Red Card

by Liz Crowe

  At five-thirty his phone buzzed with a text.

  Somebody owes me something, Melanie said.

  He frowned, his body going on high alert as usual at the sight of her first volley in the daily sext session. Suddenly not in the mood, he ignored it, changed into running clothes and forced an hour of laps around the field and then another hour of weights with the team. He collapsed into bed in his new house, one he’d purchased a few weeks before in Ann Arbor, thoroughly exhausted in body and mind.

  The chat with Zach had thrown him, yes. But it was more than that. Swearing he would call her first thing in the morning and have a real discussion about where this crazy relationship was headed, he drifted off into a dreamless void of sleep.

  He woke, sitting straight up in bed at one point, breathing heavy and wondering what had made him do that.

  “Metin,” the voice whispered. “I missed you.”

  He lay back and she entered his room, stripped out of her clothes, and he welcomed her to his bed with open arms. He was slow, tender, still half-thinking he was asleep and dreaming, but the sweet perfection of her body and the bright ecstasy of her all around him brought real tears to his eyes.

  “I love you,” he said, stroking deep, shuddering while they came together. “Melanie.”

  The next morning he woke to an empty, rumpled bed and the lingering smell of her. Melanie never stayed over, no matter what. And he had gotten tired of waking up alone because he did love her. Which said nothing about his love for Alicia. His wife, his very heart—Alicia was gone. He had to move forward and complete things with Melanie and her family. He rose, resolved, a plan evolving in his head already. One he knew damn good and well was impulsive. But he had a point he wanted to make, in public, with her.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I don’t want to go to a stupid athletic banquet, Metin,” Mel insisted. The Black Jack Gentlemen’s first season had been a surprising success with Metin and Rafe at the helm. The European press lambasted him for a while, for giving up and going as far down-market as he could get—coaching—at an American club—in an expansion league—in Detroit. But they had dominated, continuing to win both regular and exhibition matches. So the team threw itself a nice end-of-season party to celebrate.

  Mel followed the team’s success, but from a distance, only attending one game and that because Zach and Tanner wanted to go. Zach had three full-ride, Division 1 scholarship offers in hand and had become ever so slightly easier to live with. Mel suspected the appearance of a lovely girl named Gayle showing up at the house with some regularity had something to do with it. But she didn’t care as long as he used the condoms she’d put in a food-club-sized box, in the middle of his bed.

  Metin sat across from her in a nondescript coffee shop on a Saturday morning after they’d had one of their usual wild nights of sex, some of it approaching darn kinky to her delight. He’d let her tie him to his bed, torture him a little with ice cubes and hot lube… she shivered at the memory. And they were friends, honest-to-god confidants. They talked every single day about everything under the sun. But with the season over and him at loose ends until recruiting started up again, she got a distinct sense he was getting unhappy with their arrangement.

  She sipped her coffee. “I’m not going to a public event with you. I can’t. People won’t understand. It’s too… soon. Or something.” Her knees shook under the table. She wanted nothing more than to go, to be on his arm, with him, for them to be seen together. But terror at the thought of being considered the “fill-in” for the prettier, more glamorous, more soccer-worthy wife—her own sister, no less—held her back.

  He leaned in, his dark eyes intent. “It’s no big deal, Melanie. I don’t want to be the only one there without a damn date. Jesus.” He ran a hand down his face. “You are so fucking stubborn.”

  She stayed silent for a long, awkward moment. What else was there to say? Finally, words formed. “Listen, we need to wait at least until Zach is off to school, you know?” Her nerves jangled, anger mixed with frustration. Why did he have to throw off a perfectly good arrangement with his sudden needy attitude? And what, exactly, made her keep pulling him in, teasing him with sexy text messages almost every day, craving his body against hers every night?

  God. She was some kind of sicko. But every time she laid eyes on him, took in his strong, exotic profile, the deep brown skin, dark eyes, silky black hair, and those lips…. Mel gripped her knees under the table to keep from yanking him into a side room right then and there.

