Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  No, he assured himself, forcing his attention onto Erin’s analysis of the first match on their list. He’d find another way. Something else to be his conduit out of mental chaos and pin him to earth.

  He just had no idea what.

  “I know their lineup looks stronger,” Erin said. “But they had a big European match last night and I think the players will be tired. It’d be a huge upset, but I think they might draw.”

  Brendan frowned at the predicted team sheet Erin had pulled up on her iPad. “I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about this one yet. We can go with your bet, though, if you think it’s sound.”

  She bit her lower lip. “It’s a big call. Maybe you should look at it when you get a chance and decide whether or not I’m on the right track.”

  “I can, but you’re getting awfully good at this yourself. In a couple of months you’ll be making all these decisions on your own. Time to start taking off the training wheels and sending you for some test runs, Bailey.”

  “Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about you leaving and taking that superstar cock of yours with you.” She puffed her lips in a mock pout.

  “I can’t leave it here. Although it might finally get this house sale moving if it was included in the purchase price.”

  “Still no offers?”

  “Nope. The realtor wants me to paint the second bedroom lilac. Says the whole place is too masculine.” He exhaled his disgust.

  “It’s a sign. The universe is telling you to stay in Atlanta and serve as my private sex slave.”

  He laughed, but his groin twitched. He looked her up and down again, his eyes leveling on her breasts, the way they brushed the tops of her hands as she leaned over her folded forearms.

  “Tempting,” he admitted. “Not sure it would cover the mortgage repayments, though.”

  “I only pay in blowjobs, so unless the bank is willing to accept those…” She shrugged.

  “I doubt it. Moving on.” He cleared his throat and tried to focus on his notebook rather than the full-force erection demanding to be released from his jeans and stuffed between Erin’s legs.

  It was her turn to laugh, a sunny, arresting sound. “Brendan Young, you are positively blushing. Did I scandalize you with the b-word?”

  “No,” he protested, but she tilted her head knowingly.

  “This is why I love sleeping with Catholic men. The overdeveloped sense of shame makes even the ordinary seem so much more taboo and delicious.” She ran her hand up his thigh. “I’ll give you one now if you want.”

  “No.” Yes.

  “I don’t mind. It would be my pleasure,” she purred.

  “No,” he repeated, summoning the strength to remove her hand from his leg. “Stats first.”

  “Your self-control is admirable and extremely boring.” She sighed her defeat, sulkily propping her chin on her hand. “Next match on the list should be easy. Top-flight club at home against one already battling to stay out of relegation. The odds won’t be worth much on this one.”

  He flipped two pages backward in his notebook to see if he could fill the blank he was drawing. Nothing—he hadn’t started his analysis on this one either.

  “I haven’t worked this one. Let’s park it for now. What’s next?”

  She gestured to the half-empty whiteboard. “You’ve hardly thought about any of these. I know it’s only Thursday, but usually you’ve got at least an educated guess for every result. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her honestly, sitting back on the stool. “Normally I can’t stop thinking about the odds. I check them first thing in the morning, last thing before I go to bed. I dream about them. But this week I just couldn’t get interested.”

  “That’s weird,” she agreed. “Do you know what’s weirder?”

  “What?”

  “I had the exact same issue this week. The difference is I’m actively trying to give up my stupid slot-machine habit, with mixed results. The last couple of days, though, I haven’t even opened the app on my phone. Haven’t even thought about opening it.”

  “Interesting.” He crossed his arms. “What did you think about instead?”

  She looked at him squarely. “You.”

  “Very funny.” He ducked his head, trying to conceal what he was sure must be bald recognition in his face.

  Because he’d been doing exactly the same thing since he left her apartment on Sunday night.

  For years his tendency to reach for his notebooks in response to stress had been automatic, almost unconscious. He’d pay an unexpectedly high credit card bill and before the glimmer of guilt or regret could take hold he was already opening to the current page and fumbling for a pen. Each notebook was an escape route out of worry, fear, irritation, or sadness, ten times as effective as any of the psychiatric medicines he tried in high school and a hundred times faster.

  On Monday morning, though, he’d opened his notebooks more out of obligation than need. On Tuesday evening, after his confrontation with Roland, he’d settled into the chair in his bedroom with a notebook only to leave it open and untouched as he stared into space, his thoughts drifting to Erin. Her body. Her smile. Her laugh.

  He told himself it was the newness of their arrangement. He was scratching a physical itch he’d ignored for a long time, and that could drive any man to distraction. This fixation with Erin would fade over time. It had to. It was already September. By Christmas he’d be nearly a thousand miles away in Nebraska.

  “I’m serious,” Erin insisted, drawing him out of his reverie as her hand found its way back onto his thigh. “It’s like you’re my new drug of choice.”

  “Same,” he admitted, slowly raising his gaze to meet hers. “That’s why I haven’t looked at the matches yet.”

  They regarded each other in silence. He wondered if she was also thinking about their no-strings agreement. Or if her heart rebelled as fiercely on that point as his.

  “Friend with benefits,” he said aloud, as much for himself as for her. “I don’t speak from experience, but I’m guessing that doesn’t include sex as a replacement addiction.”

