Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  Gonzalo was big but slow, and that was even more evident now the match had gone into injury time. Gonzalo was sluggish on the pitch, his movements heavy with fatigue, while Rio flitted back and forth in tight diagonals that would make a hummingbird dizzy.

  Skyline had led possession in the second half and as the clocked ticked down the visitors’ goal was crowded with red jerseys. One of the Steel players booted a long ball down the pitch, and while much of Skyline ran after it Rio lingered near the area, jogging at angles to avoid coverage from Steel’s defenders.

  There was a fight for possession and suddenly Deon broke free, dribbling the ball down the right-hand side. As all four of Steel’s defenders closed in on him Rio called his name.

  Deon fired the ball toward Rio but overshot, sending it to the empty space in front of the goal. Rio and the goalkeeper lunged for it simultaneously. The noise in the stadium tripled as fans shouted their suspense. Rio ran so fast his feet barely seemed to touch the ground but the goalkeeper was right there, throwing himself at the ball, arms outstretched, fingertips nearly touching it…

  Rio’s toe connected. The ball soared over the goalkeeper’s head, hitting the top of the net before smacking against the grass.

  Rio punched the air. The crowd sang his name. The referee blew the whistle, and the final score was one-nil to Skyline.

  Eva filed off the sideline and into the tunnel alongside the rest of the staff. The mood was buoyant, but she couldn’t celebrate just yet. Normally they only spoke to the captains and managers, but as the lone goal scorer the press would expect post-match interviews with Rio.

  He hadn’t done any before, and she supposed he was overdue. Plus he had plenty of media training from his career in Chile so he was hardly an amateur. All she had to do was what she did best—translate. There was no reason to be nervous.

  So why was her stomach turning somersaults?

  The noise level in the tunnel tripled as the players streamed in, shouting and laughing and celebrating their win. Rio appeared last, and as soon as he saw her he rushed over and swept her off her feet, swinging her in a circle before putting her back down.

  She laughed his name, but her playful scolding caught in her throat as he looked at her lips, angled his head, and lowered his face toward hers.

  Oh my God, he’s going to kiss me.

  Except he didn’t. He stopped half an inch short, released his hold on her upper arms and stepped back.

  “Sorry. I need a shower.”

  Her thoughts spun as she processed what just happened. The heat of his body as he lifted her, the iron-hard muscles she’d clutched for stability. He was soaked in sweat yet she could smell his skin when he’d leaned in, count the fine lines on his forehead, catch the amber sparkles in his brown eyes.

  “You’re fine,” she assured him breathlessly. Her heart beat so fast she could barely spare the oxygen to speak. She cleared her throat. “I hope you’re ready for some post-match interviews.”

  “As long as you’re with me, I’m ready.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  They stood in silent accord, each holding the other’s gaze in a way that made the moment tantalizingly intimate despite the very public setting. Eva knew she should look away and break whatever boundary-crossing spell Rio always managed to cast on her, but she didn’t want to. Instead she indulged her desire as the seconds ticked by, losing herself in his attention, his presence.

  A member of the grounds crew accidentally bumped into Rio as he passed, jolting them back to the cacophonic present.

  “We should go.” She nodded in the direction of the press room.

  He gestured for her to lead the way, his grin showing all of his teeth. “After you.”

  * * * *

  “Bzzzbzzz bzzz bzzz bzzzbzzzbzzzz?”

  “You had plenty of offers after the South American Cup,” Eva translated. “What made you choose Atlanta Skyline?”

  Jesus, can’t they come up with a new question? Rio’s whole body felt heavy with fatigue and his knee twanged every time he put weight on it, but he forced another smile for the journalist. She was the last one, probably just as ready to leave as he was, and it never paid to be rude to the press.

  “I saw Skyline as a team on the rise with a gap for an attacking midfielder. I’ve always wanted to play in the CSL and Skyline’s offer was an opportunity not only to join the league but potentially to win it as well.”

