Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

Or onto the cinema-room chair, she thought grimly.

  He stood and so did she, their movements stiffened by that special kind of awkwardness shared by people who’ve gone too far, too fast.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you for…I mean…This was…”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she interjected, her cheeks burning.

  “Right. Tomorrow.”

  He started toward the door but she beat him to it. “I’ll let myself out. Try to get some rest.”

  “I will. Chau, Eva.”

  “Hasta mañana.”

  She bolted out of the room, up the steps, across the high-ceilinged atrium and through the front door. Only once she was safely behind the wheel of her car and pulling out of the driveway did she release the breath she’d held since she turned her back on him.

  Chapter 11

  “Rio, bzzzbzzz—”

  As he crossed into the dressing room Rio held up a hand to silence Roland, Eva, and anyone else who wanted to talk to him during halftime. Without acknowledging any of his teammates he walked directly to his locker, tugging off his shirt as he went. Then he plugged his headphones into his phone and took his grandmother’s rosary off the hook where it hung.

  Headphones on, he sat down in the corner of the dressing room and rested his head against the angle where the two walls met. He scrolled to a song and pressed play, closed his eyes, and rolled the worn beads between his fingers.

  The first half against the Bluffs had been the worst forty-five minutes of his career at Skyline. He was a mess, missing opportunities, losing possession, constantly finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. At one point Deon had jogged up to him and gestured to ask if he was all right or if he wanted to be subbed out.

  He ran his hand over his eyes, pressing his forehead harder against the wall. His performance was so bad his captain had given him the out to excuse himself. He’d never been more humiliated in his life.

  Bold action by Deon had put them up to one-one for about ten minutes, but then Paulo fell in the area and managed to handball an own goal. The Bluffs had celebrated as much as if they’d scored on their own, knowing full well this meant they could sit back and defend, forcing Skyline to attack to level the score. Rio had no doubt Memphis would sub in the big Ghanaian, and he’d be spending the next forty-five minutes trying to avoid getting trampled by the elephant herd that was the Bluffs’ defense.

  He knew exactly why he couldn’t focus on the pitch, and the reason was just over five feet tall with dark hair and secretive eyes. Yesterday she’d rocked his world, then drop-kicked it into orbit with her revelation that their first time together would also be their last if he couldn’t make a commitment.

  He didn’t blame her, and he valued her honesty. He’d never hesitated to get serious with women before, having no qualms about monogamy or faithfulness or whatever else seemed to be amorous hurdles for many in his profession. Anyway it’s not like there was anyone else in the picture, or that he had any reservations about Eva herself. Just the opposite, in fact.

  So why had he tossed and turned all night long, trying and failing to decide what to do next?

  Because despite his perpetual motion on the pitch and what sports writers referred to as his feverish style, he wasn’t reckless. He took risks, but they were calculated. He knew his limits and those of his teammates, and even his most outlandish shots on goal had deep method behind what looked like madness.

  But Eva wasn’t just a regular-season point, she was the final penalty in a World Cup shootout. He didn’t have the courage to take his shot yet, and he couldn’t afford to miss.

  He exhaled slowly, turning up the volume on his phone.

  The song he played on repeat had been a club anthem during the last World Cup. The team sang it on the bus on the way to what turned out to be their last match, and the night after they were knocked out he danced to it in a Brazilian nightclub, buoyed by his personal performance despite the team’s loss.

  He sank into the beat pulsing through his headphones, focusing his mind on the memory of that night. So many women had approached him, half of them taller than he was, all of them extraordinarily beautiful. He’d danced to this song with a voluptuous Colombian, but in his imagination he danced with Eva.

  In his mind’s eye she smiled up at him, the multicolored lights shimmering across her hair, her eyes bright with joy. They moved together in perfect harmony, their bodies fitting close, her soft curves pressed against his hard lines.

  The club heaved around them, the beat was so loud it shuddered through his body, but when she leaned in to whisper in his ear he heard every word with perfect clarity.

  “Go out there and win. I know you can do it.”

  When Rio jogged out of the tunnel with his teammates five minutes later, he put all of his mental energy toward preserving the almost meditative state he’d achieved during halftime. He saw only the ball, heard only the song repeating in his mind, felt only its thudding beat pumping through his veins.

  The whistle blew and he exploded into action, mentally repeating the lyrics over and over and over so nothing else could distract him.

  He snatched the ball away from Memphis within seconds of hitting the pitch and drove hard into their half. Their defenders crowded around him like bees on a flower and he passed to Nico, who promptly lost possession.

  He briefly heard Laurent swear behind him before blocking him out, recovering his complete submersion in the music and the moment.

  He had to wait a while for his next chance to take the ball, but when it finally came with a received pass from Guedes he knew he had to make the most of his opportunity.

  He stormed into the Bluffs’ half and their defenders charged toward him, and within seconds he was surrounded by three giants in black shirts. He darted left, pivoted right, bouncing back and forth in the triangle they’d created around him. He heard the song, saw the ball, and when one of the defenders pushed him squarely in the chest he pitched forward to stay upright and shot out between the other two, the ball stuck to his feet like he had duct tape on his toes.