  “Definitely not,” she replied, seeming to find the same resolve he had. “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the diversion while it lasts, though.”

  He shut the notebook and swiveled on the stool, pressing his hand over hers. “We’re not getting anywhere on these. Maybe we should get the diversion out of the way. Come back to the odds with clear heads.”

  “Best plan I’ve heard in weeks. One point of business first, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’ve gotten approval to travel to Topeka next weekend to meet with the ladies’ team. I’ll be there for Skyline’s away fixture on Friday night.”

  He smiled. His Friday night in Kansas just got more interesting. “I’ll be on the same floor as all the other players, but I’m sure I can sneak into your room. Actually, if you book a different hotel, I can—”

  “We’ll deal with the logistics later. First I need to explain why I timed the trip this way.” She grinned. “I have an ulterior motive.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “I’m more like sixty-five percent hidden agenda, thirty-five percent open confrontation. Anyway, this falls into the former category. A little bird in the Skyline press office told me you’re driving home to Lincoln on Saturday for an event.”

  “I usually do when we’re away at Topeka. It’s not a long drive to Lincoln, so I spend a night or two and fly home from there.”

  “And the event? The publicist told me it’s similar to what you do here in Atlanta, promoting sports for people with intellectual disabilities.”

  “The organization I fund here in Atlanta is an offshoot of the one in Nebraska. When I first started playing professionally I set up a foundation in my brother’s name and hired someone in Neb
raska to disburse the money to worthy programs. He had so much trouble finding any, he suggested we start one.” He smiled fondly, remembering the work that had gone into creating Young Legends. “Now it’s a fully-fledged nonprofit. We have a couple of people who do the advocacy side, talking to legislators, partnering with parents and school districts to improve services. On the other we do all-abilities sports teams, targeted at a post-school age bracket, which is when the extracurricular programming tends to run out. Soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, softball in the spring. I’ve got a whole staff running it now, but I like to turn up in person when I can. See the players, meet their parents. Keep my hand in.”

  “That’s awesome, Brendan,” she told him earnestly as he raised his beer glass to take a sip. “And that’s why I’m going with you.”

  “You’re what?” He put the glass down so hard some of the beer sloshed over the rim. He grabbed one of the towels he used to wipe down the bar and slapped it over the puddle, glancing at Erin over his shoulder. “Explain.”

  “This annual report thing rocks two ways. We both know I have to nail someone doing something worse than you did. The flip side is to make you look like a saint, and stuff your section full of uplifting content.”

  “Like the thing next weekend,” he supplied.

  “You’ve got it. The press office gave me a name of a photographer in Des Moines, and he’s available to be in Lincoln on Saturday. While I’m out there I can get some quotes from whoever you’ve got running the nonprofit, maybe even some parents or players. It’s perfect for what we need, especially as it has the hometown, end-of-career angle. You just have to say yes.”

  He arched a brow. “Since when? If it’s what you want to do, you’ll do it.”

  “Not when it’s this personal. Not now that we’re… You know.”

  He didn’t know. In fact he was increasingly unsure of what they were, but he knew exactly what they were supposed to be. And it left no room for sentimentality.

  “People will see us together,” he pointed out. “You don’t think that’ll be a problem?”

  “Not as long as you can keep your hands off me. Which will be difficult, I know.” She winked teasingly. “Otherwise no one will suspect anything. The possibility of my dating someone is so improbable—especially a player—I doubt anyone would even think of it.”

  “Let’s do it,” he decided. “We can drive up together on Saturday morning.”

  She clapped her hands together in delight. “Road trip!”

  “It’s only a three-hour drive,” he told her dryly, but her excitement was contagious and he couldn’t help smiling.

  “Good to know. I’ll curate the playlist accordingly.”

  “No way. I’m driving, I pick the music.”

  Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Let’s play for it. Winner owns the stereo.”

  “Winner of?”

  “The game I just made up.” She reached back and slowly unzipped her dress. “We take turns. Whoever comes faster loses.”

  “You’re on,” he declared, already reaching for her.

  Chapter 15

  Brendan winced as a woman’s voice whined through the speakers, accompanied by an acoustic guitar. “What’s she so pissed off about?”

  “Patriarchy.” Erin snapped an elastic around her ponytail and slid her sunglasses on her nose.

  “Please don’t tell me the whole playlist is like this.” He put the rental into gear and pulled out of the parking lot to join the road leading to the highway.

  “Nope, I threw in a couple of Broadway hits too.”

  He groaned. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  “I believe it was the forty-five seconds from the first touch to orgasm,” she pointed out, flashing him a helpful smile.

  She leaned back in the seat as the car joined the highway. She’d had a superb meeting with the Topeka women’s team, the Skyline investigation was moving forward, and by the end of today she’d have enough content to make Brendan look like a hero on and off the pitch. She had her favorite tunes, a hot man behind the wheel, and three hours of clear blue skies and wheat-field roadsides. She exhaled happily, unable to remember the last time everything had been going so well.

