My main and only source being just one.
One that I usually did a pretty good job at ignoring when we were in our real-world roles. Contrary to the roles we were currently playing, where I, as the girlfriend, was allowed to gawk. And where Aaron, as the boyfriend, was apparently allowed to look like a man shooting a Sports Illustrated cover.
Because that was exactly how a sweaty, shirtless Aaron looked, running across the green field after the ball.
And that was exactly where my two very shallow and very stupid eyes had been all the time. Following him around like two dumb bugs irremediably drawn by an irresistible light. And just like the bug, my eyes had no self-preservation instinct. By the end of the day, the images would be burned into my retinas, and there’d be no way I’d ever be able to get rid of them.
Hell, I already felt a little like a charred insect. Sweat was running down my back, and my skin was on fire from being under the sun. On top of that, my hunger had turned into starvation, and no matter how hard I tried to stay focused on the game, my attention always shifted to Aaron’s long legs, striding from one point to the next. To how the muscles across his torso 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!”
My words of encouragement were naive; there was no way we could still win the match. Not with Aaron striking. And certainly not if I flashed him, like Isabel had suggested.
Turning back to my sister, I pointed a finger at her. “Remember this moment when the losers, which no doubt will be us, are dancing for everyone tonight. Next time, if you want to bet and jeopardize my rep, pick quiz night. Not stupid soccer. Now, let’s try to finish this with as much dignity as we can.”
As I faced the other team, all the guys clicked into action. My gaze focused on the ball, passing from one player to the next, all of them leaving every Team Bride member helplessly behind. Soon enough, I was witnessing how the ball landed at Aaron’s feet, who, for his hulking size, moved with incredible agility and skill.
For someone who had never played soccer before, he had gotten the hang of it pretty damn fast.
Aaron’s looming figure approached me swiftly, eating away the distance. Way too quickly for my brain to order my limbs to kick into action.
Mierda.
In an attempt to stop him in any way I could that didn’t involve getting naked, I launched myself in his direction with the purpose of intercepting the ball. Or him. Anything would do. Unfortunately, that intent landed nowhere near where I’d expected. Just when I was about to reach him, my foot got caught in a little bump on the grass, causing me to trip and be catapulted forward.
So much for ending this with dignity.