Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

Brendan dropped lower against the bed and she felt his racing heart as their chests pressed together. Too soon he withdrew, and she turned on her side to watch his fumbling, clumsy movements as he took off the condom, tied the end and dropped it in the trash bin across the room.

  When he turned she smiled an invitation, scooting over so he could join her on the bed. He stretched out and so did she, delighting yet again in how diminutive her body seemed beside his.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  He crossed one arm behind his head. “Very.”

  “Me too.” She sighed contentedly.

  “Do friends with benefits spoon after sex? Or should I get dressed?”

  “Spooning definitely allowed.” She rolled over at the same time he did, curling her back against his stomach as his arm came around her waist.

  “Not a bad way to spend a Sunday night,” he remarked.

  She closed her eyes drowsily. “Stay for dinner. I’ll grill chicken and vegetables. Or we’ll get something delivered. Watch the match highlights from the weekend. Use up another condom to celebrate our winnings.”

  He chuckled into her hair. “What time do you have to leave for work in the morning?”

  “Early,” she groaned, mildly astonished that she was actually entertaining the possibility of asking him to spend the night—and equally disappointed that a breakfast meeting made it too unwise to consider. “I have coffee with a potential new hire at seven. Then I have my weekly meeting with the CFO. He’s still harping on about making you the focus of an ethics insert in the year-end report.”

  Brendan stiffened behind her.

  “I thought the Tucson thing got me off the hook,” he said coolly, but the rigidity in his posture belied his casual tone.

  She rolled over to face him. “I thought so, too, but he wants something bigger. Preferably involving one of the teams in the league final.”

  “But that narrows it down to Miami or Charlotte, most likely.”

  “Or Atlanta,” she supplied grimly.

  His expression darkened and so did the mood. She pushed her mouth into what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll figure something out. We still have time.”

  “What we have is an agreement,” he told her, sitting up and perching on the edge of the bed. “I help you settle your debt, you keep my name out of the report.”

  “I’m working on it,” she said tartly, eyeing her robe across the room but deciding she had no reason to be embarrassed. She turned onto her back, refusing to shift from her reclined position. She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact she was doing everything she could to do right by him.

  He shook his head slightly, then fished his boxers from the floor and stepped into them.

  Tell him to stay, some part of her begged in desperation. Tell him you’re doing your best and that you’ll keep up your end of the bargain if it kills you. Tell him this was the closest you’ve ever felt to anyone you’ve slept with. Tell him he’s different. Important. The first man you could maybe—

  “No way,” she muttered under her breath, drawing Brendan’s attention. She schooled her features into neutrality as though she hadn’t spoken, and he pulled his T-shirt over his head.

  She said nothing as he resumed his seat on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. Let him be mad at her. Let him storm out like a toddler having a tantrum. She didn’t care.

  Liar.

  He finished and planted both feet on the floor, but he didn’t get up. He sat for another couple of seconds, patient, contemplative. When he finally twisted to look at her she could tell he didn’t want to say what he was about to say.

  “I heard a rumor. A player who might be betting on the league.”

  “From which club?”

  His pained hesitation gave her the answer, and she raised a hand to stop him having to say it aloud. “I get it. Don’t say anything else.”

  He nodded, maybe a little gratefully, but mostly his expression was resigned.

  She bit her lower lip, wanting so badly to take him in her arms and comfort him, acknowledge how hard it must be for him to tell her this, assure him everything would be fine. But that’s what a wife would do, or a girlfriend, or a long-term lover.

  They were just friends who had sex.

  “Thank you,” she told him instead. “I’ll take it from here.”

  He stood, cleared his throat. “Despite…that…I had fun. Let’s do it again soon.”

  “We will. Definitely.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, the atmosphere growing more awkward by the second. “I’m going to head home.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob and something propelled her to sit up. “Brendan, wait, I—”

  He looked over his shoulder, brows lifted as he waited for her to speak, but the words had gummed up in her throat, thick and stuck and immoveable.

  I want you to know this wasn’t about our agreement. I wasn’t trying to seduce you into ratting on your teammates. This was the most honest, open, sincere sexual experience I’ve ever had.

  “I’ll call you once I know my schedule for the week. We can pick a night to look at the odds and…whatever else.”

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” He opened the door.

  She nodded. “Bye.”

  He ducked his head in farewell and left the room. She heard his footsteps echo across the open-plan apartment, followed by the dull thud of the front door closing.

  Then she flopped backward on her bed, her body still glowing from his touch, her heart already aching from his absence.

  Chapter 14

  “Who are you bringing to Family Day, Terim?” Aaron lobbed the question across the corridor as they walked through the training complex from the pitch to the locker room.

  Brendan looked up just in time to catch the Swede’s evasive glance. “Friend of mine’s niece. A little girl named Dallas. How about you, Young?”

  “Kid from the Down syndrome sports program. She won the keep-up competition.” He smiled fondly, remembering the event back in… Actually it was only at the end of July. Not even two months earlier.

