Scoring the Keeper’s Sister: Mr. Match Book 1

by Stewart, Delancey

  Beckie called Monday morning. "So the most I can get from my contact up there is that Marissa says he approached her as soon as Theo bought the team, when they were still married. She says Fernando called her and stopped by the house when he knew Theo wouldn't be home, relentlessly pursuing her."

  “Pursuing her?” My stomach clenched.

  “Yeah. Like for sex.”

  I made a noise that was somewhere between disgust and despair. Fernando was essentially a walking orgasm, I realized now, thinking about the way his fingers had danced over my center earlier, driving me toward what I was sure was going to be the best climax of my life. Instead, I'd gotten Beckie's call and my suspicions had ratcheted up to match my desire.

  It was possible I'd run out of there a little too quickly—I hadn't really asked Fernando for his side.

  Nice work, PR pro.

  I dug through my files on Fernando, and though I had lots of appearance shots (in which he inevitably had a date, yuck), I also found that I had a lot of stories and shots I hadn't used yet of him with kids, playing soccer. I did a little more investigating and realized there was no official record of the volunteer work he clearly did—he hadn't reported it and none of the other players seemed linked to whatever youth soccer organization he was working with. The photos and accounts I had were all through the team's Instagram and Twitter feeds—candid shots of him playing with kids in some of the less privileged neighborhoods south of downtown.

  This was the kind of thing I needed to counter negative publicity, and the more of it, the better.

  I set a few team posts to go out Monday morning—one photo from the guys at breakfast this morning doing some team bonding before the season officially got underway—and a few others I'd stockpiled. I needed to create a groundswell for the whole team heading into the season, but especially for Fernando.

  We also needed to talk.

  Thinking about talking to Fernando had me all twisted up inside. One part of me was overlooking every doubt in hopes of cementing the incredibly promising physical relationship we’d only just begun. (That part was the part that made up all my lady bits. And some of my brain. The same part that convinced me that eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s was a good plan.) That part was like, “yeah, call him.”

  The rest of me was less certain about anything. I found that besides questioning what might have transpired between him the owner’s wife before she became the vengeful ex-wife, I was second guessing everything else I thought I knew about him. But the thing that kept coming back to me was the way he looked that night in his car, the first time we really talked. That had been the real him, I was sure of it. And that guy was not a man who mistreated women, or even a man who treated them well and then moved on quickly. The man who told me about his relationship with his mother was someone who understood women, who respected them, and who valued the love of a woman. Or maybe I just wanted to think that’s what it had all meant.

  I wanted to trust him. I just wasn’t sure if I could.

  * * *

  I went home confused and upset, and thought Trace might be able to help, but he was not wildly enlightening when it came to Fernando.

  "I don't know anything about that. I just put in my time at the official team charities like I'm supposed to," Trace said when I asked him what he knew about Fernando's youth soccer involvement.

  The team participated in Christmas in April and Habitat for Humanity, along with a few holiday charities. When players had a foundation or organization they supported on their own, they were supposed to report that to HQ so we could use it to build goodwill through social media and profiles when news outlets asked.

  "Just the bare minimum, eh Trace? Just like in English class."

  "The teacher barely had time to read my essays anyway, yours were so friggin’ long." He rolled his eyes over the giant blender glass he was holding up, which held some kind of green concoction.

  "You going to drink that?"

  "Undecided. Taste it for me."

  I walked over and sniffed it. "Is this some kind of health food thing?"

  "Yes. You can tell it's healthy because it's green. But I can't remember if I was supposed to put in two teaspoons of apple cider vinegar or two tablespoons. Or maybe more?"

  "So what'd you put in?" I tilted the pitcher as he held it, letting a tiny bit into my mouth.

  "I lost track," he said at the same moment my mouth flooded with what tasted like an entire bottle of vinegar.

  I raced around him to the sink to spit. "Too much," I confirmed.

  He sipped it, swished it around in his mouth and swallowed. "I like it," he said. "I'm calling it Green Goblin."

  I was too busy rinsing my mouth with water to answer.

  "So yeah, I don't know what Fernando does in his spare time. Besides the owner's wife, apparently." He chuckled and drank half the pitcher.

  "Ex-wife," I said, standing and wiping my mouth. The words flew out before I could think about them.

  "What's this? Defending Fuerte, I see... still angling for some cheese, huh sis?"

  I sighed. I hadn't been thinking of the cheese since Fernando had kissed me, but now the bet seemed ridiculous in the face of both my desire for the guy and my worries about how I'd feel if Marissa's claims proved to be true.

  "They're just allegations right now," I said. "Not sure if she has any actual proof."

  "What's his side?"

  "I don't think anyone's asked him yet."

  Trace looked at me like I’d suddenly become a talking dog, wrinkling his nose and squinting his eyes. Or maybe that was all the vinegar kicking in.

  "Yeah, I need to talk to him."

  "Well, you can check with him after practice tomorrow," Trace said, dumping out the other half of the green drink. "Goblin is gross," he muttered.