  Eva relayed his statement, the journalist scribbled. He wondered if it was possible to sleep standing up.

  With a smile the journalist buzzed again, and Eva asked, “Does that mean you think Skyline can win the title this year?”

  “Now that I’m here, anything’s possible.” He winked, the journalist blushed, and the interview was over. He shook her hand and waited for her to turn around before he let the smile dissolve from his face.

  “I’m not sure which I want first: a steak, a shower or a nap.”

  “You can have all three in whatever order you’d like.” Eva glanced over at the PR manager, who nodded to confirm they were done, then guided him out of the press room with her hand at the small of his back.

  The instant she touched him he was reminded of his reckless loss of control in the tunnel. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, sweeping her up like that. Only that he hadn’t been thinking at all.

  He’d never worked so hard to endear himself to someone as he had these last three weeks. He studied his English lessons late into the night, ensured he was charm personified in every interaction with Eva, and nearly killed himself in training whenever he knew she was watching. He wanted so badly for her to see him as responsible, committed—worthy.

  But if she did, she gave absolutely no sign.

  When he saw her in the tunnel he’d acted on pure instinct. He was high on adrenaline, lightheaded with excitement after his match-winning goal, and his rational brain was nowhere to be found as he scooped her up and swung her.

  Thank God he’d regained some shred of awareness before he kissed her. He’d been seconds away from doing exactly that—seconds away from ruining his chance with the hottest woman he’d ever encountered.

  She looked up at him as they walked down the corridor, wearing her default-encouraging expression. “I can’t believe I haven’t congratulated you on that goal yet. I thought we were headed for—”

  “Rio Vidal.” It was more of a statement than a greeting, and when Rio noted the source he understood why.

  “Gonzalo,” he inclined his head to the Costa Rican, who had showered and changed and was probably on his way to the Cleveland Thunder bus.

  “Sorry for kicking the shit out of you in the Cup,” he said in Spanish, his tone suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.

  “No problem, it’s the end result that matters, right?” Rio grinned.

  Gonzalo shrugged. “Looks like both our performances got us to the Championship League.”

  “Exactly.” Rio stuck out his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  The big Costa Rican ignored his proffered handshake, sliding his gaze to Eva and back again. “I’ve been wondering. Why do you keep speaking in a woman’s voice?”

  He dropped his hand back to his side. “Excuse me?”

  Gonzalo nodded toward Eva. “My interpreter’s a man. Couldn’t they find one for you?”

  Fury squalled in Rio’s chest. He grabbed fistfuls of his shorts and pressed his clenched hands against his thighs, reminding himself that Gonzalo was a third-rate player and a fifth-rate human being. He couldn’t let himself be baited. It wouldn’t serve either of them to get into a stupid feud.

  Rio managed a smile. “Come on, Gonzalo. Don’t be jealous that my interpreter’s hotter than yours.”

  Gonzalo snorted. “Please. Whenever those rumors about closeted gay players start spinning, we all know who they’re talking about.”

  He heard Eva’s sharp intake of breath but didn’t acknowl
edge it. “If I was gay I wouldn’t hide it. I’d be proud. This is where you go wrong, my friend—you think you can shame people, when no one actually cares what you think. What was that word you used to describe the referee who sent you off in the Cup? I can’t quite remember, but I think it had something to do with him being black.”

  The striker’s eyes narrowed. Rio continued, “Anyway, it’s good to know I can call you for advice if I ever have to make a public apology. Which would be delivered in this fine woman’s voice, of course.”

  He slung his arm around Eva and dragged her toward the Costa Rican, whose hand he pried away from his side to shake.

  “Seriously, it’s good to see you, man.” Rio slapped Gonzalo on the back. “Guys like us, we have to stick together on this side of the border.”

  “See you in Cleveland, little worm,” Gonzalo sneered. Rio didn’t look over his shoulder as he led Eva toward the dressing room, and soon he heard the Costa Rican’s footsteps retreating down the hall.

