Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  The driver eased the car around the circular driveway and stopped in front of the double-door entrance. Before she could move Rio darted out to open her door, extending his hand to help her out of her seat.

  She didn’t need to, but she took it. His palm was smooth and warm, and when she tried to pull her hand away he caught it and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.

  “Rio,” she scolded gently, disentangling her hand.

  “Right, I forgot.” She could just make out his knowing wink in the early-evening darkness. “Your boyfriend.”

  She said nothing as they made their way inside. The warmth and noise of the party absorbed them as soon as they crossed the threshold and joined the full complement of the Skyline squad, staff, and attendant wives and girlfriends.

  Despite the event’s size the mood was subdued—a far cry from the last time they’d all been together at the boozy Christmas bash. The waiter who greeted them at the door had glasses of champagne or sparkling water on his tray; Rio took the latter. Normally sociable players were distracted, fiddling with their cuffs, tugging on their ties. They were guided into a high-ceilinged great room where Skyline-themed decorations felt more threatening than celebratory. Tomorrow’s season opener hung like a cloud over the room, ominous and preoccupying.

  If the atmosphere affected Rio, he didn’t show it. He moved through the room like a pro, shaking hands and smiling as if he understood every word that was said to him. Meanwhile she slid into professional mode, becoming a conduit for conversation rather than a participant. She spoke quickly and without hesitation, almost closeting her consciousness as her brain acted as a vessel. Content flowed in, content flowed out, but she didn’t engage with it.

  Rio mingled for thirty-five exhausting yet energizing minutes before their circuit paused and she got a break. All she wanted to do was stare at a wall in silence while she recharged, but it was obvious from Rio’s expression that he had other plans.

  “I have an idea. I want you to help me—”

  “Eva! So good to see you!”

  They turned toward the approach of Deon and his fiancée, Olivia.

  Eva’s smile came easily. If she hadn’t known that Olivia Shields was a medical student who’d grown up with Deon in Baltimore, she probably would’ve guessed she was a runway model scouted in a remote African village. Dark-skinned and statuesque, Olivia smiled warmly as she greeted them.

  “Oh my God, you’re so tan,” Eva gushed as they exchanged hugs. “I guess the weather in Cape Town was pretty good.”

  “Life tip: if you want to get engaged on New Year’s Eve, do it in the southern hemisphere.”

  “I hope you’re not missing Hector too badly,” Deon joked. “I’m sure I’ve still got his number if you need it.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure we said all we had to say to each other before he left,” Eva replied.

  Olivia extended her hand to Rio, who shook it politely. “Rio, so nice to finally meet you. I was glued to the screen during that penalty shoot-out in the South American Cup, so it’s a privilege to see you in the flesh.”

  Eva relayed Olivia’s words to Rio, who smiled broadly as he asked, “Can you get rid of them?”

  Eva did a double-take. “Can I what?”

  “Make an excuse. We’ll be sitting down for dinner in a few minutes and I need to talk to you.”

  “Deon’s your striker, I really don’t think you should—”

  “I just need five minutes. I’ll catch up with them later.”

  She turned back to Deon and Olivia, racking her brain for a viable exit. “Yes, he’s sorry he hasn’t had a chance to get to know you yet. Would you excuse us? He just wants to—uh—wash his hands before dinner.”

  “Of course. We’ll talk later.” If Olivia suspected anything, she gave no sign. Then again, she was exactly the type who noticed everything and revealed little. Eva shoved aside that disquieting thought as she led Rio back to the entryway.

  “They think you’re going to the bathroom, so we need to figure out where that is.”

  He shook his head. “This won’t take long. Remember earlier, when Nico said lots of players give toasts at this dinner? I want you to help me write one.”

  “Rio, I don’t think we can…” She trailed off at the sight of his keen expression. It must be so frustrating to try to develop relationships with your new teammates when you can’t speak their language. Who was she to tell him no? If he wanted to give a toast in his painfully broken, heavily accented English, she’d just have to cringe through it.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s ask one of these waiters if there’s an office or something.”

  A few minutes later they were seated behind a huge desk in Roland’s ultra-modern office, complete with black leather-upholstered chairs and stainless-steel accents. Thankfully the desk was immaculately clean—as the waiter ushered them inside she had paranoid fantasies about having to try to ignore papers full of proprietary salary information or unannounced transfer plans.

  Instead Rio had pulled out her chair before pulling up another one beside her, and they bent over a piece of scrap paper as she wrote out phonetic translations for what he wanted to say.

  “And Deon, put something in there thanking him for his leadership.”

  She nodded, carefully spelling out each word in the clearest handwriting she could manage.

  Rio leaned in more closely, flattening his hand on the top of the page as he angled it for re-reading. She was suddenly acutely conscious of everything in the moment: the squeak of leather as he moved on the chair, the fine black hair on his wrist where it emerged from his sleeve, the more intimate scents of shampoo and soap she could pick up beneath his cologne. He had the slow breathing of a professional athlete with a low resting heart rate, and she thought of the speed he’d shown on the pitch that week, the height he’d obtained during jump training.