  “Whatever.” He stood, tossing down some money. “As long as you understand that I am not going without a date. So, when you see a picture or whatever, don’t freak out.”

  She stared at him, openmouthed. A surge of painful jealous fury hit her between the eyes. She grabbed his arm. “Sit,” she hissed. He stayed standing. “Please” He remained upright. “God, now who’s stubborn?” She got to her feet, their bodies too close for them to be considered anything but lovers. But she didn’t move. She didn’t care at that moment who knew what about the two of them and their odd arrangement. “I’ll go. How dressy?” She dropped back into the seat, defeated, ears clanging with too many emotions to sort through at the moment.

  Sitting across from her again, he said, “I knew I could coax out your inner possessive bitch.” He grinned and took a sip of his previously abandoned coffee.

  She frowned, opened her mouth to tell him to perform an anatomically impossible act on himself, but he put his fingers to her lips, calming her. She bit one, hard, loving it when he cursed her and yelped.

  “So,” she batted her lashes, “what time? And how dressy?”

  One of the large casino resorts that sponsored the team held the event. Metin had been on edge the entire night, jumpy, snappish with her after telling her she looked good enough to eat in her black sheath and sky-high heels.

  She’d shaken hands with Jack and his wife, Sara, accepting their congratulations on the success of Ayden’s Café. Received a huge hug from Rafe, met his strikingly attractive wife, Maureen. Trying to present herself as, “just a friend, and yes, Alicia had been her sister” about a million times as people gave her sidelong glances and whispered behind their hands, made her a twitching wreck by awards time and dessert. So, she decided to get drunk, and was well on her way to achieving that goal.

  Metin barely touched his wine, drinking water instead, like a man dying of thirst. She eyed him, sensing his nervous energy as if it were her own. The awards were presented, the team giving each other “paper plate” honors—the kind teammates give to each other by way of a roast—to the loud laughter and applause of the black tie-attired group. To their coach, the team presented one called “Shut the fuck up or run.” The press was all over it, blinding and deafening her with their flashing and clicking.

  Finally, it appeared to be over. She sighed and turned to Metin. “I’m drunk off my ass and thinking you can take full advantage if you—mmph….”

  He kissed her, hard, in front of the assembled group, which fell eerily silent. She pushed him away, furious, and terrified. He pulled her to her feet then dropped down on one knee.

  “Holy hell,” somebody said to her left. “Reminds me of somebody I know.”

  She met Sara’s eye as the woman laughed and leaned into her husband’s arms. They all watched, expectantly. The room remained silent but for the pop of camera shutters. She shook her head, unable to compute what was happening.

  “Melanie,” Metin said, soft, low, sexy, and perfect. “Marry me. Please.”

  She bit her lip, and turned, pushing her way out of the room. Stopping halfway down the hall, she gasped for breath, trying to keep the floor from tilting so alarmingly.

  “Mel!” a voice called. She ran from it. She could not do this. She didn’t love him… couldn’t love him… it was not… he was not hers. Guilt flooded her brain, then anger that he would put her in such an embarrassing position in front of all those people. She, the second-string sister….
<
br />   “Leave me alone,” she choked out, trying to find the bathroom. Catching up with her in the wide, empty hall, he held onto her, kissed her, drowning out everything but him. He stopped, making her nearly beg him for more, until she recalled why they were here in the hall. She had run from him. Because he had done the most idiotic thing ever—in front of the whole team, no less.

  “I won’t leave you alone. And I will not be a friend with favors. I mean… I will be a friend, with favors, who is married to you. Or nothing else.”

  She struggled out of his grip. They stared at each other about the same second she realized that five or six photographers had caught them in that clinch. How dare he do that to her? Her hand shot out, connected with his face, once, twice. He barely moved and his dark, anguished face was the last thing she saw before racing out into the lobby, yelling for a taxi, her palm stinging and her own face burning.

  “Wait, Mel,” a different voice hit her ear. She whirled around, ready to bite heads off, or burst into tears. “Hold up a second.” Rafe approached. His wife trailed behind him, concern in her eyes.

