Having rationalized his stock-ticker thoughts to a crawl instead of a sprint, he pushed off the wall and walked down the street, keeping his eyes open for a suitable venue for a beer, some dinner and a couple of hours of statistics.
He wandered for a while, enjoying the Friday-night bustle on the sidewalks as Bostonians enjoyed a warm, late-summer evening. Well-dressed couples held hands as they stepped inside expensive-looking restaurants, and he tried to imagine where he’d be this time next year. A hot, dry Nebraska summer was more or less guaranteed, but what about everything else?
By then maybe he’d have someone to take to nice restaurants. Whose hand he could hold on a Friday night. Who’d take an interest in his conjectures about the next day’s soccer results. Who wouldn’t mind the time he spent analyzing the sport he used to play, and who would appreciate his winnings, not judge him for playing for them.
Or maybe—more likely—he’d still be alone. Sitting in a bar with his notebooks and his beer, making bets on people who used to fear him, who wanted to face anyone but him for a penalty kick.
He circled back to a bar he’d seen right after leaving the hotel. Its low-key exterior flagged his interest when he first passed it, and in twenty minutes of walking, he hadn’t found anywhere as attractively unassuming. He pushed open the door.
The situation inside was exactly as he’d glimpsed through the window. The décor sat somewhere between an Irish pub and a sports bar, with Guinness logos and Red Sox memorabilia vying for dominance. Men watching a baseball game lined the bar, but that was fine with him. He wanted one of the empty booths along the back wall instead.
He found enough space at the end of the bar to lean in and get the bartender’s attention. She was surprisingly young and pretty to be working somewhere with such an old-man vibe. Maybe she dug old men.
“What can I get you?” She flashed him a warm, seemingly genuine smile. Or maybe she worked here because these oldies fell for her grin and tipped her better.
“Sam Adams draught.” He pointed to a laminated piece of paper stuck under a bowl of nuts. “Is this the menu?”
She nodded. “I can recommend the burgers. We bring them in from the restaurant next door.”
He accepted his beer and ordered a cheeseburger, then crossed to a corner booth. His notebook stuck to the surface of the table and the un-cushioned wooden bench dug into his tailbone.
Perfect.
Calmer than he’d been all day, he pulled out his notebook, flipped to his in-progress page and methodically worked through tomorrow’s fixtures.
One cheeseburger, one beer, and an hour later, he sensed someone standing near the edge of his table.
“Another Sam Adams would be great, thanks,” he murmured, barely looking up from his notebook. Only when someone slid into the other side of the booth did he manage to tear his gaze away from the page.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Nice to see you, too.” Erin plucked one of the fries from the wax paper-lined basket and bit into it, then wrinkled her nose and put it back. “These are stone cold.”
“I thought you were the bartender, coming to take this away.”
“She’s busy.” Erin thumbed toward the bar, which was significantly more crowded than when he sat down. Still mostly old men, though, all glued to the TV.
“What’s so exciting?”
“Some shitty sport with wooden sticks where no one kicks anything. Want to go somewhere else?”
He shut the notebook, sizing her up across the table. Her hair cascaded loosely over her shoulders, and she wore jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. Too casual to be here on business, but surely she would’ve told him if she’d come to watch his match.
Either way, she stood out in their dingy surroundings like a vase of bright red roses in the middle of a junkyard. He found himself breathing a bit easier, as though she’d brought a gust of fresh air with her from outside.
He fought to keep a stern expression. “Let’s start with here, specifically your presence. I thought you were in Atlanta.”
“You thought wrong.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to be in Boston.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
“I had a meeting this afternoon with Liberty Ladies, to discuss next season’s marketing campaign. I didn’t tell you because it was scheduled at short notice and I didn’t want to distract you ahead of your match. Also, it wasn’t your business.”
“And this bar? This booth? How did you get here?”
“Coincidence…ish.”
“Ish?” he repeated.
“I thought it might be nice to check in on you. Make sure you weren’t beating yourself up over that mistake in the first half when the central midfielder’s shot hit the post.”
He bolted upright. “That wasn’t a mistake. I saw that wasn’t going in and I knew if I touched it there was as much chance of it becoming an own goal as—”
“I’m kidding. You played great. Anyway, I’m not here to offer performance feedback.”
“Back to the central question, then. Why are you here?”
She raised a shoulder. “I spotted one of the other players leaving the restaurant and he said you’d gone for a walk. I saw this place, near the hotel, with all the Brendan Young hallmarks—dark, dingy, generally uninviting—and decided to look inside to see if you were here. If you weren’t, I would’ve gone back to the hotel. But you are, and here I am.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Not sure it was a great idea to ask my teammates where I was. Now they’ll link the two of us.”
“I thought of that, but it was the guy who doesn’t speak English.”
“Rio,” Brendan supplied, relieved.
