We paused for a water break. Thirty more minutes. I squirted more water into my mouth.
“What’s up with Klein?” Jorge asked.
I shrugged. “Seems like he wants to play tackle.”
“I’m going to pull you.”
I shook my head. “I’ve never quit because a player got too physical with me before.”
Jorge’s dark eyes met mine. “You’ve also never just recovered from a hamstring injury before. He wants to take you down. Maybe out.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I disagree. He simply wants to shake me up. I won’t let him.”
The rest of the team watched Jorge and I spar, their chests still heaving from the exertion. A few shot more water into their mouths.
I bowed my head. “Sorry. I was out of line. Do what you think is best, Coach.”
He called out to Greg Pinson, our youngest player and a good striker. Solid mechanics, great technique, but so damn green behind his ears. “Warm up. You’re going in to relieve Teo in five.”
Greg’s grin was broad, his eyes alight. “Thanks, Coach.”
I smiled, too, but it felt sour. I hated being pulled from the game for any reason. Jorge knew this, which is why he clapped me on the back. “Make these count.”
I did. My teammates understood I was our best offense, so they fed me the ball. The first time, Klein managed to get his foot between me and the ball, thanks to a sharp shoulder to the chest. My chest ached, but my blood pounded in my veins.
No way would he get away with that again.
The next time I was ready for him. I feinted left before bringing the ball back right, shooting around him. The San Diego crowd understood good soccer and gasped at the speed of my move. I grinned, loving the open pitch and the feel of the ball knocking off my cleat just so. I lined up where I wanted to be and slammed off one hell of a kick.
I had just enough time to see it sail over the goalie’s head and kiss the back of the net before Klein’s cleat ripped into the side of my shin guard, up high, near my knee.
“Cabron!” I yelled as I fell forward, my weight too sudden and too much for my hamstring. A searing pain shot up from my knee, through my thigh and straight to my hip and even my chest.
I fell hard on my hands. Whistles blew. The stadium fell silent, eerily so. All I could hear was the blood in my ears.
A moment later came a smattering of boos that grew louder. I cradled my leg as I panted through the next wave of agony, not the least concerned by the sudden wetness on my neck.
“You don’t fucking spit on my player!” Varner. He shoved Klein, hard. Another San Diego player ran up, and I gritted my teeth, trying to stand, trying to take care of Varner. My hamstring screamed in protest and my leg buckled.
The second San Diego player pulled Klein back. “Cheap shot, man!” he yelled, shoving Klein with enough force that Klein fell to the ground. “He was running circles around you because you aren’t the player he is. I’m talking to coach. You’re gone.”
Klein didn’t say anything, just lay there and glared at me. The second San Diego player came toward me. Menson. The captain. His words made more sense now. Menson put his left arm around my waist and lifted my right arm over his shoulder.
“Bad?” he asked me in a quiet voice.
“Pretty sure I just lost my deal with Milan.” I gasped as I tried to put weight on my leg. “Mierda. Definitely lost that deal.”
Menson cursed a string but helped me hobble forward with a surprising amount of restraint. The fans stood as the techs ran the stretcher out. They clapped when Menson helped me onto the board. Jorge jogged over, his eyes wide.
“You were right,” I said in Spanish.
He nodded, his eyes darkening with displeasure.
“I’ll talk to your coach once I know how bad this is,” Jorge said to Menson, who nodded.
“I’ve been after Coach to drop Klein for weeks. I’ll be sure to tell him what I saw.” Menson patted my shoulder. “Sorry about the leg, man.”
I lay back on the stretcher, forearm over my eyes, uncaring what the cameras made of this. Because I was angry, sick with the pain and unfairness, that Klein took the choice from me.
The call from my agent came within minutes of me getting situated into a private room at the hospital.
“Over?” I asked, trying to get comfortable in the hospital bed.
“Yes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, in too much pain and too tired to even rustle up the energy to curse.
“I’m sorry, Teo.”
An orderly touched my arm. “We’re going to take you back for the MRI now,” he said. I nodded.
“Me, too.” I clicked “End” and dropped my phone on top of my Timber uniform, its collar and chest still a darker shade of green that faded in gradual increments as the sweat dried from the shiny material.
20
Preslee
Brenna stayed true to her word and held my hand throughout the entire ordeal, from my initial phone call to the trip to the police department and my meeting with the officer, who took my information and slow-peck-typed up the report. Three hours later—transcribing my conversation with Oren took forever—I headed to the symphony where the conductor lashed out, telling me I’d put my own interests before that of the group. After fifteen minutes of his cheeks darkening to a shade near eggplant, I played the recording Brenna sent to me for him, too.
At least he quieted down, and we worked through the last few hours of rehearsal. Keyed up from Oren’s call and the subsequent tongue-lashing from my conductor, I wanted nothing more than a hot bath and to lay my head on Teo’s shoulder. To have him put his arms around me.
But he wasn’t back yet from his trip to San Diego.
My car service pinged, letting me know it would be another few minutes, so I shuffled back inside the building, mindful of Oren’s threat. I nodded at the security guard standing nearby, who nodded back with a smile. Setting my viola case at my feet, I scrolled through my phone, frowning.