  Her nipples tightened inside her bra. She swallowed hard, praying he wouldn’t notice.

  “Looks good. I just want to add one more thing.”

  She cleared her throat and picked up the pen. “Go for it.”

  “I want to thank you for helping me communicate with everyone.”

  Her cheeks were on fire. “That’s kind of you, but not necessary. It’s my job.”

  “And you’re very good at it, so you deserve recognition.”

  “Not in front of the whole team.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate being the center of attention.”

  Without warning he lifted a lock of hair from her shoulder and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. She froze, afraid to move—afraid she wouldn’t able to control her reaction if she did.

  He let her hair drop, smoothing it against her back. Then he traced a lazy line over her shoulder, down her arm, finally covering her hand with his.

  He brought his mouth close to her ear. “Do you really have a boyfriend?”

  “No.” The single syllable scraped out of her throat, harsh and primal.

  Rio didn’t move. His peculiarly slow breaths lightly stirred her hair as she filled her lungs with his scent and heat.

  Kiss me. I won’t stop you.

  A sharp rap on the door echoed around the room, and they jolted apart less than a second before a waiter leaned in.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said mildly. “Dinner is served.”

  Nerves plagued her through dinner as she worried about Rio’s speech, ruining her appetite for the exquisite meal. She wasn’t sure what had her so anxious. She’d only worked with Rio for a little over a week so it was hardly a reflection on her if his English wasn’t immaculate.

  And yet she wanted nothing more than for him to deliver his brief speech smoothly, impressing his teammates and trainers and cementing his place at Skyline.

  He smiled at her as Deon opened the round of speeches, no shortage of confidence in his expression. She forced herself to smile back, crossing her fingers
under the table.

  “And finally a warm welcome to our newest player, who we’re hoping will grow an inch or two under Roland’s expert guidance.” Deon smiled and raised his glass. “To Rio Vidal.”

  Upon hearing his name Rio started to stand up. Eva caught his arm halfway and tugged him back into his seat as Deon finished speaking.

  “Now is it my turn?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “After Nico.”

  “What did Deon say about me?”

  “He made a joke about your height,” she told him cautiously. “He said they’re hoping Roland can help you grow an inch or two.”

  He grinned. “That’s funny.”

  They sat through three more speeches, and Eva translated enough to give Rio the gist without disrupting the room with constant whispering.

  Finally it was Rio’s turn. A sea of heads turned toward her expectantly, and before she fixed her gaze on the tablecloth she saw at least one player frown in confusion as Rio stood and she remained seated.

  He unfolded the piece of paper and cleared his throat. She held her breath, digging her freshly painted nails into her palms.

  “Hola, Skyline,” he began, his grin as charming as ever. “I want say gracias to Roland for bring me from Chile, Deon for lead the team, y Eva for help to speak. Gracias.”

  Okay, it was atrociously pronounced Spanglish and he’d only read out a third of her meticulously handwritten phonetics, but she didn’t care. She was so proud, her cheeks ached from beaming.

  The applause was thunderous to the point it bordered on patronizing, but if Rio noticed he clearly didn’t care. He inclined his head in thanks before resuming his seat, and as left-back Oz Terim rose to give the first of the defenders’ speeches, he turned to her, eyes bright with excitement.

  “I know I skipped most of what we wrote down. I thought it would be better to get a short speech right than a long one wrong. How did I do? Did I pronounce everything okay?”

  “You did great,” she assured him, and meant every word.

  Chapter 5

  Rio shifted his weight from his left foot to his right foot and back again as the players lined up in the tunnel. The announcer’s voice rang over the noise of the packed stadium and echoed off the concrete walls, distorting so it sounded like the tunnel was under water.

  He rolled the waistband of his shorts, then unrolled it, then rolled it again. Nico stood in front of him, the number on the back of his shirt looming in his vision.

  Eleven. He looked down at the number on the left leg of his shorts. Seventeen.

  His number on the Chilean national team was seven. Seventeen was seven plus ten. Was that a good omen or a bad one?

  The line began to move forward. The stadium erupted in cheering.

  This was it. His Championship League debut.

  The noise of the crowd was an indecipherable wall of sound as he followed Nico out of the tunnel. His heart raced and he forced himself to focus, to be calm, to shut out everything but the task ahead.

  He made the sign of the cross as he stepped onto the grass. He joined his team’s procession to shake hands with the opposition, then took his place on the right wing as Deon moved to the center of the pitch for the coin toss.

  Every seat in the stadium was full, an undulating ocean of Skyline red. He squinted at the fans, as unknown to him as he was to them. He had to earn their respect, show them he was money well spent. Today he would give them a goal.

  He rolled his shoulders, flexed his ankles, breathed out.

  He was ready.

  The whistle blew and the match was underway.

  Suddenly his world was only as long and wide as the pitch beneath his feet. His rational brain stepped aside, letting his instinct and muscle memory take over. His senses became a jumble of angles and motion, responding to every tiny adjustment of the passage of a white ball through space.

  The opposing team, Pittsburgh Steel, was aggressive but clumsy. Rio jogged behind the action as Steel’s forwards pushed into Skyline’s half, where for ten nerve-wracking minutes the defenders in red fought them off.