  Yet life seemed completely different. Then he was doomed to the bench, going through the motions of day-to-day life, spending his nights with his head buried in his notebooks.

  Now he was Skyline’s starting goalkeeper. He was betting for real again and seeing his odds play out calmed his mental state more than six months of Gamblers Anonymous meetings had. Sitting in the league’s crosshairs still worried him, but he believed Erin when she said she would fix it.

  Erin.

  He sighed contentedly as he tuned out his teammates’ banter. Sunday night had exceeded his most optimistic fantasies of this friends-with-benefits scenario, to the point he’d had to leave before his emotional defenses became as soft as his sex-spent cock. Only once he got home did he worry that Erin might misread his departure as a storm-out. Given the openness and trust she’d shown him, that was the last signal he wanted to send, and he was halfway through his third version of a long-winded text explaining that he wasn’t ready for no-strings post-sex cuddling when his phone had pinged with a text from Erin herself.

  Or more accurately, a sext.

  Should’ve made you stay. Thinking about round 1 has got me needing round 2.

  He blinked at the message, then flicked back to his own and reread it. Overlong, wordy, explaining something he hadn’t done but thought she might think he did.

  He exhaled in disgust as he deleted it. No wonder he was such a hit with the ladies.

  He stared at the blank message screen, briefly considered Googling “how to sext” for ideas, then stopped himself with a sharp mental slap.

  One of the blissful elements of his evening with Erin was the submission to instinct. No overthinking. No analysis and reanalysis. Just touch, taste and all-consuming sensation.
<
br />   He set his jaw and typed, then pressed send before he could change his mind.

  Didn’t realize the benefits part of ‘friends w/’ included round 2. Good to know for next time.

  She fired back, When is next time?

  He raised his brows. Guess she had a good time, too.

  Got training this week, home match on Saturday. Thurs night?

  Your place or mine?

  Mine, he decided.

  A short pause, then, In my calendar. Had to put it in code b/c my PA has access. Cocktails w/ Brenda, 6 PM. Because your cock tells a hell of a tale. :)

  Brenda? he replied.

  Code, she reminded him. Anyway what do you have to say for leaving me high and dry like this? Just me & my right hand here all alone, not sure what to do w/out you.

  I think you know what to do. He moved to put down his phone, thinking they were finished, when it pinged again.

  Tell me what to do.

  He swallowed. Sat down on the edge of his bed. Braced his elbows on his knees.

  Tease your clit, just a little.

  Mm. Not as good as you but I’ll take it. And?

  His breathing quickened, already hard as he imagined her sprawled naked on her bed, hand between her thighs. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this—as a lover he’d always been more Harlequin than Playboy—but Erin had a way of pushing him past limits he hadn’t realized existed. He shifted on the bed so he could type with one hand, using the other to unzip his fly.

  Test yourself with 1 finger. Tell me how wet you are.

  Mmmm. Very wet. Very slick. Still hot from your—

  “Brendan, hi.”

  He stopped short, managing to drag himself out of his foggy line of recollection just in time to stop from colliding with—

  “Erin,” he remarked, briefly wondering if she was real or his fantasy had been so vivid he’d conjured her into three dimensions. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had a meeting with Roland,” she said, widening her eyes in warning as the manager stepped into the corridor behind her. Belatedly Brendan realized they stood a few feet from the manager’s office.

  “Brendan. I’d like to see you, please.” Roland’s tone was flat, implicitly telling his teammates to keep walking and stop nosily craning their necks.

  “It was nice to see you again,” Erin told him crisply.

  He nodded, keeping his tone level and polite, schooling his features to show none of the excitement he felt at seeing her even in these dangerous circumstances. “You too. I hope you’re settling into life in Atlanta.”

  Her smile was bright and professional. “Absolutely. Best of luck with the rest of the season.”

  They shared a fleeting, conspiratorial glance before she proceeded down the corridor.

  He followed Roland into his immaculate office and sat down, feeling exceptionally unkempt in his grass-stained training kit, his mind lurching like a drunk on a sailboat as he assessed the situation from every angle, worked the odds, examined the probabilities.

  Best-case scenario, he’s decided I’m a hero and wants to extend my contract.

  Worst, he’s found out about our syndicate and I’m fired.

  He held his breath as Roland folded his hands on the desk.

  “You know Erin Bailey,” he stated neutrally.

  “We went to college together,” Brendan explained, careful not to volunteer any more information than he had to.

  Roland inclined his head, giving nothing away. Too bad he’d come into managing after only a brief career as a defensive midfielder because he could out-poker-face some of the best strikers in the league.

  “Did you know Miss Bailey works for the league?”

  Brendan nodded. “Ethics Director.”

  “Unfortunately her visit today wasn’t a courtesy call. She’s received an anonymous tip that one of my players is betting on the CSL.”

  Brendan said nothing, ignoring the panic beginning to stir in his gut. If Roland wanted to accuse him, he could go right ahead. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Okay, he had done—and continued to do—plenty wrong. But he hadn’t bet on his own league. That was a line he’d never cross.