  He sprinted down the pitch, leaning to avoid a tackle on his left, then swerving to avoid another on his right. Deon was near the area, fighting with a Bluffs defender, and Rio passed to him at an angle that had the nearest Memphis player slamming his fists on his thighs in frustration.

  Deon leapt above his opponent and headed the ball into the goal.

  The scoreboard flicked to two-two.

  Rio didn’t celebrate with his teammates. He stood on the pitch, muttering the lyrics of the song under his breath as he waited for play to resume. When the ball was back in motion he watched it like his life depended on it.

  The Bluffs were on the attack and there were several minutes of scrabbling in Skyline’s half before the keeper caught the ball and booted it to the halfway line. Laurent and one of the Memphis midfielders jumped to head it, colliding in midair and sending it wild.

  Rio watched the ball sail toward him, aware of yet totally unbothered by the defenders storming in his direction. When it got low enough he leapt for it, controlling the ball on his chest before bouncing it to his feet.

  Two Bluffs defenders crowded him, forcing him to hop behind and over the ball to keep it away from their grabby boots. He purposely broadcast wrong moves, looking left while he jumped right, trying to buy a few extra feet in the direction of the goal but struggling to make much ground against his opponents.

  He saw red jerseys clustered beyond the defenders, most of his teammates unmarked and eager while Memphis’s players focused on him. There were six boots stabbing at his two. He knew he should pass, but he couldn’t see how. They were all over him, blocking out the light, pushing the limits of the rules as they tried to knock him off his feet.

  He started singing.

  “Y solo baila,” he sang at the top of his voice, feeling the beat pulse with every thud of his heart.

  One of t
he defenders was so bewildered he stopped short, staring at Rio with a perplexed frown.

  “Solo baila,” he repeated, letting the rhythm pervade his body, loosening his muscles, his veins throbbing with the music in his mind. He saw Eva smiling up at him on that imagined night, swiveled his hips in time with the song, and broke free from the defenders.

  The crowd roared as he tore down the pitch, running as fast as he could, his legendary speed carrying him past his black-shirted opponents.

  He slowed just outside the area, checked the offside flag, met the keeper’s gaze, and slammed the ball into the left corner.

  The huge, brick-red flag went up behind the goal. The score was three-two, Skyline.

  Rio dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and held his palms toward the sky.

  Thank you, Eva. Thank you.

  * * * *

  “Jesus, slow down.” Eva’s grip on the edge of her seat was white-knuckled as Rio gunned his sports car down the highway.

  “Don’t worry, I can smell a cop from five miles away.” He flashed her that infectious grin and she couldn’t help but return it. He’d just pulled Skyline back from the brink of defeat. He deserved to let off some steam.

  Although maybe not at the cost of wrapping them around a light pole, she countered, gritting her teeth through one of his hairpin turns.

  “Did the tow guy say when your car will be fixed?” he asked over the roaring engine.

  Her happiness deflated as she remembered the gut-punch feeling of leaving the stadium to discover that someone had backed into the front of her car, helpfully leaving a gas-station receipt with a sad face drawing and the word “sorry.” She’d been even more miserable when she discovered the impact sensors had tripped and the engine wouldn’t start, but her spirits lifted decidedly when the head of stadium security told her he’d review the closed-circuit footage and do whatever it took to “nail the bastard.”

  “I don’t think the garage will even be able to assess it until Monday. My insurance will cover a rental in the meantime.”

  “Good thing I was still around to give you a lift. Now you get to be chauffeured home in high-performance German luxury instead of a busted-ass taxi.”

  She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes. “My hero.”

  Her tone was joking, but she spoke the truth. Never mind the flustering arousal of watching him slice up the pitch, knowing in detail what lay between those swift legs, or the pride that swelled in her throat when he answered a simple, post-match interview question in halting but reasonably coherent English. Nothing compared to the relief of seeing that his car was still parked in the lot, having him answer his cell with a cheeky, “Aló, Eva,” then rushing out to meet her with his hair still wet from the shower.

  At the time she’d been grateful not to have to wait for a taxi or awkwardly beg a ride from another member of Skyline staff, but as they sped toward her condo in Brookhaven she began to wonder if she was making a mistake. After all, she’d more or less thrown down the gauntlet last night and he had yet to pick it up, or even acknowledge it.

  Did he think he could switch on the charm, hoping she’d forget about her commitment caveat and offer a repeat performance?

  It wouldn’t be like him, but then again, this blatant avoidance of the issue wasn’t the Rio she knew either.

  Maybe she didn’t know him at all.

  He turned up the volume on the radio and sang along, reasonably on key but clearly totally unaware the lyrics were about a messy breakup.

  “You know there are probably already a thousand cell-phone videos of your musical interlude on the pitch making the rounds on the Internet,” she teased. “Have you ever considered a career as a recording artist?”

  “Good to know I have something to fall back on if this soccer thing doesn’t work out.” He shifted gears and left the highway, easing onto the four-lane road that led into her neighborhood.