  Guedes finally broke free and charged toward Steel’s half. Instinctively Rio shouted at him in Spanish, and despite the language barrier he got the message across. Just as two Steel defenders rounded on him, the Brazilian shot the ball to Rio.

  With a burst of speed Rio danced the ball toward the goal, pivoting and spinning to avoid Steel’s defenders. He saw his chance, and popped the ball toward the top-right corner of the net. Steel’s goalkeeper caught it in two hands and booted it back to the center line, but the elevated volume of the crowd assured Rio it had been a good chance.

  Close, but not close enough. He shoved aside his disappointment and flung himself back into the game.

  After a few minutes Nico pried the ball away from Steel and slipped it down the pitch to Deon, but the offside flag went up just as the striker took his shot. It flew inches wide of the right-hand post.

  Rio followed the ball back down the center, glancing at the clock. Twenty-five minutes—already on their way out of the first half. Steel were tough but Skyline’s players were smarter, more sophisticated, he considered. They should’ve scored by now.

  He caught up to one of the center midfielders, Laurent.

  “Their center backs are dawdling,” he called over the din. “If we can keep possession we can run them down, go straight through the middle.”

  Laurent squinted at him.

  Rio sighed, exasperated. “Down the middle,” he repeated. “Follow me, I’ll—”

  Laurent shook his head and jogged away. Rio stared after him for several bewildered seconds before realizing his teammate couldn’t understand a word he said.

  And vice versa.

  His pace was slower as he rejoined the action, doubt creeping into his thoughts. He normally tried to tune out the constant shouting during the match, but now he listened in, testing how much he understood.

  Nothing.

  Panic swelled in his throat. Were his teammates trying to call to him and he couldn’t understand? Was he missing out on changes in tactics? The opposing players could say whatever they wanted and he’d have no idea.

  The Brazilians can’t speak English either, he reminded himself. Well, they knew more than he did, but in most matches a name and a hand gesture usually sufficed.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the crack in his confidence or recover the intensity of his focus. Suddenly the Steel players seemed bigger and faster than they had earlier, and he became acutely aware of his size in a way he hadn’t for years. A quick glance up and down confirmed his fear.

  He was the smallest player in the match.

  The situation wasn’t new—he’d been one of the smallest players in the league in Chile—but his sharp drop in confidence was. His speed, agility, and selfless teamwork used to mean his size made no difference. Now he was an outsider, playing alongside strangers whom he couldn’t speak to and who couldn’t talk to him in turn.

  The whistle signaled the end of the first half. The scoreboard was goalless. Rio trudged off the pitch, buried deep in his thoughts.

  “I have no idea what he just said.”

  “Sorry.” Eva’s expression was sympathetic. “Sometimes no amount of translation can bring clarity to Roland’s halftime talks.”

  Rio dropped onto the bench in front of his locker. “Thanks for trying. I’ll see you in the second half.”

  She turned to leave, paused, turned back. “Are you all right? Need anything?”

  He shook his head, managing a weak smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She smiled encouragingly. “Viva Chile.”

  “Thanks,” he replied quietly, watching her depart the locker room. Then he stood and stared into his open locker—and the Chilean flag hanging inside.

  Pull it together, Vidal. You scored the winning goal for your country in an international tournament. This is just a run-of-the-
mill league match, one team playing another. Get over yourself and win, dammit.

  His nerves had settled by the time he exited the tunnel to start the second half. He prayed, crossed himself, took his place.

  Make it happen. No more excuses. Viva Chile.

  Both teams were unchanged as the whistle blew to start the second forty-five minutes. No substitutions, no injuries. No reason not to be able to predict exactly how each member of the opposition would play.

  Rio made an early move for possession, maneuvering through two Steel forwards to retrieve the ball. He pivoted toward the goal and the next thing he knew he was facedown in the grass, his nose pressed into the earth.

  He rolled onto his back and sat up, legs spread ahead of him, as his Skyline teammates pointed angrily at the Steel forward who’d tackled him. He watched the exchange, understanding nothing but his own name, as Deon pointed accusingly and the Steel player held up his hands in innocence.

  “Are you okay?” Nico came to his side and extended his hand. Rio took it and hoisted himself up.

  “All good.”

  The referee produced a yellow card. The Steel players shouted and shook their heads, but the match continued.

  Rio took the free kick, passing to Laurent who ran down the left-hand channel toward the goal. He clipped the ball to Deon, who snapped a shot at the goal. It was deflected by a clump of Steel defenders, but Rio smiled. They were beginning to press Pittsburgh, now. They were getting somewhere.

  Skyline spent the next fifteen minutes in Steel’s half, consolidating, pushing, running them until they were breathless. Deon made a good but unsuccessful attempt to score, and the goalkeeper hurled the ball back into a cluster of Steel players.

  Rio was nearest the forward who took possession—the same one who’d fouled him earlier. He sprinted to the bigger man, nicked the ball out from between his legs with a neat tackle and darted away, taking several seconds to realize the forward had hurled himself to the ground.