“I didn’t touch him,” the left-back told him urgently, and Brendan waved him off.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
A few feet away Guedes had gotten into a confrontation with one of Eugene’s midfielders, and Kojo and Paulo inserted themselves between the two to prevent a full-blown fight. The referee spoke sternly to all of them, the two managers gestured angrily from the sideline, and the whole stadium seemed to seethe with acrimony.
Adam placed the ball in position for the penalty kick, calmly waiting for the commotion to die down so he could take his shot.
They watched each other carefully, two pillars of absolute stillness in a noisy group of het-up men. Brendan shut the door on everything he felt about Adam and concentrated on technical data. The stock ticker sped with intricately remembered stats about which direction Adam had picked in his last ten penalty kicks, only three of which had been during his tenure in the Championship League, however, they made up an overall pattern that included his international appearances.
To the numbers, Brendan added his personal experience, although it was many years ago now and Adam had undoubtedly evolved. He cataloged minute details about the way Adam prepared, the way he stepped up to the ball, the way he breathed as he drew back his leg to shoot.
Time. Adam needed time. If he had no time he’d be inaccurate. He’d screw up.
Brendan smiled at Adam as the referee motioned for the other players to back up. “Ready?”
The striker’s answering smirk was tight. Nervous. “To make a fool of you? Always.”
Brendan clapped his gloved hands together and raised his arms, filling as much of the goal with his body as he could. He had a plan, and it was risky. If it worked he’d be a hero. If he didn’t, well, he supposed he’d be no worse off than he’d been a month ago.
Brendan nodded to the referee, who blew the whistle to signal for Adam to take his shot. The striker gathered himself, rolled his neck—and Brendan feinted a lunge off the goal line. The rules forbade him from actually leaving the line but the movement was enough to trigger Adam’s instinct, which was to kick the ball before it could be taken from him.
The striker took his shot, opting to send it straight down the middle. Suspecting that he might, Brendan hadn’t lunged left or right and instead jumped to clear the ball.
He didn’t need to. It hit the bar on the upper edge of the goal and bounced uselessly over the top of the net.
Adam dropped his arms to his sides, staring in disbelief. The Skyline fans exploded into cheering, and what felt like their validation of his risky maneuver yanked off the lid of the cauldron where he’d been storing all his bitterness and resentment and raging distaste for Adam Francis. It bubbled over in a steaming flood of emotion and before he could stop himself he stepped up to the despondent striker and stood as close as possible without touching him, using his two extra inches of height to every fraction of intimidating advantage.
“Now who’s a disgrace?” he demanded, and in answer the striker bumped his chest, pushing in even closer.
“You’re only on the pitch because two better keepers are injured. You’re third-rate. You always will be,” Adam sneered.
Brendan shook off Adam’s comments. When he retired from the game and walked off the pitch for the last time, everyone would know how good he was. He’d hold his head high and leave the sport a champion. Erin would help him do it. She’d promised. He trusted her.
Brendan drew back his arms to shove the striker out of his face but someone caught one of them. Levelheaded Kojo shook his head as the referee jogged up to give them both a verbal warning, and they begrudgingly shook hands so the match could continue.
“This isn’t over,” Adam warned under his breath, but Brendan rolled his eyes. Skyline had already played the Pines away. The two of them would never meet on the pitch again. This was over.
The matched finished one-nil, with Eugene’s own goal the only one achieved in the ninety-minute slog. The opposing teams exchanged reluctant handshakes as they trudged off the pitch and into the tunnel.
Brendan lingered on the pitch to applaud the away fans, who burst into the chorus of the old Rod Stewart song, “Forever Young”—the song originally coined for him by the English crowds.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roland waiting for him at the mouth of the tunnel, and he clapped the fans a little longer. At least they were thankful for his penalty save if his manager wasn’t.
Finally, he pulled himself away and walked down the tunnel to leave the pitch. Roland waited for him at the place where the tunnel branched off into dressing rooms, offices, and underground parking.
Brendan held up his hands in apology as he approached his manager. “I know, I lost my composure, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” Roland told him tersely. “Great save on the penalty. Risky tactic but it paid out. Nicely played.”
Brendan opened his mouth to argue, then realized his manager had given him a compliment. “Thanks,” he replied, blinking in astonishment.
“Good work.” Roland slapped him on the back and Brendan continued to the dressing room in a daze. Roland’s comment was the most gushing praise he’d ever offered his third-choice goalkeeper. Brendan committed every word to memory, just in case he needed to dig it out for an ego boost someday.
Buoyed by the manager’s feedback, Brendan walked into the dressing room and after exchanging a few high-fives and encouraging words with his teammates, he opened his locker and picked up his phone.
He shouldn’t text Erin. He was barely managing to stay on the right side of the line with her, keeping things friendly and nothing more, but he was on a high and he wanted to hear from her. He wanted her to agree with his manager that he’d had a good performance.