  She smiled over at Brendan, taking in the long legs he’d had to adjust the seat to accommodate, his relaxed posture, green eyes focused on the road ahead. She remembered the way he’d urged her legs to wrap around his waist in the shower that morning, the squeak of tile against her bare back, the muscles in his arms trembling as they came together, gravity forcing him deep inside her. Then she thought of the contrast between the ramshackle assortment of clothes stuffed inside her suitcase and the spare, ordered contents in his, and her smile became a grin.

  She crossed her hands behind her head with a contented sigh. This friends-with-benefits scenario had worked out even better than she imagined. Steamy sex, genuine laughs, easy companionship, and the double-edge benefits of shaving down her debt and slowing down the rate at which she added more.

  No, not slow—stop. She hadn’t opened her slot-machine app in days, not even during the long delay on the tarmac or tucked into her hotel room bed—two situations that normally could’ve cost her hundreds in bored, restless spins.

  Brendan was the first man she would’ve considered for a medium-term affair, which made his imminent departure all the more disappointing. He didn’t bore her like most of her dates. He was good-looking, funny, smart, humble, yet confident enough to stand up to her.

  She stole a glance at him across the car. He was leaving, and that meant emotions were off the table. But if he wasn’t… If they weren’t…

  It didn’t matter. This would never be anything more than what they’d agreed—what she’d stipulated, in fact. No point getting sentimental about something that was always going to end. By New Year’s he’d be in Nebraska and she’d be bed-hopping again, and their fling would be a pleasant but distant memory.

  Anyway, she wasn’t sure she had the capacity to love a man, not for any significant length of time. She loved her mother and her sister and her dad, but the possibility of feeling something similar for someone outside her family seemed totally unlikely. She could barely muster the emotion to care whether she saw most guys for a second date. At thirty-one, sexually active for thirteen years, she had so many notches on her bedpost she’d lost count. Not once had she felt a romantic tug toward commitment, and that was fine. She treasured her self-sufficiency and independence. Growing old alone didn’t faze her. She welcomed it.

  And yet growing old with Brendan didn’t sound half-bad.

  It was a waste of mental energy to even consider it, she decided, sitting up in her seat. Brendan might not want to be with her, anyway—he’d agreed to the same short-term time frame she had. He probably didn’t think of her as wife material. She bet he wanted a docile, wholesome, supportive type who baked bread and clipped coupons and kept a holiday decorating schedule. Who wasn’t ambitious or prickly or arrogant. Who loved him with the wide-open, uncritical, limitless adoration she doubted she was capable of.

  She turned to him with a teasing smile, hoping some playful banter would lighten the weight pulling on her heart. “I bet all of Lincoln’s eligible bachelorettes will be there this afternoon, lining up like Penelope’s suitors, plying you with homemade jams and hand-sewn quilts.”

  “Jesus, Erin, it’s the Midwest, not the nineteenth century.” He shot her a grin. “They’ll have Pinterest boards, not quilts, and the jams will be sugar-free.”

  “Either way, I’m going to do my best to screen them for you. Any sign of extreme religious fervor, excessive cat ownership or sexual inadequacy will get them removed from the event.”

  He arched a brow. “Sexual inadequacy?”

  “Don’t pretend I haven’t spoiled you for all but the most sexually dynamic of my species. I’m a hard, if not impossib
le, act to follow.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  “No, but you’ll say goodbye to me when the time comes. You’ll sleep with other women and I’ll sleep with other men. You’ll never forget me, though,” she told him, then snapped her mouth shut as what was meant to be a silly, triumphant statement came out wistful and full of longing.

  He heard it, too. “I never said I would.”

  “I know,” she replied shortly, trying to think of a way to change the subject.

  “You brought up these imaginary bachelorettes, not me. Is something bothering you? Because—”

  “Look, there’s a casino at the next exit,” she exclaimed, pointing to a sign on the side of the highway. “Can we stop, just for a few minutes? Please?”

  “I hate casinos on reservations. They’re depressing.”

  “Have you ever been to this one?” When he shook his head she continued, “Then you have no idea. It could be great. There’s only one way to find out.”

  He sighed exaggeratedly, but she could tell his gambler’s instinct was as piqued as hers. “Twenty minutes, not a second more. We have to get to Lincoln by noon.”

  “Deal. I can do a lot of damage in twenty minutes.” She flashed him a bright smile, but his brow furrowed.

  “No one will recognize us, right?”

  “At eight o’clock in the morning in middle-of-nowhere Kansas? Not a chance.”

  Apparently satisfied, he indicated to take the exit.

  The casino was one of the smallest she’d ever seen. A handful of pickup trucks and one ancient Lincoln Town Car huddled in the narrow parking lot. They both glanced up at the peeling sign as they walked through it, quickening the pace in case the hinges were as loose as they looked.

  “The Golden Gate,” she read aloud. “Odd to name this place after a landmark a thousand miles away.”

  “Maybe they mean it’s a gate to wealth and treasure.” He pushed open the door, and the watery autumn light washed over a threadbare carpet in a faded orange pattern. As a black-clad bouncer roused himself from a chair at the other end of the long room, Erin made out a row of ten slot machines, three empty card tables, and a roulette wheel. Half of the slot machines were dark, so potentially broken, and the median age of the people playing the rest was at least seventy-five.