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strained and relaxed as he moved. To the little drops traveling down his chest,
across those glorious pecs. To how my blood seemed to simmer and swirl
every time our gazes met.
So, yeah, I felt icky and bothered and hot. In no particular order.
And yet, somehow, Team Bride had still scored as many goals as the
guys. Baffling really, but what did I know? I had been too busy, ogling my
flawless, glistening fake boyfriend.
Gonzalo’s voice boomed across the field, all the way to where I was.
“Vamos! They cannot win this!” He accompanied each of his words with an
aggressive clap. “Five minutes! We’ve got five minutes, guys! We need to
win this shit!”
As the men regrouped on their side of the field, I noticed how Daniel
approached Gonzalo and Aaron, gesturing with his hands and pointing at our
goal.
“Madre mía,” Isabel said from her position as our goalie, a few steps
behind me. “I think they are making strategic changes. This doesn’t look
good, hermanita.”
As I took in the men’s motions and consequent change in positions, my
sister’s suspicions were confirmed.
“We are screwed, Isa,” I assessed without turning to her. “They are
switching Aaron to the front. They are using him as a striker.”
“Mierda. Clark Kent is going to be the one attacking?” My sister came to
my side and narrowed her eyes in the direction of our opponents. “Quick,
take off your shirt too. That will distract him.”
I scoffed. “What? No.”
“But, Lina—”
“I’m not taking my shirt off. What the hell are you talking about?”
“But your bubbies will distract your boyfriend.”
“They won’t, trust me.” Realizing what I’d said was not exactly
girlfriend-like, I explained, “He’s already seen all there is to see. So, forget
it.”
“Then, dance or wiggle. Do whatever rocks his boat.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “No.”
“Fine. Then, we are going down.”
“Not without a fight,” I assured her and then brought my hands to my
mouth and proceeded to do the same with the rest of the team. “Vamos,
chicas! Todavía podemos ganar!”