Although if she hadn’t watched it he’d be disappointed. Not that he expected her to watch his games, of course—why should she?
But if she didn’t, he didn’t want to know. He liked imagining her eyes on the scoreboard, her attention on his decisions. Even his parents had stopped watching him play every week—too many games to keep track of, apparently—so if he couldn’t imagine her caring, he was playing for no one except the anonymous fans.
Which was still a privilege, he reminded himself, deciding not to be so melodramatic.
If she watched, she watched. If she didn’t, she didn’t. It meant nothing either way.
He’d send her a quick text. Just a one-liner suggesting she check out the penalty online. She probably hadn’t watched, so he was simply flagging the moment for her interest. She’d know who Adam was so there was more to it than his save. As a woman who knew soccer, she might— His phone flashed with a new message notification. He tapped to open it, expecting a misspelled but enthusiastic message from his younger brother, the only remaining soccer fan in the family.
Instead, his mental stock ticker ground to a halt as a saw the sender, and a single word throbbed behind his eyes.
Erin.
Ballsy move on that penalty but not surprised it worked out. Starting to think you’re legit psychic.
Don’t respond, his occasionally sensible brain demanded, but his gut-listening thumb was already tapping the keys.
Just another day at the office.
His arm was halfway inside his locker to replace the phone when it chimed again. Against his better judgment, he glanced at it, even though most of his teammates were already in the shower and he lagged behind.
I’m in Tucson, flying back to ATL tomorrow. Let’s get together on Wednesday before you travel for Friday’s game.
No emojis. No x’s or o’s in her sign-off. No question mark, either. As usual, with Erin, it was a command, not an invitation.
He typed his response, then deleted it with a smile and stowed his phone. No need to respond too hastily. Let her wonder for a while.
Chapter 11
“Hey.” Erin poked Brendan in the arm with her pen.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“I said I’m sick of your handwritten method. I’m going to start doing my charts on my tablet. I downloaded this app. You enter your fixtures in this side and then—are you listening?”
“I’m listening. An app.” He blinked. “Wait, what does it do?”
She squinted at him. “Are you okay? You’ve barely said anything all evening.”
“I’m fine.” But it was clearly untrue.
She had three days of increasingly flirty text messages on her phone as they’d planned this evening’s stats session. She read each one at least five times, wondering what had changed, and whether he was now open to something casual, had moved beyond the notion that a finite fling would make it harder for him to leave, or if he thought he could convince her to commit, even if only for a few months.
His flirtatious tone totally jarred with everything he’d said before and since that night in Boston. None of it made sense.
Then again, neither did her feelings for him. She’d turned over her conversation with Molly in her head a million times since leaving Tucson and she was no closer to figuring out what she wanted.
Actually, that wasn’t accurate. She wanted to sleep with Brendan. Whether she wanted anything more—or would be able to bring herself to offer anything more—remained in doubt.
Not because she didn’t like him. On the contrary, maybe she liked him too much. She’d spent most of her adult life steering clear of relationships because the expectation of returning someone else’s emotional attachment felt like a hassle and a burden, a taxing distraction she preferred to avoid. For the first time, though, she worried it might be her own emotional attachment that became inconvenient.
She had to face facts. Her career was flying and Brendan was leaving. Physical satisfaction was all she could afford to give him. Anything more would be foolish.
Maybe he was thinking the same thing. He seemed preoccupied, distant, a little worried. Her multiple attempts to cajole him into enjoying their betting analysis had failed, and she began to wonder if they should call the whole thing off.
She reached across the bar in his basement pub, removed his pen from his hand, and shut his notebook.
“Quit sulking and tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.”
She shook her head.
He sighed, relenting. “One of the guys I know at Tucson United called me this morning. He wanted me to hear about the fantasy-league bust from him before it made its way down the grapevine.”
“Did he connect us in any way?” she asked urgently.
“No, thank God. Not even close. He called to warn me about you. Said the league is on the warpath.”
“But he must know you haven’t been betting, right? Until recently you weren’t. He would have no way of knowing that changed.”
“He wouldn’t, but his call made me think that maybe a lot of players suspect I’ve secretly kept up the gambling all season. I know I stopped, but it feels like there’s been a rumor that I didn’t.” He looked at her, worry etched in his brow. “Do you think that’s why the league is so intent on making an example out of me? Maybe this whisper ran all the way up to the top.”
She considered it, briefly replaying her last conversation with Randall. Brendan’s name hadn’t come up once.
“I don’t think so,” she concluded. “The league’s spotlight on you is dimming.”
His posture eased slightly, but concern still darkened his eyes. “Still, I didn’t like learning that everyone believes I’ve been violating the terms of my reinstatement for months. Especially now that I am.”
“Players talk. Ignore them. We’re being careful. We’ll be fine.”
