“I’m signed up on this site as E.P. Bailey, under a credit card with the same name,” she explained, scrolling to the betting coupon for the match they’d just analyzed. “Here are the odds they’re offering me. Happy with these?”
His gaze darted between his whiteboard and the screen of her phone. After a minute he nodded. “These are slightly better than what I was offered.”
“Probably because it’s a brand-new account. I’ll shop around, though. We can spread today’s results over a couple of sites, hopefully keep getting such competitive offers.”
She tapped a few keys, hit “enter” and the bet was placed.
“Voila,” she announced.
“Is that it?”
She looked up to find his expression slightly crestfallen. “What, did you want to hold hands or something?”
“No,” he shot back so defensively she thought maybe that’s exactly what he wanted. “I just thought the first transaction of our new enterprise might be a little more…ceremonial.”
“I’ll cue up the Notre Dame Victory March on my phone for the next one.” She stood and stretched, and as she finished she was ninety-nine percent sure she caught Brendan glancing at her breasts.
She arched a brow. “Does this pub have a bathroom?”
He shook his head. “Upstairs.”
She collected her mug and nodded to his. “Do you want a refill while I’m up there?”
“Yes, please. Be quick, though. We have two more matches today.”
* * * *
“Mark him. He’s wide open. Mark him, you idiot, he’s…shit,” Brendan swore at the screen as the team they’d picked to lose came close—too close—to scoring the first and only goal of the sixty-minute-old match.
Erin blew out her relief, rising to pace behind the sofa in Brendan’s family room. She got the feeling he normally watched the games in his bedroom—he’d struggled to find the remote for this TV—but she appreciated his temporary relocation on her behalf.
She’d been at his house for hours, far longer than she intended. She’d had to cancel a lunch date and she’d eaten so many doughnuts and drank so much coffee she felt nauseous.
She didn’t care. They won their London derby bet, splitting it to take a hundred dollars each. In only two hours she’d doubled her slots winning for the last week.
This match, though, was one of Brendan’s meticulously predicted upsets. They stood to triple what they’d pulled in on the derby. Her doughnut-filled stomach was in knots.
Which is why, when he suddenly flicked to the other match on another channel, she screeched, “What the hell are you doing? Put it back!”
“Just checking. Still two-nil. We should be fine.” He tapped the remote to return to the previous channel.
“Oh God. Set piece. I can’t look. Tell me what happens.” She slapped her hands over her eyes as their team—picked to win—arranged themselves to take a corner kick.
“The German’s taking it. He’s not going to—get over! Fucking move! Dammit!”
She dropped her hands in time to watch a spectacularly tragic missed opportunity, as one of the defenders jumped for a header that missed the winger’s perfectly placed ball by a hairsbreadth.
“Morons,” she hissed. “Where was that French guy? Why is he all the way over there?”
“Because he has the mental capacity of a goldfish,” Brendan muttered gloomily. “Have you ever heard his post-match interviews?”
“Are they funny?”
“Let’s say he’s unlikely to find a second career as a motivational speaker.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I played against him a couple of times. He was pretty young then, but his ego was already fully grown.”
The reminder that she was watching the world’s best soccer league with someone who’d once been a part of it stopped her pacing. An unsettling mixture of awe and empathy tightened her throat as she watched him lean forward on the couch, muttering instructions to players three thousand miles away.
By all accounts his career was enviable for their sport. He still played at thirty-three, and he’d reached international heights that maybe a handful in a generation of American players attained.
She carried some degree of jealousy for any reasonably successful male player, resenting that the road was so much longer and more lucratively paved for them than for any woman. She never gave much thought to the end, though, and how it felt when they got there. She had her post-playing plan in place from the beginning—she had no choice.
Brendan had a pretty soft landing, transferring to one of the best teams in the league in his home country. He should’ve ridden out his twilight period as a big fish in a small pond, waving to stadiums full of ecstatic fans, delivering spectacular saves and finally leaving the pitch with the reputation he’d earned over more than a decade.
For the first time, she realized just how painful that SportBetNet leak and the subsequent public shaming must’ve been for him. He’d been a star amongst soccer fans, but he’d never been a national headline until he was one of a handful of professional athletes discovered to be betting on their own sports.
That was the risk of flying so high. The fall back to earth could kill you.
She propped her hands on the back of the couch, her fingers an inch from his shoulder. She fought the sudden, inappropriate urge to touch him, to trail her hand down his back and soothe him.
You deserve more, she assured him silently. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get it.
“Look.” He pointed to the screen. “Look at their number ten, arguing with the referee. I knew it.” Brendan snapped his fingers as the famous goal-scorer was booked for dissent.
Erin rounded the sofa and dropped down beside him. “Oh my God. He never gets a yellow.”
“He’s had run-ins with this referee before, plus he’ll be annoyed that the manager didn’t start him. Watch, he’ll go missing now. He can’t handle being booked. Doesn’t jive with his cover-model, golden-boy persona.”
