let her go.

But as it was, Becky clenched her jaw, hoping this didn’t ruin anything between them, as she subtly—as subtly as possible that is—grabbed a fist full of the hem of Wren’s jersey and held on, ruining Wren’s momentum and giving herself the upper hand of balance.

This wasn’t their first rodeo. She knew Wren’s elbow would immediately shoot back at full force. There’d probably be some flailing, too, as Wren rightfully tried to draw attention to the fact that Becky was holding on to her jersey. Becky braced for the inevitable, but it never came. Instead of throwing her elbow, Wren let herself get ripped off course, sending them both to the ground. The center ref blew his whistle, stopping play. He jogged over with more than one harsh reprimand for Becky about jersey pulling and this being her one and only warning. But Becky barely registered his existence. She was too shocked that Wren hadn’t reacted in the same way that she had during all four of their years playing against each other.

“What the fuck, Rebecca?” Wren spat, literally, trying to get grass out of her mouth as they untangled themselves and got to their feet.

If this had been college, Becky would have rolled her eyes, or shrugged, or even laughed in the face of Wren’s justifiable outrage, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing that now. She winced, unsure of herself on a pitch for the first time in a decade. “It was strategically the best move,” she offered, giving Wren space to take the set kick.

She had to let it go. She couldn’t stay focused on Wren, on anything that one play might have broken or ruined between them. Wren would have to understand, right? Surely, she would get it. Becky couldn’t think about that now. Nor could she worry about her parents’ reactions either. She listened to her captain as she got lined up in a defensive wall in front of Wren.

Wren’s kick was obnoxiously perfect, arching at the exact right angle to find Courtney Sinclair’s head in the back of the penalty box. Fortunately, her team had practiced defending headers from Sinclair for the better part of two weeks. Her foul had been worth it, Riptide hadn’t scored, and her keeper was taking the in-bounds kick from the center of the keeper’s box.

Unfortunately, before she had a chance to properly apologize to Wren, one of Riptide’s defenders cleared the ball back over her head and another footrace was on. She was still gassed from the race she had just lost. Riptide’s midfield line had figured that out, and if they exploited it once, they would certainly do it again. Becky cut Wren’s angle off, slamming her shoulder into Wren’s, using the fact that she had at least twenty pounds on Wren to her advantage. What she hadn’t expected was for a pissed off Wren to regroup and charge back into her before she could get a clean, clearing kick off. The ball was knocked loose between them as they scrambled, tugging and shoving each other as they tried to gain possession.

She felt Wren’s hands tangle in her ponytail and yank, the force of it, spinning her off the ball. Wren got a pass off, finding someone open behind her. Becky didn’t care who. Who the hell pulls hair? She was pissed. “My hair? Really, Eames?”

“You started it,” Wren shot back, her voice laced with rage, her scarred eyebrow lifting as if to dare Becky to deny it.

“I made a smart play. I didn’t pull your fucking hair,” she spat back.

Becky would love to say that that was it. But it was unfortunately just the beginning. A few minutes later, Wren timed a run perfectly for a pass that until now, no one on Riptide had managed to make all season. Becky had to stop Wren before Wren reached the box. Unfortunately—for everyone involved—that meant a slide-tackle from what was technically behind.

Wren went down hard, thankfully outside of the box. The center referee, who had tolerated the last ten minutes more than most would, did not take to that slide too kindly. He sprinted towards Becky, blasting his whistle. His hand flew to his pocket. Becky had been on the receiving end of a yellow card more times than she could count. So, she wasn’t that worried about this one. As long as he didn’t pull a red, she’d be fine. She rolled to her feet, only barely watching the ref from the corner of her eye. As expected, he flashed a yellow. She nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Instead of worrying about him, her attention had already moved to Wren. The slide and the subsequent fall had been a bit more aggressive than she had intended.

She tried to get closer to help Wren up, but one of Wren’s midfielders got in her face, yelling. Becky had been called a dirty bitch before. She’d been called far worse than that, but hearing it now, in relation to Wren, made her pause. Her attention from Wren broke, long enough for her to lock eyes with Wren’s teammate. The woman looked absolutely livid. She was screaming at the ref for only throwing a yellow when Becky had slid in with her cleats up. But she hadn’t. Her cleats hadn’t been up. She’d come from a bad angle, yes. The yellow was warranted, yes. But she hadn’t been looking to cause injury, just to stop the play.

She sidestepped the other player and made it around to Wren. Wren was propped up on her elbows, a serious wince on her face. Turf rash had spread up Wren’s leg from just over her sock line up and under the hem of her shorts. It looked so painful. She had caused that. She bit her bottom lip and approached carefully. Riptide’s trainers were already jogging out to them.