  Eva ducked out of his grip and he was once again self-conscious. Was he too sweaty? Was she angry that he’d picked her up? Did she just not want him to touch her?

  She stopped their progress, putting her hands on her hips. “Little worm?”

  He laughed, unable to help himself. If that was the worst thing she came away with, maybe he hadn’t done too badly.

  “That’s what he called me in the quarter-final match when he got sent off for a late tackle that could’ve broken my leg. No idea where he got it from, not for a big guy like me.”

  He winked, and he nearly collapsed with relief when she returned his smile.

  “I like the way you handled that,” she remarked.

  He waved his hand dismissively, secretly thrilled at her compliment. “I’ve known Gonzalo for years. He’s a stupid, racist bully. What he lacks in skill he tries to make up for in intimidation. It’s never worked with me and he hates that.”

  She looked up and down the hallway, and waited for one of the PR assistants to slip into the press room before she spoke again.

  “Do you really think I’m hotter than his interpreter?”

  His face lit up as hope swelled in his stomach. He’d had weeks of cool professionalism and immaculate restraint from Eva. The odd flash of friendliness, and that was it.

  But unless he was hallucinating from exhaustion, he was pretty sure she just flirted with him.

  “No question. Hottest in the league, in fact. You’re the World Cup final. Everyone else is scrabbling around in the second division.”

  She rolled her eyes but her smile didn’t wane. “Have you even seen any other female translators?”

  “Sure,” he fibbed.

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “They were all so unremarkable that I can’t remember.”

  “Of course.” She reached across the short space between them and fixed the hem of his jersey, freeing a spot where the material had caught on itself.

  She stepped back, clearing her throat. “Thanks for sticking up for me. I know what Gonzalo was saying wasn’t really about me, but—” She shrugged. “I liked hearing it anyway.”

  “I meant every word.”

  She smiled up at him, then ducked her head shyly. “I’ll let you get your shower. Or did you decide the steak should come first?”

  He pulled the front of his sodden jersey away from his chest. “Definitely shower. But maybe I’ll see you for steak afterward? A bunch of the players are going out for dinner for Deon’s birthday.”

  “Would you like me to join you?”

  “It’s last-minute, so if you have other plans…”

  “You know my contract includes team social events. Would you like me to join you?”

  He paused, trying to read between the lines. Did she want him to ask her out? Or were they back in client-translator territory?

  “I would,” he replied carefully. “But only if it suits your schedule. Your personal schedule.”

  “Then I’ll see you there,” she informed him chirpily. She pivoted and made a brisk exit down the hallway, leaving him to watch her depart.

  He may not have been the smartest kid in class, but he was pretty sure he knew an invitation when he got one.

  He grinned as he headed toward the changing room. Enough proving himself. Time to make the first move.

  * * * *

  Olivia had reserved the wine cellar of a steakhouse for Deon’s birthday dinner, and Eva felt underdressed as she descended the narrow stairs into the elegantly decorated space. The long table was laid with fresh flowers and bottles of wine, players’ wives and girlfriends circulated in chic cocktail dresses, and low lighting gave the bottle-lined walls an intimate ambience.

  “I should’ve gone home to change,” she fretted aloud, glancing down at her too-big Skyline polo and dark-wash jeans. Rio looked flawless in all black, and she looked like what she was.

  Staff.

  “You look great,” he assured her, already flashing his grin as Deon’s fiancée approached them.

  “Buenas noches, Rio,” Olivia attempted, then laughed self-effacingly. “That’s about all I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s what I’m here for,” Eva replied, suddenly fighting an urge to burst into tears.

  She spent several minutes translating pleasantries for Olivia, and then Deon, and then a number of other players and their partners. Outwardly she was polite and professional, but inside she felt like her heart was bleeding from a thousand stinging paper cuts.