“I don’t think he knew who I was. He started to sign a napkin for me. Anyway, we can safely assume there are no soccer fans amongst the loyal over there.”
He glanced again at the crowd near the bar, then back at her. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. Want another drink?”
He pushed his glass across the table. “Go for it.”
“Oh, I will,” she promised, winking as she gathered up the discarded burger basket and the empty glass.
He watched her sidle up to the group looking at the TV and navigate her way through a clump of men. He couldn’t hear her from across the room, but he noted the amount of smiling, giggling and back-touching seemed unnecessary for placing an order from a female bartender. After a few minutes she came back with a beer in each hand, and instead of resuming her previous seat she motioned him closer to the wall so she could squeeze in beside him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked, trying to ignore the fresh, summery whiff of jasmine that lit up his senses as her hip bumped his. He thought again of the creeping, twisting jasmine vine that climbed a trellis along the back of his house. According to his gardener, it was quite a mature plant, lovingly cultivated by the couple from whom he’d bought the house three years earlier. Its delicate flowers and sweet scent belied its strength and endurance, and every month it reached higher like it was intent on growing all the way to the roof.
“These were free,” Erin explained. “Courtesy of my new friends, Richard and Larry.”
As if on cue, two men turned around at the bar and waved. Erin waved back.
“I’ve seen women get free drinks before, but never extras for their male friends.”
“I told them you play for Boston Liberty.”
He laughed. Not the muted laugh he offered his bantering teammates, or the privately bemused chuckle when something randomly struck him as funny. A belly-deep, rib-vibrating, utterly spontaneous laugh that kept going until it brought tears to his eyes.
It took a minute or two to collect himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in a while.
“I ordered nachos,” she announced, pulling out her phone. “And while we wait for them, you’re going to put away your notebook and lose some money.”
He groaned as she tapped open a slot-machine app. “I hate this crap.”
“You’ll love it once you learn how to play it.”
“I doubt that,” he grumbled, but leaned over the screen anyway.
“Looks like I’m out of credit. We need to load that up first.” She tapped through various options until her balance to play with was fifty dollars.
He whistled. “Are you sure you can afford to lose that?”
“Who says I’m going to lose it?” She bet one dollar on her first spin, pressed the button, lost.
“Ouch.”
She brushed off his comment with a waved hand. “I’m still warming up. Let’s amp up the action.” She bet five dollars, pressed the button, and lost again.
A knot of discomfort fisted in his stomach as he looked at the depleting sum of credit at the top right-hand corner of the screen. “Let’s call it quits. You can cash out the money you haven’t bet, right?”
“Nope,” she replied with a flourish, losing another five dollars.
“At least bet smaller sums. This is stupid.”
“Chill. You’re missing the point.”
“If losing money on nothing is the point, I’m getting it.”
She shook her head. “The point is it’s random. Out of your hands. Pure luck.”
“It’s not luck, it’s an algorithm developed to make sure the betting site never pays out more than it takes in.”
She sighed. “You are so uptight. I know how slot machines work, online and in-person. You have to let go of the math and hope that you’ll be the one who gets the big payout or any payout at all. Sometimes it happens, and that sometimes makes it exciting.”
“It makes it stressful,” he amended.
“Because sitting for hours poring over player stats and fixture records is like being on the beach? Here, try.” She stuck her phone in his hand.
“I really don’t—” She reached across him to press the button, the side of her breast brushing his arm. The air caught in his lungs as the faint contact sent a bolt of sensation rocketing up to his shoulder.
“You won a dollar! See, we’re already on an upswing.”
She pressed in more closely and he knew it was deliberate. He took a stalling drink of beer as his mental stock ticker whirred to life, analyzing the genuineness of her intentions, the long-term implications, the potential for someone to see them and get the wrong idea—or the right one.
“Your turn,” she goaded, nudging him in the ribs.
“I won’t gamble with your money.”
“You already do. You tell me how to wager on soccer.”
“I give you advice. You don’t have to take it.”
“I’d be a fool not to.” Her hand slid along the wooden seat to bump into his leg. The stock ticker whirred a little bit faster.
He lowered his left hand to rest on top of hers. She looped her fingers through his.
“Go on,” she urged. “Spin again.”
He shook his head, paranoia ramping up with every passing second. He tried to glance past her to make sure they knew no one in the bar but when he turned his head she filled his vision, red hair and moist lips and that coy, tantalizing smile.
“We’ll do it together.” She positioned the phone on the table and guided his hand above it. Then she dropped their interlinked fingers to press the button.
Jackpot.
“Thirty dollars!” She dropped his hand to clap in excitement, bouncing on the seat. “That’s incredible. Never mind your system, you have a gift.”
He began to protest but she silenced him with her mouth, one hand moving to his neck, the other to his waist.
He sank into the kiss like submerging into a warm, Floridian ocean. The sounds of the bar became muffled, distant, distorted, and the stock ticker ground to a welcome halt.