He straightened in his seat, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m really feeling the pressure on the pitch these days. Maybe I’ve lost my edge.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You were untouchable on Saturday. Well, except for—”
“When I nearly punched Adam Francis in the face.”
“You should’ve. He was asking for it.”
“And get a red card with a three-match ban? Who would Skyline get to take my place? A seventeen-year-old from the academy?”
“I was kidding,” she assured him, taken aback by his bristly response. “Is that what’s bothering you? That there’s no one behind you to step in?”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe. Yes. It’s not the level of competition in the matches that’s stressing me as much as knowing I’m the last line of defense. I can’t make any mistakes and I sure as hell can’t get injured. That’s a big ask at this point in my career.” He sighed. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“No one would know from watching you. But I guess that doesn’t change the way it feels from your side.”
He started to shake his head, then fixed his eyes on her. “Know what helps?”
“What?”
“This.” He gestured to include the whiteboard and their matching marble notebooks.
“Makes sense. All the keepers I’ve known spend a lot of time in their own heads. I can see how focusing on something external could be an outlet so you can stay sharp on the pitch.”
“That’s part of it. The bigger part for me is the money. The actual betting. Laying a wager and seeing whether or not it comes good.”
She arched a brow, intrigued. “How does that make a difference?”
“It makes it real. Important. Even if I lose it’s okay because it matters. It’s such a cliché, but it makes me feel…alive.” He waved a hand. “Never mind, it’s cheesy.”
“I get it.” She laughed, delighted that he’d articulated something she’d struggled to articulate to herself for years. “I totally get it. Like sometimes life feels flat, even when it’s stressful—especially when it’s stressful. The bad things that could happen—losing my job, not being able to pay rent, moving in with my parents—seem so conceptual that I can’t worry about them. Same with good stuff—I just can’t get it up, emotionally. But the highs and lows of pressing that slot-machine button are real. The money’s real, the pain is real, and so is the joy.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate it, in a way. I was genuinely more excited about our first round of wins than I was about my sister’s wedding.”
“Does it make you feel like a bad person?”
“All the time.”
“Me too,” he admitted. “Not enough to stop, though.”
“I’m not sure anything will make me stop.”
He pivoted on his stool, reaching for the single bottle of beer he’d been nursing for over an hour. “When did you start?”
“My first job after retiring from the pro game. I went to a conference in Atlantic City and joined in with a couple of people who wanted to play the slots. I always associated slots with sad, lonely oldies chain-smoking and losing quarters. But as soon as I tried them, I was hooked. I lost so much money that night, I only ate frozen vegetables and bagels for the rest of the month.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
He smiled encouragingly. “I’m not exactly in a position to judge.”
She exhaled, compelled to unload more, knowing he was the only person in her life who could possibly understand. “I downloaded a couple of slot-machine apps and started playing them. Everything I won I spent on designer clothes, believing that you should dress for the job you want. I’m sorry to say it worked. It helped that I was smart and worked hard, but you can never underestimate the power of a fresh manicure and a tight skirt in the sports industry. The more money I earned, the more I bet, the more I lost—the more I needed to try again. So here I am.” She spread her hands. “Thirty-one years old, successful sportswoman who’s transitioned to a huge job at league corporate, and I�
��m in so much credit-card debt I’ll probably have to work until I’m two hundred to make a dent in it.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” He tapped the cover of his notebook.
“Gambling to recover gambling debt. If poor Lenny at those meetings had any idea what we were up to…” But she smiled. Screwed up as it was, Brendan’s willingness to help her was the sweetest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.
“I’m sure he has some idea, but he can’t say anything. That’s how the whole thing works. You have to take accountability.”
“I’m accountable. I just don’t want to quit.”
His smile turned melancholy. “Me neither.”
“Anyway.” She cleared her throat. She’d intended to cheer him up and she’d gone down a long road of confession instead. “My point, somewhere way back in this conversation, was that you should know that no matter what’s happening in your head, your last couple of performances on the pitch have been top notch. No one would know that you’ve been out all season, or that you’re even half as stressed as you say you are.”
She put her hand on his knee, immediately questioned whether it was a good idea, opted to leave it there. “You’re a world-class player, Brendan. One of the best. Everyone will remember that. Nothing else.”
For a few moments he was silent, inscrutable green eyes locked with hers, expression so unreadable it was no wonder the league’s best strikers struggled to get past him.
Then he grinned, big and broad and so warm she felt its heat tingle from her toes to her cheeks.
“Thank you. That means a lot coming from one of the best strikers I’ve seen play.”
“Please.” She snatched her hand back, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to pretend you watched women’s soccer.”
“I watched you.”
Her eyes widened at his suddenly serious tone, humor vanishing from his face. For a second he was the twenty-two-year-old who’d hugged her in that long-ago dining room, so strange and so alluring, the mystery she’d never managed to solve.
Saving Hearts Page 14