“He’s the only one who’s had a remotely on-target attempt. If he loses steam…”
“Then our boys win in a huge upset.”
“Twenty minutes to go.” She knotted her fingers together, nerves and exhilaration flipping her stomach.
He pivoted to look at her side-on. “I thought I would hate watching with someone else, but it’s actually not bad.”
She spread her palms. “Thanks?”
“I mean I’m enjoying your company. It’s nice to have someone here who knows the sport, and who doesn’t keep asking why one team got a corner and not the other or how many minutes are left.”
“Is that a problem you’ve had in the past?”
“Not, like, a lot.” He raised a shoulder, clearly regretting turning the conversation in this direction. “Just, you know, other women I’ve… When I’ve watched with…”
“Ex-girlfriends,” she supplied bluntly. “Or hadn’t they earned that title, even?”
“Not necessarily. Come on, ref, that’s a high boot,” he insisted, unsubtly trying to change the subject.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t press him. What did she care how many women he’d been with? She wasn’t interested in his ex-girlfriends.
Actually, yes she was.
“Have you had many female viewing companions in the past?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“What number am I?”
He shot her a look that said he wasn’t answering that.
“Tell me about the most recent one, then,” she suggested, undeterred.
“That would be you.”
She shook her head. “Today doesn’t count. The last one before me.”
His eyes found hers with such unwavering focus that for a moment her breath caught.
“I mean you’re the last person I slept with
,” he told her softly.
“Oh. Okay.” Well, that backfired. “Your last serious girlfriend, then. What was she like?”
“Why are you asking me this?” He turned back to the screen, his expressing growing irritable.
“You piqued my curiosity with your comment about soccer ignoramuses. Now give.”
“I’ll tell you about my last girlfriend if you tell me about your last boyfriend.”
“Deal.”
“Fine.” He leaned back on the sofa, eyes never leaving the action on the TV. “Catalina, when I lived in Valencia. Spanish, from Madrid originally, but she’d lived in the UK for a while so she spoke English. That was important—my Spanish was good enough for everyday stuff but not really for a relationship. Anyway, she was an art director for an advertising agency. We lasted about ten months. She was always skeptical about dating a footballer. Didn’t like photos of us popping up in the papers and was convinced I’d cheat on her eventually.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not,” he shot back, and she raised a hand in apology. “She got a job offer in Dubai and she went. El fin, as they say in Spain. Your turn.”
“Okay. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Done.”
He tore his gaze away from the screen long enough to give her a hard stare. “You’re lying.”
“God’s honest truth. I think five dates is my record. I’m not really the committed type. Friends with benefits are more my sort of arrangement.”
“You mentioned that,” he said grimly. “Tell me about the five-dates guy then.”
She tapped her chin, trying to remember him. “I was at one of the TV networks’ studios in New York. It was the anniversary of some milestone in women’s soccer, and they interviewed me about what it meant to me as a child and whether it influenced my career. The truth is I only ever watched the men’s game, but I gave them a couple of good sound bites and they were happy. Meanwhile this guy was hanging around in the background. I thought he was a production assistant, but afterward we bumped into each other in the lobby and he introduced himself. Caleb, went by Cal. In-house counsel for the network.”
“Cal,” Brendan repeated derisively.
“Hey, he was the five-date record-setter. Don’t knock him.”
“And what was so amazing about Cal that he reached that pinnacle of achievements?”
“He happened to catch me in a moment of existential crisis, for one. My sister had just gotten engaged and I had about a month where I decided to get serious about settling down.”
“But you moved on from that?”
“Completely. Anyway, to be fair to him, Cal was smart, funny, and successful. He had a gorgeous loft apartment in SoHo and wore the most beautiful bespoke suits I’ve ever seen. Also, he had an immense cock.”
He slapped his hands over his ears. “Jesus, Erin. I don’t want to know that.”
“Yours is better,” she offered conciliatorily.
“Stop. Just stop.”
“Excuse me.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t realize one of us took his Catholic upbringing so seriously. But then I wouldn’t have, given your performance at New Year’s. All the champagne must’ve helped you overcome your prude side because anyone who can do what you did when we…”
She trailed off, his head slowly turning until their gazes locked.
She’d read plenty of novels and seen tons of movies in which characters connect through a single look, a momentarily shared glance. She’d even had friends swear the catalyst to their loving relationship had been eyes meeting across a crowded restaurant, or lecture hall, or strobe-lit nightclub.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
Until now.
There was no love pulsating between them—not even a little, tiny, imaginary bit—but there was lust. Pounding, relentless, heart-quickening physical attraction. Instantly her nipples hardened to aching peaks, and the place between her thighs swelled and throbbed with unfulfilled desire.