  “This is it, on the left.” She guided him into her condo complex and along the quiet streets to her front door.

  He pulled into her short driveway and cut the engine.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She put her hand on the latch but he was already sliding out of the driver’s seat. He rounded the front of the car and opened her door, tugging her up from the bucket seat.

  “I should walk you inside. Check for squatters, stray cats, that sort of thing.”

  She propped her hand on her hip. “Is that your best line?”

  He shrugged. “I’m tired.”

  “Smooth.” She motioned him toward the door. “Come in.”

  He followed her through her two-bedroom townhouse as she flicked on lights, kicked off her ballet flats and led him to the sitting room with its open-plan access to the kitchen. She indicated for him to sit on the couch as she moved to the fridge.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Juice, tea, coffee, tequila?”

  “What’re you having?”

  “Wine. It’s been one of those days.” She pulled a half-full bottle of white from the fridge and filled a glass, glancing at him over the island counter that separated the two rooms. He sat forward at one end of the faded gray sofa, his elbows on his knees and his head on a swivel as he took in his surroundings.

  She peered over the rim of her wineglass, trying to see her familiar home from his perspective. It was small, sure, but reasonably modern, built less than ten years ago. She’d decorated in neutral gray and lilac, and watched enough home décor shows on TV to be deliberate in her color and layout choices. The furniture was comfortable, the bookshelf overflowed, and every Friday she treated herself to a bouquet of fresh flowers, plunked in the center of her coffee table.

  She hoped he liked it. If not, she concluded with a sip, too bad for him.

  He stood up and crossed the room, picking up a framed photograph from the mantel. “Is this your mom?”

  “Yup. Sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  “How old were you here?”

  “Seven.” She circled the island and flopped onto the couch.

  “I’m pretty sure my mom had this exact same haircut at one point. Must’ve been a Nineties thing.” He replaced the photo, taking care to angle it exactly as she’d had it.

  He sat sideways on the couch beside her, his arm flung over the back. “Where was that taken?”

  “At the hotel restaurant where Juana worked. It was my birthday. All of the kitchen staff were Mexican and they made a big fuss over me, baking me a cake and singing Las Mañanitas. Do you sing that in Chile?”

  He shook his head. “What is that?”

  “A silly song you’re supposed to sing on the morning of someone’s birthday.”

  One side of his mouth quirked in a smile. “My mom bakes pineapple cake for our birthdays. One year she dropped mine on the way to the table, but we all pretended not to notice and ate it anyway.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s really good cake, even when it’s been on the floor. Have you had any news from the private investigator?”

  “Just more invoices.”

  “Is he expensive?”

  She took a stalling sip from her wineglass, wishing she hadn’t gone there. “I can afford it, but it’s annoying to keep paying him for zero results.”

  He stretched his left leg in front of him, careful to keep his shoe off the couch, and idly rubbed his knuckles into his thigh. “How did it get to the point that you had to hire a private investigator? It sounds like your mom really went off the grid.”

  “I know, who would’ve thought that in the Internet age it could be this difficult to find someone? But it is, apparently.”

  She put her wineglass on the coffee table and leaned into the cushions. “I think I told you, when I was younger she used to write to Juana. E-mail was just becoming a thing then but my mom wasn’t in a position to have a computer, let alone know how to work one, so all of her correspondence was hand
written. She moved around a lot, trying to earn money and find places to stay, so there was a new return address with almost every letter. She wrote regularly, once or twice a month, until suddenly the letters stopped. We kept sending things to the last address she’d given us, but never got a reply. Then we moved, and sent our new address to the last one we had for her, but who knows if she ever got it.”

  “And you couldn’t call her?”

  She shook her head. “We only spoke on the phone a few times a year, and then the calling card usually ran out after ten minutes or so. These were the days before cell phones and every time she moved she changed numbers. Sometimes she was in a boarding house so shared a phone, sometimes she gave us a number for somewhere she worked. It was all pretty chaotic, and hard to know who would answer when you called.”

  He studied her for a few seconds, his face dark with concern. “What do you think happened to her?”

  “The million-dollar question.” She smiled bitterly, flopping back against the couch and tilting her face toward the ceiling. “To be honest, I have no idea. Whatever it was, it can’t have been good.”

  “Was she the type to…” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Get into trouble?”

  “Maybe.” She exhaled. “Of course when I was young I didn’t want to believe that, but who really knows? I’m fairly confident she was on the straight and narrow when she was raising me, but maybe there were demons in her past, or maybe her later circumstances forced her into bad situations. The fact is that I was twelve when my mother disappeared, and I don’t know what kind of woman she was before I was born, or what kind of woman she became after she went back to Mexico. But I’ll do whatever is necessary to find out.”

  Her statement hung between them for a few moments, heavy and sad.

  “I hope you find her,” Rio said finally.

  “Thanks. I do too.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?”

  She nodded.

  “My dad wasn’t my dad.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really.”

  “My siblings are his, but my biological father is someone else. A dock worker, my grandmother thinks. She didn’t know for sure. My mom admitted it to her after I was born.”