by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
He whirled her around and pressed kisses all over her face. “God, Thérèse. I thought there was no chance. An injured player without any match fitness. I was sure they’d decide it was too risky.”
“You’re worth the risk, Emile. Because you’re brilliant.” For once, she wasn’t in the mood to tease him about his career, she just wanted to share his happiness.
“We’re going to Brazil.” His eyes blazed with joy.
She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re going to expect me to watch the actual matches, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I think so. And answer questions later to make sure you pay attention.”
“Funny.” She smirked. “What else will I have to do?”
“Avoid the press. That should be easy, since you don’t speak French or Portuguese, and the English media won’t be interested in me. Look beautiful at team events. That’ll be easy, too.”
“Lie around on beaches getting a tan?”
“Take me dancing in Brazilian nightclubs.”
“I can do that.”
“Tell me how brilliant I am when I score the winning goal.”
She slapped his arm. “Tell you how arrogant you are, you mean.”
“No need for that. I already know.” He laughed again. “Mon dieu, Thérèse, I can’t believe it.”
“We should celebrate.” She shrugged her jacket off her shoulders.
“We should celebrate properly. You can put on a pretty dress, and I’ll take you to Le Terroir for dinner.”
“Fine. And after that can we celebrate properly?”
…
The whole team went out to dinner in Rio the night before they were due to fly to Sao Paulo for the first group match: players, coaches, manager, wives, and girlfriends. They were in a private room of a very smart restaurant, and no one was supposed to be drinking alcohol.
Emile had found out earlier that he hadn’t made the starting line-up for the first match. The coaches were pleased with his performance, but they didn’t want to push him too hard at the beginning of the tournament. Assuming all went well, he’d play for some of the second half. It made sense since he needed the match experience, but his fitness was still under question.
“Stop it,” Theresa whispered.
“What?”
“Stop going through all the reasons why it’s perfectly reasonable you’re not playing tomorrow for the forty-seventh time.”
“I will play, just…”
“Not at the start. I got that. Relax, Emile. You’re here, and your foot is fine.”
He slid his hand under the table to rest on her knee where her skirt had ridden up.
“There’ll be speeches soon,” he warned her. “And then someone will start singing La Marseillaise, and we’ll all have to join in.”
“I don’t know the words.” She put down her fork. “That was delicious.”
He flashed her a smile. “No one knows the words.”
“It’s like that in England, too. People mostly know the first verse of the national anthem, and that’s it.”
“You know, La Marseillaise is about French people going to war with each other. Strange choice for a national anthem.”
Theresa’s eyes gleamed. “God Save The Queen has a verse about destroying the Scots.”
He grinned. “No wonder the Scottish team sings a different one.”
“Theirs is about killing the English.”
“It is crazy.” Emile pushed his spoon through his mostly uneaten dessert. “It is only football. Why do we sing songs about battle?”
“No idea. After the speeches and the anthem, do you want to leave?”
He nodded. “Please.”
The evening was cool, and Theresa was wearing a sleeveless dress. He put his jacket over her shoulders and took her hand. It was good to be out in the fresh air, away from all the others. They strolled down to the beach.
“You want to walk on the sand?”
Theresa kicked her shoes off, by way of an answer, and he did the same, rolling up his trousers. Hand in hand, they wandered down to the shoreline and gazed out at the moonlit water.
“It’s beautiful,” Theresa said.
He turned to look at her. She was so beautiful; she took his breath away.
“What if I can’t do it?”
“Emile?”
He shook his head, as if to shake out his doubts. “It happens. Players have injuries, they recover, but they’re never the same player again.”
“You’re fine.” She stepped toward him and laid her hands on his chest. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, he could feel their warmth. “Everyone says so—the doctors, the coaches.”
“I haven’t played a competitive match for six months and three weeks.” He hadn’t even realized he’d been counting until today when a journalist had asked him a question about his injury.
She raised her hands to his face, drew his head down, and waited until he met her gaze.
“How old were you when you played your first football match?”
“I don’t know. Seven? Eight?” What did that have to do with anything?
“And since then you’ve played hundreds of matches, right?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You know how to do this, Emile Renaud. You’ll come with me now and go to bed. You’ll sleep because you know you need to. And then tomorrow, you’ll get up, go to the stadium, and kick a ball around with the other guys.”
His lips twitched. Only Theresa. “Kick a ball around?”
She waved her hands. “Well, you know. Whatever it is you do.”
“That simple, huh?” She was smiling at him, and he couldn’t help but respond.
“Why not?”
He looked at her for a long time. Dark, spiky hair, gleaming in the moonlight. Those eyes, vibrant with certainty and humor. He’d never known anyone like Theresa before. He’d never met a woman who challenged him so hard, nor one he cared about so much. He was grateful she’d travelled to Rio to be with him. He needed her here, especially tonight, giving him back the courage that had deserted him.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
He laughed at that, and suddenly, it was simple. He didn’t want to let her go, ever. And he thought—he hoped—she felt the same. “If I admit you’re right, will you promise me something?”