Seventeen alerts and a bunch more texts and voice messages. What was going on?
Clicking through, my anger faded and horror built in my stomach. “Oh, Teo.” His hamstring, his career in question. I scrolled through my contacts until I found Noah’s name.
“Where is he? What hospital?” I asked.
“He’s been released from the UCSD hospital. Jorge stayed back and is flying with him. They’re on American. Um, where did I put the flight number?”
“Give it to me. I want to meet him at the gate.”
“You think that’s smart, Pres? I’ve been frantic to call you since I heard your voice mail this morning, but I’ve been fielding media all afternoon. If Oren’s bugging you, then maybe you should just go home. Lay low. I mean, with Oren’s call today.”
“I’ve dealt with a career-ending injury, Noah. I know how hard it is to realize he might not recover. Do not screw with me about something as trivial as Oren at a time like this.” My voice ended in a near-shout, and my face burned when the people in the lobby turned to stare at me, gawping at my outburst. I breathed hard through my nose.
“I read he couldn’t walk off the field. He’s hurt and he’s angry and he’s mourning. I need to be there for him, as soon as I can be.”
“You felt that way?” Noah’s voice rose, maybe in surprise.
We’d never talked about it. In fact, until this moment, I hadn’t talked to anyone about what went through my head in those days and weeks following my trip to the hospital, the media frenzy as I was released from Northern’s soccer program and then from the concerts I’d agreed to and finally, the voice program.
“Yes,” I rasped. Clearing my throat, I said, “The feeling…it’s awful because you have no control. Teo’s always in control, needs it, is a better player because of it.”
“Like you.”
I narrowed my eyes before I dipped my head in an acquiescence. “Yeah. He’s going to need time to get through this, but he’s also going to
need someone to rage at and maybe, when he’s ready, mourn with.”
“I don’t want him raging at you, Pres.”
“You do it all the time.”
“I do not.” He sounded taken aback.
I smiled. “Give me the flight number. I’ll catch a ride over to Sea-Tac now.”
Noah sighed into the phone. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll send you a car.”
“Fine. Meet us at the gate. I’m heading over now.”
“Pres, you really shouldn’t be alone now that Oren’s threatened you.”
I set my jaw, my expression hardening into what Noah called my pugnacious face. “Teo needs me.”
We’d only been together twenty days. No way I could say I loved him. But I wasn’t going to let him be alone in his time of need. Not if I could help him.
I cursed the airport’s rules and restrictions that wouldn’t let me walk up to the gate to greet Teo off the plane and settled for a text: At baggage claim.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I kept it short, to the point. He didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, Jorge strolled through the doors, a scowl darkening his face as he took in the crowd. Teo hobbled behind him, his leg stiff, and the crutches awkward despite his broad shoulders and thick arm muscles. I popped out of the chair and hurried forward, stopping just short of throwing myself against him.
Teo balanced on his good leg and beckoned me forward with his right hand. I slid in tight against his front, already tilting my face upward to receive the kiss I’d missed for too many days. My fingers sank into his Timbers sweatshirt as I lost myself in the feel of his mouth on mine.
“I missed you,” I murmured against his lips. “And I’m so upset about your leg.” I pulled back, my hands moving up and down his chest. “I didn’t know until after rehearsal. Noah sent over a car. What can I do?”
“Take a breath.” Teo pressed his lips to mine again in a short, perfunctory kiss that caused me to growl with need. “I am fine. Well”—he scowled down at his leg—“mostly fine.”
I cupped his cheek and brought his gaze back up to mine. “A late hit. Klein’s already been suspended.”
Teo shrugged. “Doesn’t fix my leg.”
“Or your trade to Milan,” I said, dropping my hand. We hadn’t talked about it much, so I wasn’t sure I had the right to bring it up now.
“Let’s get to the car,” Jorge said in his lightly accented English. “Away from the press who seem to have found you.”
Teo gestured for me to go first, so I stepped in front of him, planning to grab one of his bags. Jorge waved me off. I sighed, clutching the strap of my purse as I led the way toward the exit, doing my best to ignore the journalists and fans snapping pictures.
Oren’s words echoed in my ears, the threats causing me to shiver. But, if I wanted to be with Teo, this was my life now. I kept pace beside Teo, biting my tongue and pushing down my desire to take his arm and help him.
That wouldn’t help his resentment just as my brother or even Teo coddling me through Oren’s threats wouldn’t help. If the media was focused on me, then Oren wouldn’t get to close. I hoped.
I’d—no, we’d—be okay. As long as I made damn sure Oren stayed away.
21
Teo
Getting to our building took nearly two hours, thanks to rush-hour traffic and my insistence we drop Jorge off at his house, not the Timber offices.
Preslee remained subdued throughout the ride—even more so than usual, which caused a chill to build along the back of my neck. I intuited she didn’t want to talk in front of the driver, but her strange stillness gnawed at me even as she held my hand, her eyes dropping to my left leg.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as soon as we entered my condo, rounding on her with a quick flick of my crutches.
