by Koko Brown
Guided by the hairstylist’s instructions, a few passes of the straightening iron and a large paddle brush, she’d managed to tame her hair into a shiny swath that floated around her shoulders.
Satisfied with her efforts, Yvonne moved onto her makeup. Another gift from Robbie, she eyed the sleek tubes and pots resembling candy. How did he know what colors to pick? Makeup had always been a foreign concept and she couldn’t remember the last time she bought a tube of lipstick.
Thankfully Robbie had left her instructions and number coded every step with the particular item of makeup. Nervous, but determined, she dipped a brush into a pot of coco-colored eye shadow. After a few false starts, she deftly applied the color to her lids. She followed this with a few strokes of bronze blush to her cheeks and forehead and a light application of gold lip-gloss.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Yvonne stepped back and eyed her handy work. What looked like nothing but fancy pots of brown and gold dust had come together in a toasty blend that emphasized her dark skins’ reddish undertones, high cheek bones and big brown eyes.
Yvonne suddenly felt like she could take over the world. And in the pair of thigh high boots Robbie laid out for her, she could definitely step over it. Amazing how a little bit of makeup and new clothes could change her into a new woman. She felt vibrant, sexy, in control. And she wanted to show the world or at least a certain Brazilian she wasn’t a woman to be messed with.
Yvonne frowned. Who was she kidding? Every time they crossed paths, Paolo always had a way of stripping her bare and exposing her weaknesses in more ways than one.
* * * * *
Rome’s Series A teams played in the Stadio Olympico, a seventy-two thousand seat forum located just north of the city center. Built in 1960 for the Summer Olympics, the open-air stadium was the second largest in Italy. And probably the worst in finding your seat, Yvonne quickly surmised once again looking down at the will call ticket Robbie arranged for her.
After walking around for more than twenty minutes, Yvonne finally gave up and sought the assistance of an usher. Thankfully, only a few awkward exchanges were needed to solicit his aide as she follow him down several flights of steps to the stadium’s lower level and the very last row of spectator seats. Any closer, she would have been sitting on the running track circling the field.
Due to the two teams’ rivalry, the Stadio Olympico was filled to capacity. With one side a sea of sky blue and yellow, while the side Yvonne sat on, drowned in red and black.
During the first thirty minutes of play, Roma found themselves constantly on the defensive against Pisa who scored twice. Losing on one’s home field must have dampened the fans’ spirit because her side of the stadium had become disturbingly sober during the first half.
Just before half time, Roma caught their second wind. Rallying, they drove the ball down the pitch in a concerted effort with Robbie scoring seconds before the half-time buzzer. Never an impartial bystander at Robbie’s games, Yvonne sat on pins and needles while wishing away the longest fifteen minutes she’d ever experienced in her life.
Less than five minutes out of the locker room and against the run of play, Roma scored again. On a smart counter, Freddy MacDonald robbed a defender of the ball, sent a low pass into the center where Paolo forced his way in between two forwards and shot the ball past Pisa’s goalie.
Yvonne wondered at the strange feeling of exhilaration and pride that overwhelmed her as she watched him celebrate his game tying goal with the rest of the team.
She was merely excited, nothing more, she mused. Then why do I feel like a school girl with her first crush?
The rest of the second half was plagued by numerous fouls, several unsuccessful charges by both teams and more than one fight in the stands. Neither side looked as if they could break the other’s defenses, but then Robbie took advantage when a Pisa midfielder lost his footing.
Winning the ball after a brief scuffle, he set up another teammate for a cross followed by a game-winning head shot into the net.
As she erupted from her seat, cheering with the rest of the RI fans, Yvonne grinned from ear to ear. If they kept this up, the team would end up qualifying for the playoffs, practically guaranteeing Robbie a lucrative contract.
Too bad holding up her end of the bargain was looking more and more complicated as her eyes followed Paolo Saito to the sidelines.
CHAPTER SIX
The press granted Robbie a two week reprieve before they started courting or begging him for an interview. Robbie held out for as long as he could. But when a local rag printed a story questioning the validity of their relationship, he finally granted a fluff piece to Arrivederci! Magazine.
