“I’m sorry about tonight, Teo. Your lady friend didn’t look happy to see me.” Mariana wrung her magical hands, together, and I resisted the urge to tell her not to break those precious fingers.
“Timing was pretty terrible,” I conceded.
“She doesn’t know about me? I mean, that I’m your sports therapist?”
I shook my head, rubbing my thigh. “Her brother is my assistant GM. I didn’t know what to say.”
Mariana pressed her lips together and dipped her head toward my leg. “Still tight? You’re going to speak with the team trainer?”
“I mentioned it to Streeter.” But only in vague terms. Some soreness, I said. “Can you work on the muscle?”
Mariana shook her head. “It’s more than tightness. I’m concerned there are tears in the muscle. Tiny ones right now, but if you don’t rest and rehab properly this injury could very well be career-ending.”
Those words again. Fear and anger spiraled from my chest to my stomach, making every muscle in my body ache more. “I’ll talk to the trainer.” Dammit, the timing was terrible—sure to spook the front office in Milan. If I left soon, as I’d need to if I wanted to be on Milan’s roster before the injury had the chance to rear its ugly head again, I’d never get to try to smooth over the mess I’d made with Preslee.
Maybe that was for the best. But her leaving, thinking I was un pendejo, didn’t sit well with me. In fact, I wanted to call her, make sure she was safe. Try to explain why Mariana was staying with me.
“Let’s see what I can do to ease the discomfort. But then I’m outta here.”
I nodded, disliking the bitter taste in my mouth.
Mariana touched my arm. “I have to go, Teo. I can’t lie to your team about your injury. I can’t participate in this anymore.” She sucked in a deep breath, her dark brown eyes lifting to meet mine. “I’m going to get on a plane tonight. That gives you time to tell your coach, your management before I call them tomorrow.”
“Is this about your license?”
“In part. But also because you love to talk about your morals.”
I pulled my lips into my mouth. “You’re right.”
Mariana smiled. “But it’s time for me to beat it because you don’t like that I’ve backed you into a corner.” She laid her hand on my tight shoulder, her voice softening. “I hope I didn’t mess up your chance with her.”
True to her word, Mariana zipped out of my condo and headed back to her practice an hour and a half later. I watched from my living room windows as she stepped into the car driving her to the airport.
The chatter in the locker room the next morning annoyed me nearly as much as my aching leg. I hadn’t slept well last night, worried about Preslee’s well-being as I was. I slammed my bag into my locker, scowling when my water bottle fell out and rolled onto the floor.
I had to wait to get in to practice this morning so I could find one of the soccer camp rosters. I’d find Preslee’s number there and call her, explain. At least try to, because I simply couldn’t take Preslee thinking I was a cheater.
I was not my father. And in the case of womanizing, I never would be.
“We need to talk.”
I turned, unsurprised to see Noah Jennings behind me. His stance shifted, becoming more aggressive, and his brows pulled low over a masculine version of Preslee’s nose. I nodded, having expected this since the picture of me carrying Preslee hit the web sometime during the night.
“Here or in your office?”
Noah blinked. He should know by now I wasn’t a typical soccer player prone to tantrums when inconvenienced or questioned. My father owned a soccer club in Argentina, and I’d worked in the front office when I could. I understood how quickly the rumors surrounding me and Preslee, even my place on the team, would escalate if we spoke here, in the locker room—part of the reason I guided him into inviting me to a semiprivate location.
He turned on his heel, and I followed, feeling like the naughty schoolboy about to get chastised by the school principal. I just managed to shut the door when Noah snarled, “What the hell was that with my sister?”
I settled into the chair, my expression neutral. Good. We’d deal with Preslee first. But I knew I had to talk to Noah about my hamstring—soon—before Mariana called. “She downed a couple of drinks. I helped her home.”
“She never would’ve asked you to touch her, Cruz. She doesn’t like to be touched.”
Noah ran his hands through his hair, scrubbing at the back of his head, his eyes filled with sadness.
“Because of what that imbécil did to her in college?”
Noah’s gaze slammed back to mine, his eyes widening. “She told you about Oren?”
I nodded. “I made her coffee. We talked a while.”
I didn’t tell him she flung the story at me in anger. That was between Preslee and me. At Noah’s blank look, an idea began to form. I leaned back in my chair, suddenly feeling much more chipper than I had even ten minutes ago.
I’d overslept this morning and been late to practice. Mostly because I spent another night trying to figure out how to broach the subject of my hamstring with the Timber staff. If they believed I’d lied to them, not only could that nix the Milan deal—which deteriorated to a wisp of a dream now that Mariana planned to step forward—they could trade me to some C-league team in the middle of nowhere.
That couldn’t happen.
On top of my concerns with my future in the sport, my frustration that Preslee wouldn’t listen to my explanation ratcheted up.
Mierda. I wanted her. Mi pene remained unhappy with my decision-making, and the rub-off in the shower didn’t improve my short temper.
