“Are you going to eat that?” Rio pointed his fork at her slice of red-velvet cake.
“Hell yes.”
“Damn.” He looked at his own empty plate, then back at hers. “All of it?”
“Make me an offer.”
He drummed his fingers on the table while he thought. “Half of your slice for an extra hour of English-language lessons.”
She laughed. “Are you crazy? I lose half of my cake and I have to listen to your crazy pronunciation for an extra hour? No way.”
As soon as it left her mouth she felt bad, and searched his face for any sign that she’d offended him. She found none.
“Okay, that was a bad trade.” He reconsidered. “Half of your cake and I’ll play you a song on the piano upstairs in the restaurant.”
She shook her head. “Way too embarrassing.”
“Half of your cake and I’ll specifically thank you for sharing it with me in my next press interview.”
“Even worse. I’m the one who’d have to translate that.”
“Half of your cake, and…”
“Forget it, Rio.” She cut into the moist slice. “You have nothing I want.”
“Really, nothing,” he replied, his tone unexpectedly serious. “That’s disappointing.”
She cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing. She was done falling for his piropos.
“Any news on your mother?”
She looked up sharply, alert for any hint of mocking or insincerity. Instead his expression was earnest and attentive. He put down his fork and threaded his fingers, offering her his full attention.
“No,” she answered. “Not yet.”
“And you’ve hired a private investigator? You’re not going through a charity or something?”
“Private investigator,” she confirmed. “And he’s not cheap.”
Damn, another sentence she wished she could rescind as soon as she’d spoken it. She narrowed her eyes at her wineglass. Looks like you and I are done for the night.
“This lady who took you in, where is she? Does she know anything about where your mom might have gone?”
She shook her head. “She was another single mom, living in the apartment above ours with her two kids. She and my mom were good friends. She worked in the restaurant of the hotel where my mom was a cleaner, and because they often had opposite shifts, they used to shuttle us kids between the two apartments for babysitting.”
“Do you still keep in touch with her?”
“Oh, God, yeah.” Eva smiled as she thought of her surrogate mother. “Juana raised me from the age of twelve, got me through high school and into college. She’s still in El Paso. I call her once a week. She’s kind of like my stepmom, only there’s no dad in the picture.”
“And her kids?”
“Lulu is a year younger than me, and we see each other twice a year or so. She lives in California. She’s got a physical therapy practice in Sacramento. Eriberto is another story.” She bit her lower lip. “He got mixed up with the wrong crowd in high school, started dealing drugs, that kind of thing. He’s in jail right now, awaiting trial for assault.”
“Not good,” Rio commented.
“Not good at all.” She licked some of the cream cheese frosting off her fork. “And your siblings? What do they do?”
“My brother works for a shipping company. I’m not sure exactly what he does for them—he wears a tie and types on a computer.” He shrugged. “My sister finished university last year and joined a big oil company. She’s doing some round-the-world thing where they send you off to different countries and then figure out where you should work. She’s in Australia now, and after that she’s going to Singapore.”
“That’s pretty cool. Will you go visit her?”
“When I have time, definitely.” He grinned. “She teases me about ruining her chance to be the most successful sibling, but really I think she loves being able to point to her brother on TV.”
“You must miss them.”
He gestured dismissively. “I’ll fly them all out here at some point, and I’ll see them when I go back for internationals. You’re the one who must miss people. I’ve been thinking about it since you told me, and I can’t imagine what you went through when your mom was sent away.”
She eyed him skeptically, watchful for ulterior motives.
His brow was furrowed, and he flattened his hands on the table. “I’ve never been great with words, but I hope you know what I mean when I say that’s horrible, what happened to you.”
She paused, pushing the remaining cake around on her plate as she considered her response. He certainly sounded sincere.
Her instinct told her to believe him.
Her brain told her to be very, very careful.
“Thank you,” she ventured. “I appreciate that.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, inhabiting a hushed world of their own within the increasingly noisy wine cellar. She processed what he’d said and how he’d said it.
Then she put down her fork and pushed her plate of half-eaten cake in front of Rio.
She waited for him to say something, but when she finally looked over he was solemn.
“I don’t want your cake,” he murmured.
He shifted in his seat. Then his hand found hers under the table.
His touch was confident but not arrogant, his big palm spreading over her hand where it rested above her knee.
She stopped breathing as his fingers moved on top of hers, warming them, threading through them until he could tighten his fist around hers.
He cleared his throat, inched his chair closer. She sucked in oxygen with such urgency that for a second she was lightheaded, her vision tilting and reeling before it righted again. She closed her eyes, indulging in the momentary bliss of the weight of his touch, the specialness it bestowed on her.
Then she slid her hand out from under his.
“Rio, you know we can’t—”
“Why?”
“It’s unprofessional.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.”
“That’s not the point, it’s—”
“Don’t you like me?” His grin had lost some of its wattage.