  They regarded each other in silence. Brendan forced his breaths to slow, reminding himself that Erin was in his corner. She wouldn’t say anything to Roland to jeopardize his career. They were in this together.

  He resisted the urge to twitch his mouth in a half-smile. How times had changed.

  Finally Roland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’ve had an outstanding run since Pavel was injured. I’d hate to lose you at this point in the season, and that’s why I need you to be completely honest with me.”

  He arched a brow, daring his manager to ask the question.

  Roland’s voice was hard as flint. “Are you betting on the league?”

  “No,” Brendan replied firmly, secretly grateful Roland had qualified the question with on the league.

  Roland narrowed his eyes. Brendan held his gaze unwaveringly, refusing to fill the silence with anything but that single word.

  “Fine.” Roland dropped his palms to the desk. “I won’t ask you again. But Erin Bailey might. She’s opening a formal investigation, and she has my full support. I won’t stand for ethics violations of any kind on this squad.”

  It was more of a thinly veiled threat than a statement, and Brendan simply smiled. “I’m happy to cooperate. It’ll be nice to catch up after so long.”

  “I’ll let you know when she wants to speak to you.” Roland picked up a piece of paper from a pile, signaling the end of their conversation.

  Brendan didn’t bother with even a cursory parting statement. He just stood and left the room.

  If Roland thought he could find a reason to freeze him out of the league final he had another think coming. He deserved his spot. No way in hell would he let go of it now.

  * * * *

  “Hello.” Brendan grinned as he opened the door from the garage to the kitchen to find Erin framed in the dim light, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, a virginally white dress hugging the body he’d dreamed about for the last three days.

  “Hello, yourself.” She pushed up to her toes and brushed a kiss over his lips. He grabbed her wrist to keep her in place, lapped at her lower lip, stole a taste of her tongue. She hummed her approval and pressed in closer, but he used his grip on her arm to hold her back.

  “Work, then pleasure.”

  “Boring,” she whined but preceded him through the door to the pub.

  “How was training today?” she asked over her shoulder, picking her way down the stairs in her high heels.

  “Standard.” Her ass looked sinful in that dress. In every dress. Was there a special store that made clothes that tight, or—

  “No one mentioned anything about the investigation?”

  Mention of the dark cloud hanging over him and Roland killed his boner faster than a cold shower in January. “No. But I’m not sure anyone knows about it except me.”

  “They will tomorrow. My assistant’s sending out the interview schedule first thing in the morning.” She took a seat at one of the barstools, slung her bag onto the one beside it, then pulled out her iPad. “I guess it’s inevitable that some people will assume it’s about you. Hopefully they won’t let it affect the team dynamics.”

  He moved behind the bar to pour her gin and tonic, then emptied a beer bottle into a pint glass for himself.

  “We have a rest day tomorrow, ahead of the early match on Saturday.” He eased onto the stool beside her and opened his notebook. “If anyone wants to confront me about it, they can call. Otherwise they’ll have to set their suspicions aside until after the game.”

  “Do you think anyone will be rude about it? Cheers, by the way.” She tapped her glas
s against his.

  “Cheers.” He took a sip, then raised a shoulder as he put down the pint. “I doubt it. They’re not a sanctimonious crowd. The only one I can see being difficult is the guilty party.”

  “What about Roland?” she prompted. “Was he difficult?”

  “No more than usual. Anyway, let’s get to work.” Brendan picked up his pen, shoving aside images of his manager’s brooding stare, his furrowed brow, his even greater reluctance to offer any praise to his goalkeeper.

  She let the topic drop as she tapped the screen to life, but her sidelong glances told him she was still thinking about it.

  He reached over and lowered the tablet, touching her cheek so she looked at him head-on.

  “I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I don’t need Roland to be nice to me, or anyone else for that matter. What I do need is for you to make a big bust and get my head off the chopping block.”

  “I know. And I will. It just makes me sad to think of people making assumptions about you that aren’t true.”

  “Aren’t they?” He gestured to the setup in front of them, sweeping his arm to include the whiteboard, his stats-clogged notebooks, her own spreadsheet.

  She shook her head. “Definitely not. Betting on a league you haven’t played in for years is completely different to betting on the one paying you every week.”

  “It’s not great, though, is it.” He sighed, smoothing his hand over a page made bumpy by the density and pressure of his handwriting.

  “Moral or not, it’s profitable,” she said resolutely.

  He nodded, glancing between the whiteboard and his notebook as he tried to find his focus, to summon the sense of relaxation that normally accompanied these stats sessions.

  The last couple of days he’d found himself reluctant to open his notebooks, and he wasn’t sure why. Part of him was grateful, hoping this was a natural easing of his obsession, that it showed the potential for finding a mental release valve in something other than a morally dubious, time- and money-consuming hobby.

  The other part of him was quietly terrified that it meant the stats would stop working. That he wouldn’t be able to reach for his notebooks when he needed to silence his clanging brain. That there would be no outlet for his anxiety and the erratic heartbeats, short breaths, and tickertape thoughts would become the status quo.