  “Leave me alone. I’m fine. I need to g-g-get home.” She shivered, unable to stop. “I don’t know what got into him, really. We’re just… oh, fuck it.” She turned from them, unwilling to explain.

  Maureen caught up with her and draped a wrap around her bare shoulders. Mel clenched her teeth, unable to accept any kindness at the moment. It was too horrible—Metin was Alicia’s husband, her own sister’s man, and now everyone knew she’d been screwing him. She hoped no one had figured out how hard she’d fallen for him in the process—and how that fact was so much more horrible than falling into bed with him.

  “Oh god, I’m gonna puke.” The lobby spun. Lights, voices, the booze all swirled through her.

  “Go find her a taxi, Rafe.” Maureen dragged her toward the ladies room and held her hair while she lost her dinner and cried like a baby, like a stupid, weak loser. “Okay, let’s get you in the cab.” She was brisk and businesslike.

  Mel attempted to focus on her. “Thanks,” she muttered, wanting nothing more than to see him again, to make sure he was real, that he meant it. No one wanted her. No one. She was the bitchy, older, bitter sister. Not the perfect, athletic, beautiful one. The fact of Alicia’s death hit her again, as if it had literally just happened.

  Rafe helped her into the cab and knelt down before he shut the door. “Ease up on him, Mel,” he said. “That was harder than you might think.”

  “Then why in the hell did he… I mean… shit.” Melanie averted her eyes. Metin had made it public like that—to prove something to them both. “You don’t know anything about me, Rafe, but thanks for the advice. And helping me with this. Tell him….” She bit her lip. “Never mind.” Shutting the door, she stared straight ahead. If she saw them standing there with pity in their eyes, she would scream until she had no voice left.

  The following morning, the photo got splashed all over the gossipy, bullshit Euro-soccer news sites. It had made a small blip in the States, mainly so the whole story could get dredged up, dragged over the coals, complete with photos of the “golden couple of soccer” at their fairytale wedding, the gorgeous baby, the three of them in Spain, Turkey, and then the accident —complete with a photo of Alicia’s demolished car and one from the funeral, of her, hanging on her father’s arm, blood dripping from her nose.

  Mel stood and shut the laptop before she hurled it to the floor. Her first inclination had been to reach out and make sure that Metin was okay with the full brunt of the little jaunt down horror memory lane. That urge alone forced a frustrated scream and multiple curses from her raw throat. Bruce, the dog Metin insisted was a bear in disguise, tried to lick her hand.

  She flopped into a chair, ignoring the beeping of her phone, the dinging of incoming emails.

  Finally Zach came downstairs, rubbing his eyes and scratching his belly. “What’s up?” he asked, poking around in the fridge for food.

  “Zach, I need to tell you something.” Mel sat frozen, terrified at what he would think, would say to her.

  “If it’s about you and Metin, I already know.” He kept his back to her, pulling out a huge bowl of berries, some yogurt, and milk.

  “But….” She stopped, unable to find words that made any sense. Putting a hand over her eyes, she tried not to cry. “It’s nothing. And whatever it was, it’s over. So, yeah.” Jumping up, she put on running shoes and headed for the door, needing fresh air and not caring that it was probably all of twenty degrees outside.

  “Mom,” Zach said from behind her. “He told me. Asked me actually if I was okay with it if you guys got married. I assume you told him no, since he’s not here.” He licked his fingers, his handsome face wide, innocent, free of anger for a change. “That’s too bad. I think he really loves you.”

  “You have no idea what love is. You are just….”

  “I’m almost as old as you were when you had me.” He stared her down, the mature wisdom in his eyes giving another jolt.

  “Exactly. And yes, I said no. So, sorry, no soccer-star-for-a-former-uncle-slash-stepdad. Oh god, I’ve got to get out of here.” She stumbled to the street, hitting her stride as the tears dried in the cold.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hollowed-out sensation returned with a vengeance. Metin had stopped on the way home from an end-of-season meeting with his coaching staff and bought a fifth of bourbon and a case of some random, expensive, high-alcohol beer. It all sat on his kitchen table, unopened, inviting, tempting.

