Chapter 1: Champagne and Recognition
The champagne tasted like victory, which is to say it was sharp and sweet and it fizzed all the way down. The penthouse suite was a roar of backslaps, laughter, and the low thrum of a jazz trio fighting a losing battle against the din. Confetti from some forgotten pop of a bottle clung to Josh’s sweaty hair and the shoulders of his number nine jersey. He was still breathing hard, not from the match—that had ended hours ago—but from the sheer, relentless press of adoration.
A agent he vaguely recognized was monologuing about endorsement potential. Josh nodded, his smile automatic, his eyes scanning the room over the man’s shoulder. They moved across senators and pop stars, football legends and influencers, a kaleidoscope of manufactured beauty and power. Then they stopped.
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a still point in the turning world. The city’s neon glow painted her platinum hair in streaks of electric blue and hot pink. She held a champagne flute loosely, not drinking, just watching the spectacle like it was a mildly interesting nature documentary. She was stunning, but that wasn’t it. Everyone here was stunning. It was the quiet. The utter, composed quiet she wore like a second skin.
Their eyes met. No smile, just a slow, considering look. Then, almost imperceptibly, she raised her glass a half-inch in his direction.
The agent’s words became static. Josh excused himself with a pat on the arm, his path through the crowd suddenly clear. The noise seemed to pull back, muffled, as he walked. He was aware of people reaching for him, calling his name, but it all felt distant. His heart hammered against his ribs, a different rhythm from the penalty shoot-out. This was a new kind of pressure.
He stopped a few feet from her. Up close, she was more real. The striking blue eyes had fine, intelligent lines at the corners. Her fitted silver dress showed a physique that was clearly worked for—strong, defined, not just delicate.
“You look like you could use a real drink,” she said. Her voice was lower than he expected, smooth, with a hint of amusement. “Champagne gets sticky.”
“It does,” Josh said, finding his own voice. He gestured to his jersey. “I’m a bit underdressed.”
“I think you’ve earned the right to wear whatever you want tonight.” She took a small sip. “Congratulations. That last goal was beautiful. The control, the pause before you shot… it was very patient.”
He blinked. Most comments were about the power, the speed. Not the patience. “You know football.”
“I know a lot of things,” she said, turning slightly to look back out the window. “It’s a good party. Everyone seems very… happy for you.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She glanced back at him, a real smile touching her lips now. It changed her whole face, made her seem warmer, more present. “I am convinced they’re happy. I’m just not sure they all know why you’re here.”
“And why am I here?”
“To stand in a room that smells like rosewood and regret,” she said, her tone light but her eyes steady. “And to try to figure out if the high lasts.”
The directness was a cool splash of water. It was thrilling. “What’s your name?”
“Tru. Tru Kait.”
The name connected in his mind. He knew it. The recognition must have shown on his face for a fraction of a second.
Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shuttered slightly, a veil drawn. “Ah. There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The moment you place me. Don’t worry, it happens.” She said it easily, but he heard the practiced deflection.
“I wasn’t placing you anywhere,” Josh said, and meant it. He was trying to reconcile the woman from the brief, hazy clips he might have scrolled past with the woman in front of him, talking about the patience of a goal. “I was just… putting a name to the face. I’m Josh.”
“I know who you are, Josh. The whole world does tonight.” She tilted her head. “Does it feel strange? Being publicly owned like that?”
Another question no one ever asked. They asked how it felt to win, to hear the anthem, to hold the trophy. They never asked about the ownership. “Sometimes. Right now, it doesn’t feel so bad.”
The jazz trio swung into a slower, smoother number. The noise of the party swelled around them again, but it felt like they were in a bubble by the glass.
“You’re different than I expected,” he said.
Tru laughed, a genuine, rich sound. “That’s my line. You’re supposed to be diving into a pool of champagne with three models right now. The script is very clear on that.”
“The script’s boring. I’ve read it.” He leaned a shoulder against the cool glass. “What do you do when you’re not at parties for people you barely know?”
“I read. I box. I have a shockingly aggressive sourdough starter named Brutus.” She listed them off on her fingers, deadpan. “And I work. Quite a lot, actually.”
“What do you read?”
Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Testing me? Right now, it’s a biography of Catherine the Great. Last week it was a graphic novel about a depressed detective who’s also a dog. I have range.”
Josh grinned. “Favorite football team?”
“Besides the one that just won the World Cup? I have a soft spot for AFC Richmond.”
“Fictional.”
“Their storytelling is superior.” She finished her champagne. “See? Range.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the city. His teammate Marco lurched by with a bottle in each hand, shouting his name. Josh waved him off, his attention fixed on Tru’s reflection in the dark glass.
“This is the part,” she said quietly, not looking at him, “where you usually ask something else. Something about my ‘other’ job. Or you make a joke. Or you get nervous and walk away.”
“I’m not nervous,” Josh said. And he wasn’t. He was intrigued, completely. “And I don’t have a question about your job. I have one about you.”
“That’s more dangerous.”
“Do you want to get out of here?” The question left him before he could overthink it. “This party. The smell of rosewood and regret. All of it.”
Tru turned to face him fully, studying him. She was weighing him, measuring the question for authenticity. He held still, letting her look.
“And go where?” she finally asked.
“Anywhere that’s quiet. Where the script isn’t written yet. We could get a coffee. I could finally change my shirt.”
A genuine laugh escaped her again. “Coffee. The ultimate rebellious act for a World Cup champion. I like it.” She set her empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray. “But I have a better idea. There’s a twenty-four-hour bookshop downtown. The owner makes terrible espresso, but he has a first edition of The Great Gatsby he loves to show off. We could go annoy him.”
It was the last thing he expected. It was perfect. “Lead the way.”
As they moved toward the elevator, a path clearing for him as it always did, he felt a hand clap down on his shoulder. It was Liam, the team captain, his face flushed with joy and booze.
“Josh! Where are you off to? The night’s young, mate! We’re heading to–” Liam’s eyes landed on Tru, and his enthusiastic grin shifted into something broader, more knowing. He wiggled his eyebrows.
Josh felt Tru go very still beside him, that quiet shield snapping back into place. He saw the assumption click behind Liam’s eyes, the reduction of a complex, fascinating woman to a single, crude storybeat.
Before Liam could speak the thought aloud, Josh slid his arm around Tru’s shoulders, a casual, protective gesture. He met Liam’s gaze, his own friendly but firm. “We’re going to look at a book, Liam. I’ll catch up with you later.”
He guided Tru into the waiting elevator, the doors sighing shut on Liam’s confused, grinning face. The sudden quiet was immense. The elevator began its silent descent.
Tru didn’t shrug off his arm. She looked straight ahead at their reflection in the brass doors. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice soft.
“Yeah,” Josh said, letting his arm drop. “I did.”
She finally looked at him, the veiled caution still there, but beneath it, a spark of something new. Something like trust. The city rose up outside the glass elevator shaft, a million glittering possibilities in the dark.