Player's Ultimatum

by Koko Brown

  “I better get cleaned up for the press conference. You know how much I like to make a good impression.”

  Robbie might be a lion on the soccer field, off it he was a hundred percent metro sexual. One of the reasons why she’d simply shrugged her shoulders when he’d come out to her more than ten years ago. Before allowing his teammates to pull him down the tunnel toward the locker room, he gave her quick peck on the cheek.

  While most of the team followed Robbie into the locker room, a handsome strawberry blond peeled away from the others to plant a kiss on Keitha’s cheek.

  “Come here, woman,” he purred, his lips moving along the other woman's jaw to right below her ear. His lips continued to move, but Yvonne could only make out, “chocolate syrup...on all fours...and handcuffs.”

  Keitha must have gotten a kick out of his garbled words because she giggled like a silly school girl. Fortunately, their groping session didn't last long. As if suddenly remembering they had an audience, Keitha broke free of the footballer’s roving hands and lips and turned to her.

  “Excuse us, Yvonne. This is my husband Freddy, Freddy Macdonald, footballer extraordinaire from the Great Down Under!” Her husband pinched her butt causing Keitha to squeal the last word.

  For good measure, he leaned in to kiss her on the lips. Once they came up for air again, she finished the introductions, “this is Yvonne Floyd, Robbie Gutierrez’s fiancée.”

  Freddy’s ginger eyebrows arched in surprise, but he extended his hand with a warm toothy smile.

  “Pleasure to finally meet ya’. We heard…ah…we heard…”

  Yvonne struggled to keep her expression blank. Poor thing, he had no clue Robbie cooked up this sham only two weeks ago. Yvonne decided to ease his embarrassment. “I hope all of it was good. And if any of it wasn’t, don’t believe any of it.”

  “No worries.” Freddy blew out a breath, obviously relieved she’d let him off the hook.

  “You’re rank, Freddy!” Keitha's perfect nose wrinkled as she stepped back. “It’s time for you to hit the showers.”

  “Are you giving me lip?” Chuckling, MacDonald hooked his arm behind his wife’s neck. He ignored her loud protests about his sweatiness and the grime coating his body and started planting kisses all over her face. Feeling like an intruder, Yvonne stepped away, giving the happy couple some privacy.

  Even though most of the team had disappeared, the stadium tunnel hadn’t entirely cleared. Miscellaneous club and stadium staff ran back and forth trying to complete their jobs, a small group of rabid fans was being ushered to the nearest exit and members of the media milled around ready to pounce on any player stupid enough to resurface.

  “Mi scusi, Signorina. Che dove aspettare?”

  Yvonne glanced over her shoulder. A pint sized man with a pen clutched in his hands stood behind her. His oily hair, sparse and stringy, hid a bald spot that looked like a polished apple. His bad grooming extended to a wrinkled short-sleeved shirt stained with sweat and a pair of rumpled black slacks. He was unremarkable except for the PAPARAZZI tag hanging out of his shirt pocket.

  “No comprendo...I don’t speak Italian.” Yvonne responded uneasily. She and Robbie had run through the ‘script’ several times, still it didn’t help to ease her anxiety especially when the photographer’s pale blue gaze seemed to dissect her.

  “You and Robbie Gutierrez are friends, no?”

  Normally, Yvonne would’ve ignored the guy or told him it wasn’t any of his business, but since he was the press she fell into her role. “I’m Robbie Gutierrez's fiancée,” she corrected.

  The man seemed to be bothered by her answer because he frowned and looked almost disappointed by the news.

  “Congratulations,” he mumbled then pressed his lips together.

  An awkward silence fell between them. His eyebrows rose as if he were going to pose another question.

  Instead, he scurried off into the crowd, disappearing into a group of reporters and camera men cornering a player making his way toward the team’s locker room.

  Standing at least a half-a-foot taller than most of the people gathered around him, the footballer seemed un-phased by the microphones and bright lights. A seasoned spin doctor herself with six years of public relations experience under her belt before seeking her MBA two years ago, Yvonne stepped closer.