  After all her self-talk about guarding her emotions and convincing herself Rio wasn’t right for her at this point in her life, she’d gone and done exactly the opposite. All he had to do was say one flattering thing to her and she melted like a popsicle in August. She’d hung around the stadium waiting for him to shower, accepted a ride to dinner in his super-fast convertible, and happily chatted on the journey, all the while thinking he wanted her to attend as more than his paid interpreter.

  Some stupid, foolish part of her had decided he actually liked her, and that on some level this was a date. She knew that’s what she wanted in the short term, but never gave a second’s consideration to whether that’s what she needed in the long term.

  And now he’d made the decision for her. The more they mingled, the clearer it became that he’d invited her in a professional—not personal—capacity. He barely looked at her, certainly didn’t draw her into any of his conversations, and she felt more like an accessory with every passing minute.

  Moron. She cursed herself silently as she offered a smiling translation to yet another of Rio’s teammates. Brian was clearly trying to make amends for being rude on Rio’s first day, but all Eva could think about was the way Brian’s girlfriend kept looking Rio up and down like she hoped there was more than just steak on the menu tonight.

  “That was very grown-up of him,” Rio remarked as the couple moved away.

  “His girlfriend’s certainly a fan of yours,” she muttered.

  He looked at her in surprise, but Laurent approached them and he said nothing more.

  The cocktail hour seemed to drag on forever, and by the time they were seated toward one end of the long table Eva was exhausted. She smiled through Olivia’s opening toast to Deon’s birthday, translated a brief conversation between Rio and Laurent on his right, then opened the menu.

  “So,” she began, readying herself to talk Rio through the options. “Starting from the upper left-hand corner we’ve got—”

  “It’s okay.” He held up a hand to interrupt her. “I think I can figure most of it out. I’ve been practicing, remember?”

  His smile was hopeful, so eager for her approval, but she just couldn’t give it to him. She leaned over the menu, blinking furiously against the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

  Great. Soon he won’t need me at all.

  “Hey.” His hand found her arm, and she pried her face out of the leather-bound me
nu.

  “Need help?”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, why?” she asked, too brightly.

  His expression was unconvinced. He leaned back in his chair and signaled to one of the two private waiters standing at either end of the room. “What are you drinking?”

  “Nothing. I’m on the clock.”

  “Not anymore.” The waiter arrived and, in terrible English requiring extensive gestures, Rio ordered water for himself and a glass of champagne for her.

  “That’s not fair,” she protested as the waiter departed.

  “I’m in training, and I’m driving.” He grinned. “But if you insist, after dinner we can go back to my place and I’ll teach you how to drink pisco.”

  Her brief flash of happiness as he’d ordered her drink fizzled and died. How much more mixed could his signals get? One minute he flirted, then they were professional, and now he was flirting again. It could only mean what she’d always suspected. He was charming to everyone—it wasn’t sincere and it didn’t make her special.

  She sighed her resignation as her drink arrived and she took a hearty gulp. This was all part of her great romantic restructure, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t only be a matter of willpower and foregoing instant gratification. Sometimes she’d be on the receiving end of rejection, too. Rio wasn’t a plausible relationship candidate anyway, so this was her chance to toughen up in case she ever got the same response from someone who was.

  Dinner proceeded more or less as she expected. Except for a few snatches of conversation between the two of them, she spent most of the appetizer and main course translating for Rio as players and their partners shuffled around the table. She chased the glass of champagne with two generous glasses of red wine from the wildly expensive bottles on the table, and although it took a hell of a lot more for her to be drunk, by the time the sparkler-heavy birthday cake was cut she felt warm and relaxed.

  Most of the women in the room waved away their portions of cake, and as it had between every course, the room began to fill with diners standing up from their seats to talk or look at the cellar wines or pop out to the bathroom. Soon she and Rio were virtually alone at their end of the table, with only a few other diners seated in the nearby vicinity.