“What?”
“There’s the lawyer. Never make a blind promise.”
“Only an idiot would do that.”
“Idiots like us?”
She looked away. He’d noticed that she never liked to talk about their marriage or that ridiculous contract. He shouldn’t have mentioned it.
He cupped her cheek and gently turned her back to face him. “Promise me that we’ll come here again.”
“To the beach?”
“To this very spot.” He looked around, noting the lifeguard’s chair and the signs on the bar behind it. He’d be able to find it again.
“I promise.”
He slid his arms around her and held her close, burying his face against her hair. Tomorrow would take care of itself. For tonight, he had Theresa.
Chapter Twelve
They didn’t return to Rio until two days before the final. France played group matches in three different cities and, by winning two and drawing the third, they’d secured a place in the knockout stage of the competition. Theresa had watched more football matches in the past two weeks than ever in her life before, since Emile insisted on studying endless replays of all the other matches in their hotel room each evening. She gritted her teeth through penalty after penalty and mentally chalked every wasted hour up to Project Fall Out Of Love.
Most of the time, she was just happy that Emile’s foot was fine. He’d played well, and by the quarter finals, he was in the starting team for France. They’d been drawn against the Italians and won easily, by three goals to two, with Emile scoring two of the French goals. The semi-final was a much tougher prospec
t against the home team of Brazil, and Theresa was glad that she would never have to live through those ninety minutes plus extra time again.
The penalty shoot-out, which had finally ended the deadlock, had been the most excruciating torture as one by one the players took their turn at aiming for goal. A French player was the first to miss, and the deafening cheers of the Brazilian crowds filled the stadium, only to be swiftly followed by the groans of disappointment as a Brazilian striker’s best effort was foiled by the French keeper. After five players from each team had taken their shots, the score was still level, and the penalties went into sudden death. The Brazilian player went first. His ball hit the goal post and rebounded.
Every single person in the 50,000-seat stadium held their breath while the next French player set the ball down, eyed up the goal, and kicked straight into the corner of the net. They’d done it. They’d only gone and made the final. Theresa was on her feet with the rest of the French supporters, yelling and screaming and crying a little bit.
She hadn’t expected to care so much whether France won or lost, so long as Emile had done well. But, perhaps, because it mattered so much to him, or perhaps because she’d been caught up in World Cup fever, she was elated. Long after the match had finished and the last penalty been scored, she and Emile returned to their hotel room, both unable to stop grinning.
“You made the final,” she said for the hundredth time.
“Of course.” He raised an eyebrow in mock disdain.
She laughed at his easy arrogance. “You never doubted it, I know. Do you think you’ll win?” That was the question no one had dared to ask but everyone had been thinking. France would be up against England, who was playing better than anyone had expected.
Emile grimaced. “If we play better than them, we will.”
She slid her hand under his shirt. “I hope you do.”
“My traitorous, little wife.”
She smiled. “Maybe I’m a double agent, slipping vital information to the England team.”
He laughed. “If I thought you knew the difference between a penalty shoot-out and a penalty kick, then maybe I’d be worried.”
“I’m learning.”
He rubbed his knuckle over her cheek. “I know. It means a lot to me.”
“I’ll be glad to get home, though. It’s been a crazy few weeks, and I think I’m ready for some boring normality again.”
“Boring, huh?” He let his hand run down her neck and over her collarbone. “I didn’t know you were into boring.”
“It makes a nice change, occasionally.”
“Right.”
“Besides, I’m missing work.”
“Hardly. You work every day,” he pointed out wryly. “You are the only person I know who could come to Rio and not take it as an excuse to forget about work.”
“I keep on top of the most urgent things and touch base with my assistant. I’m not exactly doing a full-time job out here.”
“Your work is so important to you, even on holiday?” he asked curiously.
“Of course.” She’d worked hard to reach a senior level at her firm and she was proud of her achievement. “Your work is important to you. We’ve had this discussion before.”
“My work,” he said, with a grin, “is to kick a football around as if it mattered.”
Her lips twitched. “Something like that. But you’re good at it, and it makes a lot of people happy.”
“It’s going to make an entire nation very sad if I’m not good enough on Sunday.”
She didn’t want to think about what would happen if he lost on Sunday. “What will happen if you win?”
His arms gestured expansively. “The world will be ours. We will be heroes throughout France. All the clubs will want us.”
“Will you go back to France? To play for a club there?”
“No, probably not.”
“But you’d like to?”
He shrugged. “It is my home, chérie.”
“Then why probably not?”