  All of her years of experience left her woefully unprepared for the ballplayer skillfully holding court despite the incessant press of the media.

  His confidence, beyond exemplarily, didn't hold a flame to the man because handsome couldn't aptly describe him or his effect on her body. Hands down he had be to the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on.

  He made her fingertips tingle, and for the first time in her life Yvonne found herself without words.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I see he has the same effect on you as he does the rest of the female population.” Yvonne’s cheeks heated with embarrassment, she’d been so entranced with the football player she’d missed Keitha sidling up next to her.

  “Who is he?” She asked unable to drag her gaze away.

  Keitha chuckled. “That beautiful specimen is the team’s captain, Paolo Saito. The fans call him Il Duca, The Duke, because his rule over the pitch is unparalleled. He’s one of the best players in Series A, probably the entire world. He’s led Brazil to the World Cup twice. Right now he’s one of the highest paid forwards in the league. And when he becomes a free agent at the end of the season, he’ll be number one.”

  “Filthy rich and beautiful to boot, any woman would be lucky to tag that one. No one’s succeeded so far.” Keitha paused to lay a hand on Yvonne's shoulder. “So, if I were you, I would stay away from him.”

  “A huge player?”

  Keitha snorted. “Enormous. According to all the gossip rags, he likes to share his God given attributes with everyone. Young, old, pretty, plain, single, married or engaged, it doesn’t matter as long as they’re female. Every week he has a different girlfriend or lover, a different conquest all of them well documented in the tabloids.”

  Yvonne wasn’t surprised Paulo Saito's love life was practically public record. Average human beings loved to escape the ordinariness of their existence by living their lives through the rich and beautiful. Heck the tabloids could stay afloat on her monthly subscriptions alone.

  A man with his looks and chosen career would be a playboy of the worst kind and a consummate charmer.

  Classically handsome, his Asian features fit together like an exotic puzzle. A pair of dark eyebrows slashed across his sun-kissed skin and provided a perfect frame to his almond-shaped eyes and aquiline nose. As expected for a man who made his living outdoors, his bronzed skin, only a shade or two lighter than hers, contrasted beautifully with his short black hair cut into a modified Mohawk. And his body language and easy smile while he answered rapid fire questions conveyed a confidence that if bottled would sell millions.

  “How do you feel about the playoff season?” Saito scanned the crowd for the source of the question. A young blond kid barely out of his teens raised his hand.

  “Price Quimby, OnThePitch.com.” Saito's Brazilian accent triggered Yvonne’s dormant hormones like an automatic rifle. If she’d been alone, she would’ve probably touched herself. “Roma Internazionale plays like a team not a group of individuals. No egos. No ulterior motives just one goal to win the European Cup. ”

  “So you agree with management’s decision to replace your good friend João Schmitt with Robbie Gutierrez?” Price asked.

  At the mention of Robbie’s name, Yvonne drew closer while Saito’s sunny disposition suddenly took a southward detour. His expression tightened and his smile wavered, but he answered the question.

  “At this time, I have no complaints with Gutierrez,” Saito replied his accent noticeably thicker.

  What was up with that? Yvonne mused. Was there some hidden animosity between the two? She’d have to remember to ask Robbie about it later.

  As Sai
to scanned the crowd, his eyes skipped over her then swung back. Like a possum caught in headlights, Yvonne couldn’t move.

  “Uh…oh,” Keitha whispered. “The player just found a new playmate.”

  *****

  His gaze pinned Yvonne to the spot. He wasn’t physically touching her, but the effect stoked a fire deep within Yvonne’s belly and she began to throb and tingle in the most intimate places.

  Instinctively, Yvonne’s hand flew to her chest. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute! To make matters worse, her nipples had become traitorously hard little pebbles pressing against the fine material of her cashmere sweater. Embarrassed and as a means of defense, Yvonne folded her arms across her chest and faced her tormentor.

  Big. Mistake.