I’d planned to scam Noah into giving me her address so I could send her flowers and make up for last night. I hated knowing I added to her hurt—she deserved affection, caring, not the actions of her ex-fiancé. Since Preslee and I were already linked in the local press, and since I only wanted to be traded to a quality team like Milan, Preslee Jennings had just become my best ticket to staying in Noah’s, thus The Timbers’, good graces.
“She doesn’t like to talk about that.”
“Didn’t think she would. El cabron’s the reason she lost her soccer scholarship?”
Noah nodded. He tugged at his bottom lip as he leaned against the corner of his desk. “She loved to play almost as much as she loved to sing. But three broken ribs kept her from doing either. She just…quit, which is unlike Pres. She’s got this stubborn streak.”
“Not so good on the listening when she’s made up her mind either,” I muttered, still feeling the sting of her walking out of my place.
Noah’s smile filled with rueful amusement at my tone. I shifted, stifling a groan. My lack of attention at practice this morning meant I turned sharply to get out of the way of a defenseman and I tweaked my hamstring. I needed a hot shower and Mariana’s magic-finger massage before I’d be able to function properly again. But Mariana was gone, and the muscle wasn’t back to one hundred percent, and I had to figure out how to tell Noah I’d kept my concerns from him.
“We all thought she’d play on the national team. That didn’t happen. She never said anything, but she must have been disappointed.”
I nodded. “Preslee’s rusty but her fundamentals are fantastic.”
Noah sighed, rubbing a hand through his short, dark hair. “I love the sport, but I never had Pres’s talent. She spent hours in the yard with me every week, working on my skills. I never received the scholarship options she did, so I decided to go front-office.” Noah lowered his brows and glared. “I didn’t mean for her to get hurt when I asked if she wanted to help with the camps. I wanted her to take back another piece of what Oren beat out of her.”
“She told me she switched to viola and doesn’t sing anymore, either. Because of the attack, I presume.”
Noah studied me intently. “Pres said nothing happened between you two. I know you took her home—I saw the photo at the door of her building.
”
I started, shock turning immediately into satisfaction. She lived in my building. No wonder I never saw her outside that night. I exhaled slowly. Mierda. I’d been worried about her limping home in that incredibly sexy dress.
“She told you a hell of a lot about herself. And she was laughing in the picture where her hands are on your, er, back.”
Ah. Noah’s wasn’t angry with me; he wanted information, too. The satisfaction spread, and I fought down the urge to grin. “She groped my ass. After she popped the band of my boxers. She also told me she wanted to have sex to see if she could do it again.”
Noah cleared his throat. “I don’t want to hear you talk about sex and my sister.”
“I didn’t sleep with her.” I leaned back in my chair, annoyed Noah thought so little of me.
Noah shook his head, eyes filled with concern. “What could she be thinking?”
“She said something about not being able to handle intimacy. I guess that goes back to your comment about not liking to be touched. But here’s the problem.” I leaned forward. “I think I hurt her feelings when I turned her down.”
Noah’s scowl turned blacker than my shins after a game. “Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“She doesn’t need you dragging her through the tabloids. The last round almost killed her.”
A growl built in my chest, but I swallowed it down. “Last round?”
“You didn’t google her? There are pages of articles and social media stuff. Oren’s family’s well-off, Pres was a well-known figure on the college soccer circuit. Her vocal department has national acclaim, and Pres was one of the top students. She’d been asked to sing in some major markets, consider a recording contract. Media like a kick-you-when-you’re-down story.”
I scrubbed my hands over my face, hating what her ex took from her. What her brother thought I’d do to her. “I took her home. Now she’s mad at me. Thinks I rejected her.”
“Did you?”
“Are you kidding me? Your sister’s incredible.” I shook my head, thinking about her life since college. “Maybe I’m not good enough for her.”
“That’s supposed to be my line. There’s a girlfriend back home?”
“Seriously? You think I’d try to destroy the trust with my significant other just to sex up your sister?”
Noah waited. I sighed. “She told you I have a friend staying with me.”
Noah narrowed his eyes. “She didn’t, but that pisses me off. Is the woman staying with you that redhead—a friend with benefits?”
“Dios mio, no. She’s…” Great. My opening. “My hamstring’s been tight. Mariana Nigella has been working on it. She’s a sports massage therapist.” I paused. “She’s going to call in later today to discuss her treatment suggestions.”
“How tight?” Noah switched gears to team management.
“Not too bad, but I wanted to be proactive, make sure I didn’t reinjure the muscle. Mariana came up from Buenos Aires to visit and she stayed a few more days because I asked her to evaluate an ache after the preseason game last week.”
All true, though I skewed my response so that I looked more proactive, more forthcoming. I forced myself to hold Noah’s gaze.
“You can’t be seen in pictures with my sister and have her name linked back to you if there’s another woman, Matteo.” His voice quieted and firmed. “You can’t drag her down there again.”
I narrowed my eyes. That was it on my leg? The injury that could cost the Timber their highest-paid athlete? That might cost them an international trade?
Wait. This was good. Better than I expected, actually.
“I didn’t drag her anywhere. I took her home.”
“And now pictures of the two of you are everywhere. We’ve been fielding calls from local and international media asking for more details.”