“Of course I like you, but…”
But I can’t like you so much I can’t hold you at arm’s length.
But it’s been so long since I let anyone get close I’m not sure I remember how.
But I can’t believe you won’t move on as soon as you get your bearings in your new country and realize you can have any woman you want.
“But I think we both know I’m not really your type,” she fibbed, trying to make a joke out of the situation with a teasing smile.
He sat back, looking mildly offended. “What do you know about my type?”
“Nothing,” she backpedaled. “I’m sorry, it was a bad attempt at humor.”
“Are you talking about Mercedes?” he asked, referring to the Peruvian pageant queen the Chilean press had linked him with over the last year.
“It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”
“Mercedes has a degree in political science,” he said pointedly. “And no matter what the tabloids said, we broke up because she was moving to Paris for graduate school.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Just because I didn’t finish school doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate smart women.”
“Rio, I just—”
“And it’s possible to be smart and beautiful. You of all people should know that.”
Her cheeks heated at his compliment but she stuck to her resolve. “You have a lot going on right now. New team, new city, new country, new language. Give yourself a chance to get settled. Then start thinking about what you want in the relationship department.”
His expression could’ve melted a stick of butter from a hundred paces. “I know exactly what I want. And I’m not going to change my mind.”
> “We’ll see.” She resumed her professional smile as one of the player’s wives approached.
“Yes, we will,” Rio promised.
Chapter 8
Rio drummed his heels, clicking his cleats against the concrete beneath his feet. After sixty minutes Skyline was a goal down in their away match against Tucson United and he was sitting on the Goddamn bench.
He tugged at his mesh sub’s vest, rolled his shorts high on his thighs, rolled them back down. Then he twisted in his seat to speak to Eva, sitting in the row behind.
“I should be out there,” he informed her for the thousandth time.
“Roland wants you to rest,” she replied calmly.
He turned his attention back to the pitch. “No point in being rested to play for a losing team.”
Eva said nothing and he drummed his feet even faster. He hated watching his teammates run while he sat, hated that he kept seeing goal-scoring opportunities he couldn’t take, hated watching them look around for someone to receive a pass and not being there to do it.
Most of all, he hated that it wasn’t even an injury that put him on the bench. It was his manager’s fear of an injury.
Two afternoons earlier he’d insisted to Roland—via Eva, of course—that he’d always trained harder and longer than his teammates and never gotten an injury. They’d gone back and forth for nearly an hour, but in the end the manager’s word was law. The manager had consulted with the team physician and the training staff, all of whom shared his concern that Rio would burn himself out, particularly given his abbreviated pre-season rest period after the South American Cup. For the next week Rio was limited to one training session per day, and he wouldn’t start with his teammates when they played away in Tucson.
He’d bottled his anger until they turned the corner into the lobby of the training facility. Life-size cardboard cutouts of all the Skyline players stood in a bunch in one corner, presumably awaiting transport to a press event. His was bang in the front, and it was at least three inches shorter than all the others.
He hardly ever lost his temper, but that diminutive cardboard replica pushed him over the edge. He marched across the room and picked it up, fully intent on ripping it in half when he heard his name.
A crowd of kids from Skyline’s youth academy stood in the entrance, watching him with wide eyes.
He’d made a joke out of it, pretending he was trying to stretch the cutout to make it taller, then put it down behind all the others so it couldn’t be seen. The kids laughed and took out their phones, and ten minutes later he left a delighted group of students comparing selfies as unreleased frustration still simmered in his chest.
That same frustration flared again as Rio swore under his breath, watching Laurent lose possession to Tucson. He started to turn to vent his annoyance to Eva, then changed his mind. His beautiful, enigmatic interpreter was proving to be almost as problematic as his stubborn manager.
His approach to soccer had always been almost childishly single-minded. He cared less about intricate maneuvers and complicated formations than he did simply having the ball. When someone took the ball away from him, he couldn’t think about anything other than getting it back.
Eva was proving to be the human equivalent of a soccer ball.
If she were any other woman he would’ve accepted her polite brush-off at Deon’s birthday party and left it there. And he’d tried—he’d really tried. But he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts, and he wasn’t ready to give up.
He’d replayed their exchange in his mind a hundred times, usually at two o’clock in the morning after waking from a tantalizingly erotic dream about her. He still didn’t fully understand why she’d turned him down. She’d mentioned something about her job, and about other women he’d dated, but neither of those rang quite true.
Okay, her job was a legit reason. But surely not completely insurmountable if both parties were willing? He’d once met an interpreter who’d worked for a very famous British player when he joined a Spanish team, and if her stories were to be believed…
He exhaled hotly. This was ridiculous. He was Rio Vidal, dammit. In Chile the press called him el Príncipe—the Prince. Tens of thousands of people chanted his name in stadiums and women gave him their phone numbers in the middle of the street. Once he’d handed up his cleats to a schoolboy fan and the kid had kissed them. Literally kissed his boots!