On the day of the interview, Yvonne made sure everything was perfect. She had no other choice. Robbie had been a nervous wreck the entire week and was utterly useless. Left in charge, she’d hired an army to clean the house, catered a selection of desserts and coffees. And she’d even made sure a copy of Arrivederci! sat front and center on the living room coffee table.
Yvonne’s four-inch heels clicked a staccato rhythm over the hardwood floors as she performed a last minute inspection.
Doubting the cleanliness of an espresso spoon, she was inspecting them when the doorbell rang.
Before she left the kitchen, Yvonne buzzed Robbie on the home’s intercom system. He should have been downstairs twenty minutes ago so they could go over any last minute details.
With a smile that would melt butter, Yvonne opened the heavy oak door to Helena Bracci, Arrivederci’s senior writer. Perched on the front stoop, she stood no higher than Yvonne’s chest, but her bearing was regal. Noticing Yvonne standing in the doorway, she stopped berating her companion, a diminutive man toting a camera.
While Helena Bracci was elegant with expertly-styled snow white hair and dressed in a black designer knit suit, her companion was woefully sloppy. He’d slicked his oily black hair over his balding pate. His grey cardigan sweater was stretched out of shape and the matching trousers needed hemming.
“Signorina Floyd?” The other woman eyed her curiously.
“Please call me, Yvonne.”
“I’m Helena.” She placed quick pecks on both of Yvonne’s cheeks then swept past her into the house. The small man scurried in behind her.
“This is one of my staff photographers, Signor Malfi,” Bracci pointed out, drawing attention to her companion. “He’ll be taking the shots for the photo spread.”
The man nodded, triggering Yvonne’s memory. Where had she seen him before?
“So where is your fidanzato?” Helena asked, pulling Yvonne’s attention away from the photographer.
“Robbie’s getting dressed. He stayed late after this morning’s practice to work on some drills, he’ll join us later. If you’d like, I can show you the first floor first.”
“Perfetto.” Turning to her photographer, Signora Bracci raised an over plucked eyebrow at him. “Malfi is that fine with you?”
Yvonne began to wonder if the man could talk since he did nothing but nod his head in acquiescence. Shrugging off the feeling she had seen him before, Yvonne instantly switched into hostess mode and ushered them through the four thousand square foot villa.
On the lower level, she briefly described the furniture and art adorning the walls. In the kitchen, she impressed Helena with her adventures with Italian cuisine. And in the study, she pointed out Robbie’s collection of rare vintage books.
By the time they accessed the second floor, Yvonne was almost running out of wind. Thankfully, Robbie chose that moment to make an appearance. Coming down the hall from the master bedroom, he was impeccably dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a white batik-printed dress shirt.
“Ahhhh, Signor Gutierrez. I was wondering when you would be joining us,” Signora Bracci purred, extending her hand to Robbie.
“Babe, we were almost finished with the tour. I just have our suite to show Helena. Would you mind doing the honors?”
“Sounds go
od to me.” Robbie tucked Signora Bracci’s arm under his and guided her back down the hall with Malfi trailing their heels.
Yvonne entered the bedroom last. Smiling to herself, she marveled at the romantic scene she tried so hard to create for the better part of the week.
Two dozen vanilla-scented candles and a profusion of white crocuses topped every available surface. She piled the bed with dozens of pillows and placed a pair of her bedroom slippers at the foot. On one of the nightstands, she’d set a picture of the two of them nestled in a simple silver frame.
Helena walked around the room with pursed lips. Yvonne tracked her as she crossed the room and headed toward the ‘his’ and ‘hers’ closets. Opening the door on the right, she entered Robbie’s personal closet.
Like the rest of the room, his closet was just as luxurious and filled with a wardrobe rivaling any rock stars. Helena nodded silently at the profusion of dress shirts, tailored suits, designer jeans and Italian loafers lining the walls. His mix of the understated with the glamorous was definitely appealing. So much so, Helena requested a few pictures of Robbie in the room.