“I’m worried about you,” she said, dropping her purse into the usual spot on the chair I’d set there for her weeks ago. She removed her trench coat and hung it in the closet. My chest warmed, enjoying the routine—the hominess of the moment.
“I appreciate that. And for the record, I have a tear in the muscle. It’s not that major an issue.”
She grasped my shoulders and pulled me close. “Oh, Teo, that’s great news!”
I buried my nose in her hair, wishing I could tug her closer. Close enough to wrap her legs around my waist and kiss her into the same drugged state I always fell into when we were together. But my leg would not allow for that.
“Something is bothering you.” I pressed a kiss to her brow and pulled away. I managed to settle onto the couch, grunting at the effort to get my leg into a comfortable position.
Preslee twisted her fingers as she settled on the edge of the cushion next to me. “Oren called.”
“Mierda. What did he want?”
“To—to threaten me. Tell me I still belonged to him.” She raised those beautiful eyes to mine, hers muddied with worry and fear.
“You do not, you never did.” I cupped her cheek in my palm, alarmed by the coolness of her skin. “You belong to yourself, Preslee.”
She wrapped her free hand around my wrist. She huffed out a breath, forced her eyes back to mine. “He’s the one who followed us that night.”
I bit the inside of my lip to keep from cursing. Not that I was surprised—I wasn’t. But the idea of anything happening to Preslee…that scared me. Deeply.
“Did you contact the police?”
She nodded. “Brenna went with me.”
I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her tighter to my side. “I’m glad she was there with you. For you.”
We sat there, quiet, absorbing each other’s presence and warmth. Angry as I was about my leg—and I was livid—this moment brought peace.
My phone rang. Preslee leaned forward and snagged it off the coffee table, handing it to me.
“Mariana. You got my message?” I asked in English so that Preslee could understand the conversation.
“Yes,” she replied, also in English. “I’m so sorry you’ve reinjured your leg.”
“I didn’t reinjure it. John Klein came in for a late tackle, trying to take out my knee.”
Preslee shuddered, burying her face into my chest. She understood. That…that injury, with a ripped ACL or meniscus, a broken patella, might mean I couldn’t walk well again, let alone play professionally.
“Can you come up here and treat me again?”
“I’m booked solid for the next five weeks.”
“What if I bought out those appointments?”
“That’s not fair to my patients.”
I sighed, frustrated she was right. “Our team masseur doesn’t have the quality of hands you do.”
Preslee sat next to me and raised one eyebrow practically up to her hairline.
“You’ll find someone. Talk to Mark Kepplenger at the university. I’ll send him an e-mail now so he expects your call. Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to help? She might not have a degree in kinesiology but she’s played soccer, and I bet she likes to put her hands on you.”
Preslee smirked, making it obvious she’d heard those last words at least.
“What if it’s worse than the doctors think?” I asked.
“Then you’ll never play at the same level again. But there’s nothing I can do to help with that. Rest up. Do your physio. I’ll call you to see how you’re doing in a couple of days.”
I thanked her and clicked off my phone. Preslee pressed tighter against my side, running her fingertips up my thigh. Even with an aching leg, the touch sent fire straight to my crotch.
“I’d be happy to put my hands all over you.”
I eased down on the couch and put my hands behind my head. “Be my guest.”
Preslee smiled as she darted into the bathroom to grab the bottle of oil Mariana had left there. She stepped back into the living room, her nude body my favorite masterpiece.
When Preslee was finished with me, my thigh—and the rest of me—was more relaxed than it had been sinc
e I left on the trip. Part of that was her soft skin pressed against mine. There’d been an article recently about the importance to women of daily cuddling. Maybe there was something to that for men as well. Naked cuddling that ended in orgasm, that was.
I pressed a kiss to her brow as Preslee snuggled tighter into my lap. My leg ached in a dull, annoying thrum, but I wouldn’t change it—any of the last few weeks—if I couldn’t hold Preslee in my arms now.
She mattered. More than I’d expected.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
I spent the next ten days at home, spending most of my time rehabbing my leg. Thankfully, this injury was minor compared to my last one, because I’d spent all those weeks working with Mariana to strengthen the other muscles around my hamstring.
Noah called me on Tuesday to let me know John Klein was suspended for the rest of the year. “And even his own teammates don’t want him back on the roster.”
“It was a cheap shot,” I said.
Noah grunted. “It’s more than that. He’s got a rep for being an asshole.”
I scowled as I tried to stand, a deep ache flashing through my thigh as I settled onto my crutches. “Doesn’t help my leg.”
“No. But you do have Preslee there to nurse you back to health.”
I smiled, thinking about my morning massage. And what that led to.
“I can feel your satisfaction through the phone. That’s my sister, dude.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“See that you don’t.” Noah hung up.
Even now, weeks into dating, Preslee brought out emotions I never knew existed—contentment, pleasure, and maybe…probably… love. At least that’s what I assumed this unexplainable feeling—almost electric, filling every part of me—was. With each passing day, my interest in Preslee deepened, along with my growing resentment of my imminent return to the Timber and the need to travel with them.
Striker's Waltz (Seattle Sound Series Book 6) Page 15