And now he was sweating his balls off in Tucson, sitting on the bench, while the woman he wanted to impress more than anyone tapped her foot and checked her phone.
The clock above the pitch ticked up to seventy minutes. Deon stuck his hand in the air to show he was open. Brian attempted a pass to him. Intercepted.
Rio shot to his feet with a string of curses, glowered at Eva, and thumbed toward Roland. “Go tell that clown to put me on if he wants to win this match.”
She blinked at him, still holding her phone. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Please, Eva, when it’s convenient for you, would you ask Roland to put me on? I’ve had seventy minutes of rest and I really think my presence in the team will be critical to winning this match.” He grinned to his back teeth.
She rolled her eyes but got to her feet. “I’ll phrase that somewhere between the first and second versions.”
He sat down and watched anxiously as she crossed the short distance to the manager’s box. At first he waved her away distractedly, but she said something and pointed to Rio. Roland looked at her, then past her at him, and then back to her. Then he looked at the scoreboard.
He made a “come here” gesture with his fingers, signaling to Rio to start warming up.
Rio leapt onto the sideline like he had springs in his heels. He started his routine, trying not to rush it as his heart raced with excitement.
Sidestep to the left, one, two, three, four… You’ve asked for this, that means you can’t fuck it up. You have to go out there and perform. Prove your worth.
Sidestep to the right, one, two, three, four… Everyone’s watching you now, relying on you to turn this around. You cannot fail.
Jump up, one, two, three, four… Do you want to crawl back to Santiago at the end of your contract after two years as prince of the bench? Hell no.
Kick right, kick left, kick right, kick left… Come on, Vidal. Show your manager you know what you’re doing. Show the team you deserve your spot. Show Eva you’re so much more than she thinks.
“Substitution,” boomed the announcer. The digital scoreboard showed Scholtz, number thirty-seven, subbed out for Vidal, number seventeen.
The small section of away fans cheered politely, a far cry from the hysteria Rio was used to when the crowd saw him warming up to join the match. He shook Brian’s hand as they passed at the halfway line, then jogged out to take his place in the midfield.
Immediately he sensed his teammates’ fatigue. The afternoon was unseasonably warm, particularly in comparison to the cool spring they were having in Atlanta. Brian’s poor support meant the midfield had worked harder than usual, and Tucson United’s inelegant, bullying style of play was exhausting Skyline’s defense.
Meanwhile Rio brimmed with unspent energy. He caught sight of the ball and practically salivated.
He exploded into motion, spending his first several minutes on the pitch hunting down the ball, nimbly negotiating Tucson’s players, putting his speed and agility into full effect. The clock was ticking and he knew he’d only get one, maybe two chances to change the number on the scoreboard.
He danced around the edges of play, trying to avoid coverage by the other team, looking for his opportunity. And when he saw it, he didn’t hesitate.
He knew the second the Tucson midfielder raised his boot that his pass wasn’t going to hit its mark. Rio dove into the ball’s trajectory and stole it, pivoting to drive it toward Tucson’s goal as quickly as he could. Deon drove on ahead, and he glanced between his teammate and the d
efenders bearing down on him as he angled left, then right, then left again, executing a series of step-overs to throw off Tucson’s coverage.
His striker was in position, but so were Tucson’s two biggest defenders. The duo bore down on him, one a Colombian he’d played in internationals, the other a Nigerian he’d only seen on television. They were both over six feet tall and, it seemed to Rio, nearly just as wide. He got a last glimpse of Deon before the defenders shouldered him backward, and he saw his opportunity as clearly as he knew he had to take it.
He turned his back on the two defenders, practically trembling from the adrenaline pouring through his veins. He flicked the ball into the air with his toe, then booted it over his head in a high-angled volley.
He didn’t need to turn around to see the result. The noise from the away stands assured him that Deon had knocked his cross soundly into the net. He spun on his heel and ran into the waiting arms of his striker, clutching Deon in celebration as Laurent and Nico piled in with them.
Elation lightened his steps as they broke apart and the cheering died down. A quick glance at Roland found the manager applauding in delight and encouragement. Rio looked away quickly—he didn’t want Roland to think he was gloating. He wasn’t, and wouldn’t. He was just grateful to be on the pitch.
Play continued at pace, with both teams trying to shake Skyline’s equalizing goal to pull out in front, so Rio didn’t have time to celebrate. He didn’t mind, though. One glimpse of Eva’s approving smile gave him more fuel than any electrolyte drink or protein bar.
Tonight, he decided, hurling himself after the ball. Tonight he would talk to her, tell her how he felt, lay it all on the line and ask her to decide. If she turned him down, he wouldn’t ask again. If she said yes, he’d be the happiest man in Arizona. And if she said she needed more time, well…
He intercepted a pass and sped toward Tucson’s goal, powered by adrenaline, excitement and hope.
* * * *
“¿Hablas español?”
Crossing Hearts Page 8