  I did need to talk to Fernando, but it was late and the guys had practice early. I decided to catch him after practice as Trace suggested.

  But the next day, Fernando wasn't at practice, and at noon, I caught a teaser for the HOT-LA scoop they were promising to run on their prime time show later that week:

  "Star soccer player Fernando Fuerte is fiery on the field—and off it, according to the Shark's owner's ex-wife. Was the fiery Fuerte scoring in overtime with the wife of his team's owner while they were still married? We've got the exclusive scoop, only on HOT-LA!"

  This was bad. The team didn’t need bad press leading into the season, and while the team itself could potentially survive it, I might not be able to. Theo, the owner, had taken to sending me emails and dropping by my desk to check on things, and he wasn’t particularly encouraging. His last visit had ended with, “no big deal, I’m sure you’ve got other job opportunities if this doesn’t work out.”

  The man was kind of an ass, which made me sympathetic to his ex in some ways, but I still didn’t need her trying to ruin the team.

  I needed to talk to Fuerte. Now.

  His cell went straight to voicemail. I wondered if he was avoiding me, thinking maybe it was just easier not to deal with me.

  I was at my desk later that afternoon when the Shark's owner, Theo Molton, crashed through the office doors looking furious. He barreled straight to my desk, a lock of sweaty gray hair falling into his face. "You know about this? This thing with Fuerte and Marissa?"

  "I know she sold some exclusive information to HOT-LA," I said, sounding lame even to my own ears.

  "She's going to sink this team in scandal. What are we doing about it?"

  "Well, I've got a few general Sharks feel-good stories lined up over the next couple days, but—"

  "Yeah, 'but'!" he shouted. "It'll be your butt if this goes bad. We've got to fight this. Fuerte picked a hell of a day to take leave for family issues," Theo said. "Call me the second he shows up here in the morning. I’m going to talk to Coach Hughes."

  "Okay," I said, sinking back down into my seat.

  When I was done cringing about being bawled out by the team's owner, his last few wo
rds registered. Family issues? Fuerte's mom was sick, I knew that. I hoped nothing had happened, that she hadn't taken a turn or anything.

  I hadn't left a message before, but this time when I got his voicemail, I did.

  "Hey, it's me. Erica. Um, Johnson." I cringed and shook out my free hand like maybe all that tension in my fingers was what was making my mouth say stupid things. I tried again. "Anyway, hey. Yeah." Not getting better. "So, can you just call me? There's some stuff going on at work with this Marissa thing, and also...listen, Theo just said you had some kind of family issues, and I just wanted to see if your mom is okay. And if you need anything. Okay. Bye." I hung up and dropped the phone on my desk, backing away from it and glaring at it angrily. But blaming the phone for making me babble like a neurotic moron was not going to save me from the ridiculous voicemail I'd just left Fuerte.

  I picked up my things and went home to worry in a place where at least there was wine.

  Chapter 19

  Lungs, Legs, and Balls

  Fernando

  I spent the entire morning sitting in doctor's offices and the afternoon at the hospital as Mom had multiple blood draws and scans. When I questioned her primary care doctor and then the radiologist he'd first sent her to, they agreed that more tests were needed and nothing was certain. They also told me it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make sure Mom's "affairs" were in order, just in case.

  Mom was a trouper, submitting herself to the scans in cold rooms and letting herself be pushed and pulled by cold hands and machines. By early afternoon, we were done, and because the scans had confirmed a mass and a cytology was still required, we didn't have all the answers yet.

  As the day wound down and the tests went on, I stepped into a quiet hallway to call Coach Hughes. I’d meant to be in for conditioning that afternoon, but clearly wouldn’t make it.

  “Things are taking a little longer than I thought they would, Coach, I’m sorry. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “Is your mom doing okay, son?”

  “Yeah, thanks. She’s okay right now.”

  “That’s good. Things here are a little dicey with all this shit going around about Theo’s wife. You’ve heard about all that?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “We can talk more tomorrow. I’m just a little worried you’re losing focus before the season even gets going,” he said.

  Better than losing my mom.

  Erica had called a couple times, and I'd let it go to voicemail both times. Each time, when I saw her name on the screen, I jumped to answer it before my better sense kicked in. I wanted to hear her voice, wanted to feel like all the smoking hot possibility that had existed between us might still be there.

  But I was focusing on Mom today.

  Once I'd delivered Mom back home and tucked her in on the couch with a bowl of soup and the remote, I kissed her goodbye and promised to call her the next day.

  Then I went home, took a long hot shower, and finally called Erica back.

  "Hey," she said, picking up on the second ring. "I'm glad to hear from you."

  "Really?" I couldn't keep the smug smile from my voice. Her words were also nice to hear, since the other night she couldn't seem to get away from me fast enough.

  She sighed. "Yes. How's your mom?"

  I could play this a few ways, but I knew my desired end state was to have Erica here, in my arms. I wanted to pick up where we'd left off, but I didn’t know if that was possible. Still, she had called me. It seemed like a good sign, even if her motivation was probably work. "It was a rough day, but she's okay for now. Lots of tests and scans."

