The Gala

The Austin Rovers Gala is the same every year.

Crystal chandeliers reflecting off champagne flutes. Men in tuxedos discussing transfer fees like they invented soccer. Women in gowns pretending to care about midfield formations while eyeing the players across the room.

And me, standing at my father's side, smiling until my face aches.

"Carolina, you remember Bob Harrison from the corporate sponsors," Dad says, steering me toward another handshake. "Bob, my daughter runs our charitable foundation."

"Runs it beautifully," Bob says, his grip too firm, his eyes sliding over me like I'm part of the decor. "Richard, you must be so proud."

"Always." Dad's hand lands on my shoulder. Heavy. Possessive. "She's the best thing I ever did."

I smile. Nod. Make the appropriate sounds.

Twenty-six years of this. Twenty-six years of being Richard Ashford's daughter first and Carolina second. Twenty-six years of galas and handshakes and being told which conversations to have and which people to avoid.

Specifically: the players.

Every year, the same warning. "They're athletes, Carolina. They'll break your heart and move on to the next city. You're not for them."

I was fourteen the first time he said it. I'd been talking to a midfielder, innocent teenage crush, and Dad pulled me away like I'd been caught shoplifting. The lecture lasted two hours.

Now I'm twenty-six, and nothing has changed.

"Excuse me," I murmur to Bob Harrison. "I need to check on the silent auction."

Dad releases me with a look that says don't go far.

I cross the ballroom, weaving between conversations I could recite from memory. The silent auction is fine, it's always fine, I hire good people, but I need air. Space. One moment where I'm not being watched.

The terrace is empty. I step outside, let the warm Texas evening wash over me.

September in Austin. Still hot, but the edge is off. The stadium lights glow in the distance, we're at the Four Seasons, but you can see the Rovers complex from here. My second home. My prison, sometimes. The place where I grew up learning to love a sport I'm never allowed to participate in.

Not play, of course. Women's soccer exists, but Dad never supported it. Too much risk, he said. Too much attention.

Just watch. Support. Be the perfect owner's daughter.

The city sparkles below, indifferent to my frustration.

"You look like you're planning an escape."

The voice comes from behind me. Accented, Portuguese, maybe. Warm and amused.

I shifted toward the voice.

He's leaning against the terrace doorway. Dark hair, warm skin, a smile that says he knows exactly how good he looks in that tuxedo. I recognize him from the press photos, Matheus Silva, our record signing from São Paulo. Striker. Twenty-seven years old. Fifty million dollar transfer fee.

The entire soccer world is watching to see if he's worth it.

"I'm just getting some air," I say.

"That's what I said." He pushes off the doorway, walks toward me. Not aggressive, but confident. A man who moves through the world expecting it to make room for him. "Though I must say, the air here is much better than the air inside. Less cologne. More stars."

His English is excellent, just slightly accented. In the evening light, he looked like trouble with a good tailor.

"You're Matheus Silva."

"And you are Carolina Ashford." He stopped a few feet away, tilted his head. "The untouchable princess of the Austin Rovers."

I stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"That's what they call you. The other players." His smile widens. "Don't worry. It's not an insult. More like... a challenge."

"I'm not a challenge."

"No?" He takes another step closer. "Then why does every man in that room look at you but never approach? Why does your father watch you like a hawk? Why..." he reaches out, takes my hand before I can pull away "do you flinch when someone touches you?"

His fingers are warm. Calloused from a life on the pitch. Nothing like the soft corporate handshakes I've been enduring all night.

"I don't flinch."

"You did." He lifts my hand, presses his lips to my knuckles. Old-fashioned. Ridiculous. My skin shouldn't prickle like this. "But you didn't pull away."

"I should."

"Why?"

"Because you're a player. And I'm the owner's daughter. And my father has made it very clear that..."

"I don't care what your father made clear." Matheus is still holding my hand. Still looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all night. "I care what you want."

"What I want doesn't matter."

"Then let's make it matter." He releases my hand, steps back, offers me a proper bow. "Dance with me, Carolina Ashford."

"I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

The terrace doors open. My father's silhouette appears, backlit by the ballroom's glow.

"Carolina."

One word. A warning.

Matheus straightens. His smile doesn't waver.

"Mr. Ashford. I was just introducing myself to your daughter." He extends his hand. "Matheus Silva. Honored to be part of the Rovers."

Dad ignores the handshake. His eyes are fixed on me.

"Carolina. The Hendersons want to discuss the youth program."

"Of course." I step toward the doors. Away from Matheus. Away from the warm night and the dangerous conversation.

"Wait."

Matheus's voice stops me. I turn.

He's still smiling. But there's something else in his expression now, determination. Challenge.

"Save me a dance later, Carolina. When your father isn't watching."

Dad's hand clamps on my arm. "That won't be happening."

He steers me inside. The terrace doors close behind us.

I don't look back.

But I can still feel the press of his lips on my knuckles. The warmth of his hand around mine. The way he looked at me like I was a person, not a possession.

The untouchable princess.

Maybe I'm tired of being untouchable.

Maybe I want someone to touch me.

Across the ballroom, through the crowd, I catch Matheus watching me. He raises his champagne glass. A silent toast. A promise.

I look away before Dad notices.

But the lock I'd kept on that part of myself had cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.

Rebellion.

Rebellion tasted sharp and clean, like cold water after years of lukewarm.