  Before she could say fish and grits, Mr. Sex in Soccer Cleats, cut through the throng of camera men and reporters and headed her way. Normally, she would have been flattered but he wasn’t the reason why she was in Rome.

  Time slowed to a crawl without either of them saying a word as he stopped just inside her personal space. Even the reporters crowding around them remained silent save the sound of pencils scribbling on paper. Could they sense the electrical charge ping ponging between them as well? If not, they could surely see the smoke coming out of her ears. She was practically burning up!

  “Awkward,” Yvonne sing-songed under her breath. Although they didn’t have any privacy, she didn’t find it too hard to block out the people around them when she had the most beautiful pair of jet black eyes staring down at her.

  Yvonne gulped. He’d taken her hand in his, bent over like a cavalier of old and kissed her knuckles. If it weren’t for the AC vent overhead, she would have gone up in smoke.

  “Como a senhora se chama?” he asked.

  “I don’t speak Italian,” Yvonne whispered in awe of his chivalry.

  “Not Italian,” he said, easily switching to English. “It’s Portuguese, my native tongue.”

  At the mention of tongue, images of them lip locked floated in her head. “I-I don’t speak that either.” I’m open to private, one-on-one lessons, though!

  Paolo shrugged. “Honest mistake. Your dark beauty reminds me of the women in my homeland Brazil.”

  Kisses on the hand and compliments. He was good! Sensing danger of the sexual kind, Yvonne shook the stardust out of her eyes.

  “I’m Paolo and you are?”

  Yvonne struggled to regain the use of her tongue. “Y-yvonne Floyd.”

  Did I just give him my first and last name? Yvonne’s brow knitted in vexation.

  In spite of her self-reprobation, Paolo seemed pleased. His smile widened, giving her a better view of his straight pearly whites. “I’m Paolo Saito. Now that we’re officially introduced, we―”

  Was he about to ask her out? A rush of excitement swept through Yvonne’s body and severed the oxygen from her brain, considering she was already clearing her calendar.

  “Too late, Romeo.” Keitha bounced Yvonne out of the way with a well-placed hip. “She’s already taken by one of your mates.”

  “Ah, Keitha! You grow more beautiful every time I see you.” Paolo dropped Yvonne’s hand faster than a hot potato and turned his attention to the other woman. Just like that, he’d dumped her on the trash pile for a prettier woman.

  What was new? The moment wasn’t lost on the press either. A few well-placed coughs to overshadow muffled laughter burned her ears.

  While the two exchanged pleasantries, Yvonne stewed. She shouldn’t be angry or even the slightest bit pissed. Paolo Saito was just being himself —the international playboy.

  No, her anger was self-directed. One smile from a beautiful man and she melted faster than a Hershey chocolate bar left outside on a hot summer day. Yvonne was only too happy when he finally excused himself to make his way to the locker room, the press in tow.

  “So was I right or what?”

  Yvonne tore her eyes away from the Brazilian god retreating in the distance. “Right about what?”

  “To stay clear of Il Duca, of course.”

  “Dead on the money,” Yvonne whispered.

  Paulo Saito was handsome, rich and full of charm. It would be hard to resist that player’s game if he were to pursue her. And a broken heart wouldn’t be the only consequence. Robbie’s future would be placed in jeopardy as well.

  * * * * *

  Yvonne waited until she and Robbie were in the stadium parking lot before she bombarded him with questions.

  “What’s going on between you and Paolo Saito?”

  Robbie’s head whipped around. “What do you mean? Who have you been talking to?”

  “While I was waiting for you, Il Duca held court in the stadium tunnel. One of the reporters asked his opinion of you and he offered up some polite crap that needed a doggy bag.”

  Robbie chuckled as he rummaged through his jean pocket for his keys. Finding them, he pressed the key fob, unlocking the doors to his silver Range Rover. “Paolo Saito is a great player,” he said, opening the passenger door for her.

  Yvonne didn’t get in. “You’re giving me the same bag of poop? I thought we went way back, Robbie.”

  “Way back. You dragged me along when you picked out your first training bra.”