He didn’t care about consequences or possibilities. He wanted her. Now. Nothing else mattered.
He gripped the enticing curve of her waist, responding impatiently to the pressure of her lips. She didn’t need much encouragement—instantly she cracked her jaw to give him access, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with eagerness and hunger.
His erection rose quickly and mercilessly, threatening the limits of his jeans as he shifted to hold more of her, to fill his palms with as much soft, sweet woman as possible.
She made him a glutton, he realized as he moved one hand to her neck, twining his fingers in her hair. Structure and systems and moderation dictated the rest of his life, but with her, he was a starving beggar unexpectedly admitted to a royal feast—no, he was a diabetic bingeing on jumbo-sized chocolate bars. He knew it would hurt later. He knew it might even kill him. Still, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t find satisfaction, couldn’t ever get enough.
She tasted like beer, hoppy and summery and relaxing. Her body was a mix of soft and hard—lush breasts, generous hips, unyielding muscles in her legs and upper arms. Her jasmine scent curled around him like a vine, drawing him nearer.
“Nachos.”
The clunk of porcelain on wood jerked them apart. The bartender scowled at him, shot Erin a look that said she’d better still get her tip, and stormed back across the room.
The stock ticker hummed in double time. The bartender would remember them now. Would she go to the tabloids? It wouldn’t be difficult to figure out he was a Skyline player, not Liberty. Any reasonably intelligent sports correspondent would—
Erin trailed her fingertips down his side, releasing the line of tension tightening the space between his shoulders. His paranoia receded like low tide. Of course, the bartender wouldn’t go to the tabloids, nor would she think about them for longer than it took him to leave a big tip.
Maybe Erin was right. He should chill.
She took a long draught of beer, then smiled at him over the rim of her glass, mischief gleaming in her eyes. “So you do know how.”
“How to what?”
“Have fun.”
“I have fun all the time. Vegas was fun.”
“You were drunk.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
The words slipped from his mouth with unexpectedly sharp edges, piercing the moment. His gaze dropped to his lap. Erin replaced her glass on the table, lining it up in the wet ring it had left when she picked it up.
He resisted the urge to withdraw from the ache that had started in the center of his chest at the mention of their night together. He knew this might happen and he kissed her anyway. He couldn’t evade the consequences.
“We drank, but we weren’t drunk,” he spelled out. “Don’t pretend that either of us had anything less than an absolutely clear idea of what we were doing. It’s insulting.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” But her voice trailed off and her hands settled around the bottom of her glass, fingers tapping distractedly.
He wanted to touch her, but he didn’t. He wanted to drape his arm over her shoulder, pull her against his side and assure her he wasn’t offended.
Except for every time he touched her, another string of jasmine flowers looped around his waist and tightened, tying him to her in a way that made it harder and harder to pull away.
He needed room to move. To leave. And when the time came for him to tangle up in a web of strings, she wouldn’t be on the other end of them.
He sensed her posture change. She tapped the side of the glass once more, then slipped around the edge of the table to sit across from him, not beside him.
When their eyes met again hers were cool and evaluating. He tightened his jaw. Had he made a mistake?
“This was fun, but it wasn’t free.” She tilted her head. “Our deal
was that you would feed me some leads on gambling in the league. I have to update my boss on Monday. What am I going to tell him?”
He flexed his hands under the table. He knew this moment was on its way, but that didn’t make its arrival any less disappointing.
“Tucson United,” he told her quietly. “A couple of the guys have an online fantasy soccer team. They lose more than they win, but I’m guessing that doesn’t matter.”
“Not a bit. But thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
He pulled a twenty-dollar note from his wallet and tucked it under the plate of untouched nachos, then stuck his notebook under his arm and stood up.
“We shouldn’t be seen together near the hotel. I’ll send you the fixture choices tonight.”
“I’ll let you know when the money’s down. See you in Atlanta.” She plucked a tortilla chip from the top of the stack and bit into it delicately.
He stormed out of the bar, head down.
He knew the rules when he asked to be dealt in, and he knew the minimum bet. Stepping out of the league’s spotlight while keeping his betting habit alive would cost him.
He clutched his notebook more tightly, already mentally composing an email to Erin with his picks, imagining her clicking to accept the bookie’s odds.
Fuck it—it was worth it. He needed to bet more than he needed friends at Tucson United. And he’d pay a hell of a lot more than what they cost him to keep going.
Chapter 10
“Gorgeous. Good job, Paul.” Erin nodded her approval of the diamond engagement ring as she released her friend’s hand.
“I know, I’m so impressed.” Molly smiled at the ring one more time before wrapping her hand around the stem of her wineglass.
“Have you set a date?”
Her former national-squad teammate shrugged. “We’re not in a hurry. Paul’s still negotiating his contract with Tucson. We don’t want to book anywhere with a big deposit before we know what the bank accounts will be like.”
Saving Hearts Page 12