I sealed my lips. Speculation about me being traded to Milan remained high, for which I was thankful. Making that trade would finish my career on my terms—as one of the sport’s elites. I’d spent more than two decades of my life striving for that—and if I could just maneuver through the rest of the trade talks, I’d make it back onto the world stage. The front office there would want to know where my head was, and it must be in the game.
Originally, when I saw her in the bar, I wanted to see Preslee home, make sure she remained safe. But now…I’d created an international story just when I couldn’t afford one. And the one to get hurt more in all this was Preslee.
Noah stared at me again, his green eyes so different from Preslee’s.
“What do you want me to do? Because I know what I want—I want to see your sister again.” I wanted to rub my hamstring. I wanted to throw something. Instead, I sat in the chair, my leg muscle seizing in painful jerks.
“When I walked in this morning? For you to stay away from my sister. Far away. Pres has been hurt. She needs to find someone who’ll take care of her, no matter what she tells you about being able to take care of herself.” Noah leaned back in his chair. “Now? I don’t know.”
“What changed?” My leg cramped again, and I gritted my teeth, forcing my body to stay still.
Noah leaned forward, his arms on his desk. “You said you wanted to see her. You haven’t even asked about Milan.”
I sucked in a breath. “Have they called?”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”
A white coat down on the sidewalk caught my attention as I looked out my condo’s windows later that evening. Preslee. My heart rate kicked up.
No, not Preslee. The hair was too long.
Mierda. I needed to speak with someone with perspective, who understood the risks associated with me linking my name further to Preslee’s. Time to call my father.
“Dad,” I said in Spanish. “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course.”
“I need your complete discretion.”
Raul chuckled. “You mean you don’t want me to tell your mother.”
I waited, letting the silence grow between us.
He sighed. “I love you, Matteo. I’ll do what I can.”
“I needed to hear that. Because there’s a woman here.”
“Ah. The one you carried home.”
My father enabled google alerts on each of his players and me. I would have been disappointed if he hadn’t known about the pictures. “Yes.”
“She has quite a sordid history with men, son.”
“You mean her ex-fiance? He beat her, Dad.”
“I cannot approve of public intoxication, Matteo. With your mother’s struggles—”
I gritted my teeth, hard, and swallowed down my retort about my father’s affairs. I wasn’t one to pick a fight, and I wouldn’t fling his indiscretions in his face. Being married to Lucia Aranda Romero de Cruz would’ve been hell for any man.
“You wish to further a relationship with her? Even knowing she might trap you as your mother trapped me?”
When I was six, my father told me my mother got pregnant with me before the wedding to ensure my father married her. At the age of twelve, my father explained he only stayed married to my mother because she threatened to take me away from him if they divorced.
Preslee’s eyes filled my mind. Interesting that’s what registered first, before her sexy legs, slender waist or perky breasts. Before, even, her impressive singing voice I’d yet to hear.
“I like her.”
“What about your plan to play in Europe again?”
I sucked in a deep breath, but some truths had to be faced no matter how challenging—and devastating. “I’m not sure my hamstring will allow that.”
“Mariana said she did not give you the news you hoped for.” Raul sighed. “Speak with Jorge and your trainer.”
“I did. Today.”
“And?”
“I had more tests run through the Timber’s trainers and doctors today. No visible damage, so I’m cleared to play tomorrow.”
“What did your agent say?”
/>
“That I wasn’t helping my chances with the trade.”
“But it still may happen.”
I clenched my fist, hard, needing to believe in the possibility. “We’re working on it.”
The silence stretched as my father digested the words that were still bitter on my tongue, a stone-weight to my gut. Like I was giving up an essential piece of myself with the acknowledgment that I may not make it back to the Euro League.
“Tell me about your young woman.”
I smiled, grateful he didn’t push me on my leg. I wasn’t sure how to handle that situation. I filled him in on our soccer camps, stressing her need to help troubled kids ran at least as deep as my own.
“So, when do I get to meet her?”
I chuckled, thinking about my father’s reaction to Preslee. He loved beautiful women, which is how he’d ended up shackled to the woman who’d birthed me… and why he spent the next thirty-plus year cultivating more mistresses than most men owned shoes in their lifetime.
“Once I know you can’t steal her.”
My father’s booming laugh poured out of the speaker as I clicked off the phone.
10
Preslee
“Let’s go.” I pulled my bag over my shoulder, settling it with more care than necessary. My shoulders ached from my three-day bout with illness, and I still moved with an unsteady gait thanks to my twisted ankle.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. You just got home from rehearsal. You look tired.”
I scowled. “Six other musicians are expecting me. Tonight’s performance has been set up for months, and I’m not willing to screw over my colleagues. Now, are you coming or do I need to call Abbi to be my and-one?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
Brenna’s expression soured. “You could get sick again.”
“I’m playing the national anthem, Bren. And Noah got us spectacular seats as a thank-you for my help with the camps. Go ahead and say it.”
She took my hand, her eyes searching mine. “But you’ll have to see Matteo, and he hurt you.”
Striker's Waltz (Seattle Sound Series Book 6) Page 7