  Yvonne crossed her arms. “If you don’t fess up, we’ll be standing here until next Saturday’s game?”

  Robbie pretended to bash his forehead against the door panel. “How much am I paying you to pose as my beard…I mean fiancée,” he corrected when she reached out to pinch him.

  “For six months of my time, one year’s salary and the down payment on a condo,” Yvonne replied without any qualms. “Totally beside the point! This is a conversation between best friends not business associates.”

  Robbie’s brown eyes met hers. “If I promise to come clean, will you get in?”

  Yvonne placed her foot on the truck’s running board.

  “Get in. I’ll tell you all about it on the way home. I don’t want to take the chance of someone overhearing this.”

  Knowing Robbie would honor his promise, Yvonne climbed into the cab. Robbie shut the door, walked around the car and then got in next to her. He put the key in the ignition, but before starting the car, he turned to her.

  He deliberated for several seconds then exhaled. “Paolo’s giving me a hard time. Unlike most of the players he hasn’t been very welcoming. He does his best to exclude me from key plays or he contradicts me in team meetings and he barely speaks to me off the pitch.”

  Yvonne felt her anger boiling. Paolo Saito might be beautiful and sexy, but that didn’t stop him from being a complete and utter asshole.

  Robbie patted her knee, pulling her out of her whoop-ass mood. “Now don’t get your granny panties in a bunch, mama bear. The guy isn’t all bad.”

  Yvonne’s anger waned. Robbie had given her the nickname when they were both kids. Usually even tempered, she also had a tendency to fly off the handle when it came to her family and friends. To say she was loyal and would fight like a mother bear to protect those she loved was an understatement.

  And Robbie always needed defending ever since his Dominican family moved into their all-black neighborhood when he was eight and she eleven. Not only was he the only non-black kid on the block, he’d taken to soccer and shied away from playing with the other boys.

  “I just hate players who hate.”

  Robbie shook his head. “I doubt Paolo’s jealous of me. I believe his anger stems more from how I came to play on the team than the why.”

  “You’re a phenomenal soccer player that’s why you landed a position on the team.”

  “It’s great to have someone over here that has my back.” When Robbie squeezed her knee, Yvonne placed her hand over his and threaded their fingers together. “I think Paolo’s grievance lies in the fact that I replaced his best friend João Schmitt.”

  Yvonne remembered the name from the press conference. “He’s holding a grudge against you because the club decided
to start you and not him?”

  “There’s more to the story,” Robbie said looking out the front windshield. “João was cut from the team. He went into some sort of decline, to the point no other team would pick him up. He returned home and committed suicide.”

  Yvonne’s mouth dropped open. “He killed himself over not being able to play soccer?

  Chuckling, Robbie shook his head. “How many times do I have to tell you? Outside the United States, soccer is like a religion. People live, breathe and die over the sport.”

  And João Schmitt was sure-fire proof, Yvonne mused. Robbie wasn’t much different. Over the years, he’d given up friendships, missed family get-togethers and even lost a few boyfriends all because of soccer.

  And to ink a lucrative multi-year professional soccer contract, he’d come up with this elaborate scheme to fool the press, flown her half way around the world and ensconced her in his home.

  As if sensing her train of thought, Robbie said, “Have I told you I appreciate what you’re doing for me, mama bear?”

  “Every day.” Yvonne nibbled on her bottom lip. “I’ve heard the paparazzi can be pretty persistent, but it couldn’t have been that bad?”

  “They’re beyond persistent,” Robbie sighed. “They hound me day and night, they camp out in front of my house, follow me to the grocery store, to the gym, out to eat, everywhere. They’re like the plague. There are times when I don’t even know they’ve followed me until I run across my picture in the local gossip rags.”

  “They started crossing the line and delving into certain details of my private life. They were printing pictures of me with Chris. Fed up, I snapped. I attacked a couple of paparazzi, no bodily harm just damaged a few cameras,” he added at Yvonne’s shocked look. “I’ve been warned by the Club. One more incident like that or an unfavorable report in the press and my contract will not be picked up for next season.”