  His phone rang. He ignored it, choosing instead to open the bourbon and skip the whole dirty-a-glass thing by tipping it right up to his lips. The deep maple and vanilla notes of his favorite Kentucky whisky burned at first then seemed to ease a path to his brain, bringing the sort of clarity he’d forgotten he could achieve.

  The first taste was harsh, the second less so, and by the time he lost count, he sat on top of the motherfucking world once again. He got up and paced, wandered outside into the freezing cold night and started kicking the line of soccer balls into a small net he’d set up, whaling the shit out of every single one without realizing he was yelling until his next door neighbor—a sweet older lady who brought him cookies once a week—stepped out onto her patio to inquire after his state of mind.

  He flopped into a patio chair, not even feeling the cold anymore. When his phone rang again, he stared at it, bleary and furious at himself and his life. “What,” he barked into it, tipping the now empty bottle to his lips. “Shit.” He wondered why there seemed to be two bottles in his hand and not one.

  “Metin.” The man’s voice stirred a memory so deep it hurt. “How are you, son?”

  “Fine,” he hiccupped, “sir.” He sank down in the seat, and tried not to hang up.

  “Listen, I heard what happened at the banquet.” Trevor Matthews’s voice had not changed a bit from its James Earl Jones chesty intonation. “And I was wondering something.”

  “What’s that, sir?” He shut one eye, trying like hell to make all the doubles of everything in his back yard become one again. Standing, he tripped over a soccer ball and nearly sent the phone sailing across the yard when he landed on his hip.

  “Well, we don’t exactly celebrate Christmas anymore, Melanie and the boys and I. Last year we got through the whole season by heading down to a house on St. Barts. We’ve got the same thing planned this year. And I think you should join us.”

  “Uh, why?” He rubbed his ass, stomach churning at the thought of a second anniversary of the day his entire life came to an end. “I mean, thank you, but considering the current circa… circle… circums… oh hell, I think it’s probably not a good idea. You know why.”

  “I think you should join us, Metin. I’d like to see you again and I think that, especially considering the circumstances, it is important you spend that day with us. Your family.”

  He pressed his forehead against the cold brick of his house. The house he lived in alone, rattli
ng around in the rooms, using boxes for tables, a mattress and box springs for a bed. The bed he and Melanie had christened many times, along with several of the box/tables. He groaned. “I’ll consider it, sir. Thank you very much for asking me.”

  “You are a good man, Metin Sevim. I was proud to call you my son-in-law. And while I do question your sanity with regard to a relationship with Melanie, that’s only because I find her to have such a terrifying personality. Not because of Alicia. I would support you two, together, a hundred percent… I want you to know.”

  Metin had no words for that. His head pounded. He needed more alcohol.

  “I’ll email you the details of the resort. I will have a room reserved in your name. We’re going down on the twenty-second, as soon as the boys are out of school. We’ll stay through the New Year. You are welcome for any part of that. But I’d rather you tell Melanie. If I do, she’ll accuse me of manipulating her life. I’m too old to take any more of her abuse, frankly.”

  That brought a smile to Metin’s face. He leaned back against the house, wondering if he should ask the question of the man who’d fathered the woman he’d loved more than life itself and the one who’d burrowed under his skin to the point that he was ready to drink himself into a stupor to forget her. “Sir,” he said, his voice shaky, “do you think… I mean….”

  “Metin, I have no words of advice for you other than these: follow your heart. I lost Alicia and Melanie’s mother years ago and have not looked at, nor seriously contemplated, another woman since. I can’t. It’s not in me. But I’m not you. And following your heart is what I was told as I mourned Cathy. So I did, in my way.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll… I’ll let you know about the holiday.”

  “Good man. Take care Metin. I’ll see you soon.” And he hung up, leaving him to ponder more booze, or sleep.

  Making it as far as the couch, he passed out face down, his dreams a crazed jumble of women he loved.