His eyes gleamed wickedly. “They haven’t offered me nearly enough money. But if I win the World Cup for France, they might.”
She shook her head. Sometimes she still felt as though she didn’t understand him at all. “It’s not like you need any more money. If you want to live in France, then you should.”
He looked at her and nodded slowly. “Maybe one day. But first there is the small matter of a World Cup to win and a promise to keep.”
Her heart thumped. She’d been dreaming about moonlight on Copacabana for the last two weeks.
…
She barely saw him for the next two days. The players were all shielded from the press, but still there were endless training sessions, working through tactics and set pieces. The team had melded together in the past few weeks, but for the final, it was essential that they worked as one unit, able to predict each other’s moves and read each other’s minds. Emile explained it all to her, in incomprehensible and repetitive detail every night. Theresa just let him talk, knowing that it was more for his benefit than hers. On the last night before the final, he fell asleep still muttering about switch passes and trash shooting.
He was wide awake by six, and Theresa woke with him, having hardly slept all night. He rolled on top of her and sank into her. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper, pushing him towards his climax. When he was done, he eased out. Theresa took a deep breath. And then another. She’d grown more accustomed to perfunctory sex than she’d ever expected to. That ought to have helped more with Project Falling Out Of Love than it had. But instead of feeling aggrieved, she’d spent her time planning exactly how he was going to pay his debt once the tournament was over.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Should I…” He put his hand on her clit.
“Don’t worry about it.” She kissed his forehead. “You can do that tomorrow.”
He grinned faintly. “I’m going to be doing that for a long time, aren’t I?”
“I’m looking forward to it. Go on, have a shower.”
Everything had gone out of his head. He let the hot water stream over his body while he closed his eyes and tried to remember all the plays, all the set pieces they’d practiced. Nothing. Only Theresa’s blank face while he’d explained the offside rule for the fourth time. He smiled fondly. She’d put her mind to understanding his world, but it was clear that she still thought it was all nonsense. He knew she enjoyed the nonsense more than she let on most of the time.
Tomorrow, whatever happened, he’d take her back to their spot on the beach and open his heart to her. He hadn’t been brave enough last time, just before the first match. He didn’t think he could have borne it if she’d walked away. Or worse if she’d stayed out of pity. But tomorrow, he’d tell her everything. He’d take that awful cheap ring off her finger and give her the one he’d brought from London.
He’d give it to her on the beach and tell her it was forever. For him, it was forever. He thought she felt the same. Sometimes he was almost sure of it. When she gave him that look, the one that said she thought he was crazy but she was prepared to live with it, then his heart told him he was right. She loved him like he loved her. He didn’t have to understand her world to know that he loved the woman that she was. He loved her confidence and the way it extended to him. She believed in him and she made him want to live up to her expectations. He had plans to talk to her more about the pile of money building up. She’d challenged him to do something worthwhile with it, and he’d taken that challenge to heart over the last few months. He had various schemes in mind, but he wanted to do it right, and for that, he needed Theresa’s guidance. She’d know how to set things up legally and how to make sure his plans helped the people who really needed it.
He felt calmer when he left the bathroom, a towel tucked around his hips. Theresa was still in bed, but she had coffee and she looked adorable with the white sheet tucked under her elbows.
“Is there some for me?”
S
he nodded towards the table in the corner. “Room service brought breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“No.” He could never eat when he was nervous.
“Have something anyway.”
He picked up a pastry and brought it over to the bed without a plate.
“You’ll get crumbs everywhere.”
He shrugged. “That’s what housekeeping is for.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You will be there tonight?”
“Actually, I was thinking I needed a night in. Maybe I’ll watch a chick flick and eat ice cream, since you’re going to be out.”
“Ha ha.” He crumbled more of the pastry and hoped she hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t eating it.
“Of course I’ll be there. Are you going to eat any of that?”
He sighed and tossed the remnants of the pastry onto the bedside table. “No.”
“What time do you have to be at training?”
“Not till ten.”
“We could go for a walk, if you like.”
“Don’t you have to work?” he teased.
“It can wait until later.”
…
They walked along the beach, in the opposite direction from ‘their’ spot. Emile held her hand lightly, swinging their arms together, as if they were children without a care in the world. Maybe it helped him feel relaxed. Every so often, he squeezed her hand or paused to look out at the sea. They barely spoke.
At one point, they stopped to watch a group of young boys kicking a ball about on the beach.
“Are they any good?” Theresa asked.
Emile observed them for a few minutes. They’d put down shirts to make goal posts and started a proper match. “They have the heart for the game. That is the most important thing.”
She slid her arm around his waist. “You know, whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
He looked down at her in surprise. “Proud, chérie?”
“You went after your dream, and you made it. Not many people can say that.”
“I have been lucky.”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. It’s not luck that you’re fit enough to play.”
He drew her into his arms and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