She saw every inch of her reaction reflected in his face. His pupils dilated. The line of his jaw hardened. His chest moved more rapidly with the pace of his breath. When his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip she wanted to shove him back against the sofa, yank his joggers down his hips and find the hot, impatient flesh she knew was already steel-hard for her.
Maybe she should just do it. What could she lose? They’d had sex before—the best sex of her life. He said he wasn’t interested in something casual, but one time didn’t really qualify as something. A one-off. A Saturday treat. A nagging, insistent itch so deliciously scratched. She’d put her mouth on him, to celebrate their win, to thank him for taking so much time to show her how he bet, to satisfy the restless demand of her tongue to run up and down his shaft, to circle over his velvety tip, to bring him past the point of control and taste—
“And it’s good! Finally a point on the board in the eighty-fifth minute!”
They both jerked their gazes toward the TV at the enthusiasm of the announcer’s voice.
“They scored!” She was on her feet, gaping at the one-nil showing on the top left hand of the screen.
“I fucking knew it.” He punched the air, jumping up off the couch and taking her by the shoulders. “Didn’t I say they would score toward the end?”
“Hell yeah, you did.” Her own hands dropped to his waist.
“Seven hundred dollars,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “As long as they hold off the other team for five minutes, we will be seven hundred goddamn dollars to the good.”
“They’re going to do it,” she promised. “I know they are. You’re a genius.”
“I know,” he agreed. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
It was everything and nothing she wanted, too much and nowhere near enough. His mouth was hungry, urgent and she responded in kind, their tongues circling and bumping and stroking exactly as their bodies had done so many months earlier. She moaned at the contact, at the memory of how much further they’d gone, at the wet heat and singular taste of him.
He tightened his arms around her, pulling her flat against his chest, the warmth of him making her nipples taut and sore with need. She shoved one of her hands beneath the waistband of his cotton joggers and savored the contours of his lower back, his smooth, bare skin, the ridges of muscle beneath it.
He shifted his grip, urging her hips closer. She accommodated him gladly, redoubling her pressure on his mouth when she found the jutting length of his erection. She ground against him, even the suggestion of his arousal between all those layers of cloth enough to completely soak her panties.
Forget sex. Another two minutes and she might just dry hump her way to climax.
Some segmented, annoyingly practical part of her brain registered a whistle and then another. Her player’s instinct took over at the familiar sound and despite her body screaming to the contrary, she broke the kiss to glance at the TV, prompting him to do the same.
“Full time,” he said breathlessly.
She looked back at him. “We won.”
He smiled, big and broad and eminently kissable. “We did.”
She leaned in to resume what they’d started but he stepped all the way out of the embrace, definite and deliberate.
“We got carried away. We shouldn’t do that again.” He dropped back onto the couch and picked up the remote.
She propped a hand on her hip. “Why?”
He flicked to the other channel to check the score. They’d won there, too.
“You’re beautiful, Erin. You know that. Beautiful and smart and so fucking sexy, I’m not surprised no man has ever been good enough to win a sixth date.”
“Thanks,” she preened, taking her seat beside him. “And those are reasons not to have sex because?”
“Because you’re soccer.”
She tilted her head quizzically. “No,
I’m Erin. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re soccer,” he repeated. “Everything about you is the game I love. You understand it, you played it, and you’re one of the women’s game’s legends. It’s your job, too, and will be for a long time. Probably forever.”
“And?”
“Soccer and I are breaking up. We’re getting divorced. We’ve been together for a long time—childhood sweethearts—and now she’s moving out. We’re divvying up our books, splitting the cutlery, packing our boxes, and selling the house.”
She squinted at him, wondering if he really was as nuts as his whiteboard and notebooks implied. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“In six months I’ll be in Nebraska. I’ll be a retired pro—someone who used to be sort-of famous—and I’ll be at the beginning of the next phase. The post-soccer phase. Also known as the rest of my life.”
A pang of sadness for him poked at her heart, but she still didn’t follow his reasoning. “Spell it out for me.”
“Having sex with you would be like having sex with the woman I’m divorcing,” he explained. “You’re so deep in that world—the world I love and the world I’m leaving, whether I like it or not. I’ve spent the last six months emotionally distancing myself so it won’t hurt quite so bad when I finally say goodbye. You and I—this—would only make it worse.”
She frowned. “I think I understand, but I disagree. Strongly.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “I thought you might.”
“Yes, soccer is how we met, what we have most in common, as well as both of our current professions. But I am not a sport, Brendan. I am a woman. A woman you’ve slept with before. I am offering you no-strings, purely physical, mutually satisfying sex on tap. It doesn’t have to interfere with your emotional breakup because emotion won’t be involved. I’ve perfected the art of no-commitment intercourse. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
He took longer to respond this time, his gaze lingering on her face, and suddenly he was that twenty-two-year-old again, his inscrutable expression hiding a host of complicated mental machinations.
Saving Hearts Page 10