Yvonne stood back with a pleased as punch smile as Malfi shot off several rounds with Robbie in several poses. There was one of him rifling through his Italian suits, selecting a tie, and even one of him pretending to shine a pair of handmade Gucci loafers.
“While they are finishing up here, I would love to see your closet Yvonne.”
Her closet? The bottom fell out of Yvonne’s stomach. She’d overlooked one major detail. She hadn’t moved her clothes into the other closet.
“M-my closet,” Yvonne stammered as she followed behind the other woman. In the short time it took for them to cross the hall anxiety had wrapped around her throat and threatened to cut off her oxygen.
“Wait!” she managed to squeak as Helena lifted a well-manicured hand to turn the glass knob leading to the adjoining closet. For good measure, Yvonne stepped in front of the closet door.
“My…my closet is off limits. It’s a total mess,” Yvonne bit her lip and pretended to be embarrassed. “I tried on zillions of outfits today in order to look my best for your magazine and I haven’t had the chance to clean up after myself.”
Yvonne glanced at Robbie and shot him a ‘help me out here’ look. Catching on, he stepped forward and took a hold of Signora Bracci’s arm.
“You don’t want to go in there, you might never find your way back out.” Robbie ushered her out of the suite. “I suggested a maid, but Yvonne insists she can handle the house on her own,” he lied.
On the way out, Robbie picked up the cleaning service’s business card off the dresser and slid it in his back pocket. “How about we go downstairs and have some espresso and tiramisu?”
“Sounds lovely,” Helena purred, patting him on the arm. “If you want, I can recommend a reputable cleaning service. They are efficient and more importantly discreet.”
Unwilling to let Helena out of her sight, Yvonne followed them downstairs. She barely cleared the first step. Their party was one person short. Skidding to a halt and heart beating faster than a speeding train, she ran back upstairs.
Expecting to find Malfi rifling through Robbie’s drawers, Yvonne burst into the bedroom ready to haul the little mole out of there.
“Signor Malfi,” she called out, “andiamo!”
At the sight of the diminutive photographer standing in the center of Robbie’s bedroom firing off several shots, Yvonne slumped against the door frame with relief.
Startled, Malfi spun around. “I was wondering if you would like a cup of espresso or some tiramisu. The head chef at La Tripoli Hotel did the catering.” Yvonne groaned. How stupid she must sound trying to entice him downstairs with caffeine and sugar.
Malfi surprised her by giving her a little smile revealing a set of buck teeth. Yvonne straightened. He’d taken her picture in the stadium tunnel and at The Atrium. “Hey, don’t I know—”
“I will have to pass on the refreshments, Signorina,” he interjected. “I never eat while I’m working. Now if you would excuse me.” He inclined his head slightly then scurried into the hall and down the stairs.
Close on his heels, Yvonne took the steps two at a time. When she entered the kitchen, Helena and Robbie were sitting at the kitchen counter sipping coffee and sharing a slice of tiramisu. A black tape recorder sat conspicuously to the side. Malfi stood in the corner watching the two of them.
Yvonne placed a well-rehearsed peck on Robbie’s cheek. “You two haven’t drunk the entire carafe of coffee have you?”
“Thanks to you there’s more than enough.” Robbie chuckled at the private joke. Out of guilt over their deception, Yvonne had overcompensated by ordering enough food and coffee to feed a party of ten or a quarter of the soccer team, which ever came over first.
“How did you two meet?” Helena stared at Robbie intensely over a pair of half-rimmed spectacles.
Robbie set his cup down and cleared his throat. “We grew up together in the same neighborhood in Orlando, Florida. Yvonne and I even went to the same grade school. I’m slightly younger, so mothers made us walk to the bus stop every morning. Ever since then she’s looked out for me. You know like a big sister, but then one day love struck. We’ve been together ever since.”
To seal the illusion, Robbie leaned over and kissed Yvonne on the lips.
“Well I see both of you are definitely in love,” Bracci drawled, though not sounding entirely convincing. “But why have you never spoken of her before and allowed the rumors of your supposed homosexuality simmer for so long?”