  "Did something happen? Is she sicker?"

  "No, just taking your advice. I got a second opinion for her and we're covering all our bases."

  "That's good."

  “Yeah." I could hear the exhaustion in my own voice. And though I knew it'd probably be best to just chill out and go to bed, I didn't want to. "It was a little rough."

  She paused, and I could almost see the little wrinkles on her forehead that formed when she was thinking hard about something. "Would you...um...do you need anything?”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “I called initially to talk about this thing with Marissa, to hear your side. Maybe it’s kind of late though…” She sounded uncertain. Was she offering to come over? My blood warmed at the possibility.

  “Uh, yeah. We could talk about that.”

  “Okay,” she sounded uncertain. “Want company?"

  God, yes, I wanted company. If it was delivered in a tall, snarky, dark haired package with the most delicious ass I'd ever had the pleasure of putting my hands on. "I'd like that," I said.

  "Okay." She sounded relieved.

  We made quick arrangements and she promised to see me soon.

  I spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how to look casual when she arrived, but my mind just kept galloping back to where we'd been when things had cut out so suddenly the other night.

  But I had to remind myself that I might not be high on Erica’s list of favorite people right now. I didn’t know how much she believed about what Marissa was saying—hell, I didn’t know what Marissa was saying, but I could guess. Still, if Erica was willing to come over, maybe she had more faith in me than I’d originally believed. It was a good sign, I thought, and it was hard not to think there were other reasons she might want to visit.

  When Erica buzzed up, I let her in and went to the front door to hold it open for her. She stepped off the elevator in a pair of fitted jeans, high-heeled sandals and a flowy wrapped shirt tied in a bow at her waist.

  All I could imagine was untying that bow.

  With my teeth.

  "Hi," I said, waving her inside.

  She didn't go inside. She stopped right in front of me, looking up at me with shining blue eyes. "I'm so sorry, Fernando. For the way I ran out of here. And about your mom."

  "Thanks," I said, my voice coming out a little hoarser than expected. The switch I was sure I’d flipped to “off” seemed to switch itself back to “on.” I’d hoped to play it cool, see where she stood on things, and then decide how to proceed. But my heart was already forging forward. "Come on in."

  I offered her a drink, not quite sure how to put her fears to rest.

  She shook her dark head and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, looking at me uncertainly as she stood in front of the wall of windows that framed my patio and the ocean beyond. She was beautiful like that, the wide Pacific darkness stretched out behind her, those eyes big and worried. I took a step closer to her and reached out a hand.

  Erica matched my step, bringing us nearer, and took my hand in hers.

  I pulled her to the couch to sit. I had to make her talk to me about the way she'd left the other day, about the accusations Marissa was leveling against me, about whatever this thing was between us. About stupid Mr. Match. But it was hard because I didn't really want to talk, unless the conversation consisted of her screaming my name.

  She nestled into the far corner of the couch, tucking her legs up beneath her.

  I scooted down to where she held a pillow against her chest and took a seat as close to her as I could get. "Okay." I watched as she took a deep breath, as if she was preparing herself for this conversation. "I think I owe you an apology."

  Her expression went from shuttered to shocked in a split second. "What? You...why?"

  "For thinking the worst."

  "About what?" She still seemed completely flabbergasted.

  "The other night, when you left, I was ready to write you off completely."

  Her confused smile dropped.

  "You took that call, and you couldn't get away from me fast enough. I assumed the worst, that you'd believe everything you heard, that you weren't going to give me a chance to explain."

  She shook her head lightly. "That's basically what I did."

  I wondered if I'd been right. My mother had too much faith in humanity. But I couldn't let Erica off without
this conversation coming to a conclusion, one way or another. "But I'm hoping you've had time to think a little bit about it now."

  Her mouth closed into a thin line, and she seemed to be thinking. "Fernando," she said. "Marissa sold her story to HOT-LA. They're going to air it at the end of the week. It almost doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. We've got to do damage control."

  "I know," I told her. "But I'm hoping that somewhere along the way someone's going to ask for my side."

  "That's part of why I called you," she said.

  "I never slept with Marissa."

  "Good." She looked relieved, and I hoped it was about more than just the PR scandal we were about to endure.

  "But we did have a relationship." As soon as the words were out, I knew they were wrong. But it was too late to take them back, and I knew I had to get through this, even if it was clumsy, or I might lose Erica forever.

  The relief vanished and she covered her face with her hand. "Maybe I should take you up on that drink."

  I reached out and took her hand, leaning closer to look into her eyes. "Not that kind of relationship."

  Her nose wrinkled adorably as she squinted at me. "What other kind is there?"

  "Seriously?" I laughed. "In this case, it was just a situation where she was going through something rough—a divorce—and needed a friend."

  "But why you?"

  I leaned back into the cushion, not releasing Erica's hand, and thought about the answer to that question. "I don't know really. She approached me at McDaughtry's one night, and there was something in her look that worried me. Theo had bought the team a few months earlier, and this was one of the only times he'd come out with us after a win. It was the first time I'd met his wife.