Knowing Robbie tended to blow his top over the intrusive gossip even now after so many months, Yvonne spoke up, “Robbie came over to play a sport he loves, not to hang his private life out to dry for everyone to see. He’s a very private person. He didn’t even want to do this interview, but I insisted, so we could get the spotlight redirected from unimportant things and back to the real reason why he’s here in Italy. To play football for Roma Internazionale, and to help them win the European Grand Cup.”
Yvonne almost patted herself on the back as the conversation turned to other things. She’d rehearsed her lines in the bathroom while getting ready.
They’d only limited the interview to an hour, but Helena Bracci extended it and monopolized their time to almost two and a half hours as she tried unsuccessfully to glean more information.
But like a good footballer wife, Yvonne skillfully shifted the conversation from their personal lives back to football. The public didn’t need to know if he snored at night or if she had to beg him to take out the trash.
Getting nowhere, Helena finally gave up. “I thank you for your warmth and hospitality. It’s time for us to go. We have a deadline to meet. Malfi!” She shrieked at the top of her lungs thoroughly spoiling her regal image.
“Si, Signora?” Malfi mumbled appearing at the patio door off the living room. He’d excused himself earlier to smoke a cigarette in the garden.
“We have taken enough of this lovely couple’s time!” Without waiting for him to catch up, Helena headed to the front door with Robbie and Yvonne following in her wake.
“Helena, it was a pleasure having you,” Yvonne called after the woman. “Please come back again.”
Helena didn’t bother turning around. She simply raised her hand and wiggled her fingers while Malfi hustled her into a black Mercedes resembling a clown car. Figures, Yvonne mused. She’d dropped all pretenses of politeness when she failed to get what she came for.
As soon as they pulled out of the drive, Yvonne shut the door and spun around. Robbie was already waiting for her with his palms held out in front of him.
“Can I get a high five?”
Yvonne slapped her hands against his. They’d just pulled the wool over the eyes of one of Italy’s most revered and respected journalists. If all went according to plan, Robbie would move from page one to further back into the gossip rags and eventually forgotten altogether.
Of
course, their relationship would be interesting to follow for a while. But Yvonne didn’t have the name recognition or the fame to maintain the public’s curiosity for the rest of the season.
“It’s time to celebrate,” Robbie exclaimed, leading the way back into the kitchen.
With a sigh of relief, Yvonne kicked off her heels and sat on the nearest stool. She watched Robbie select a bottle of champagne from the mini wine cellar near the sink and pour them each a glass.
“To us,” he proclaimed, raising his glass in the air.
“To us,” Yvonne repeated also raising her glass. “In the immortal words of the great Tupac Shakur, may God rest his soul, vene, vici, vidi!”
“Puh-leaz,” Robbie snorted, “you and I both know Tupac is sunning on the Italian Riviera as we speak.” Robbie took a healthy swig and then set the empty glass on the counter.
“I wish I could stay and enjoy this little victory of ours a little longer, but work calls. I have practice this afternoon.” Robbie opened his shirt, exposing chocolate brown skin poured over well-chiseled abs. The tattoo of an Arabic verse ran down the center of his torso and disappeared inside his waist band. If she were a man….
“And I need to get back to your agent. Nico Acqua countered the endorsement offer. They have champagne tastes, but a beer bottle budget,” Yvonne sniffed, “I can’t believe they only offered one hundred and fifty thousand euro. They can’t even get a personal appearance for that.”
Robbie came around the counter and started massaging the tight muscles in her neck. “You need to take a break. You’ve been working nonstop ever since you’ve been here. If it’s not your thesis, it’s brokering deals or fielding interviews.”
Sighing, Yvonne relaxed under Robbie’s ministrations. “Maybe I will take a break, right after I talk to Nico Acqua.” Yvonne tried to break away from his firm grasp, but he pulled her around and marched her towards the stairs.
“You’re taking the rest of the day off. Take my membership card and go to the Roman Bathhouse. Their hot spring will work wonders on this stiff neck.”
