by Liz Crowe
He took a deep breath, processing the man’s words.
“So, I just want you to know that…I think you’re making a mistake. Marrying Amber.”
“Not your business, I guess,” he said, suddenly angry.
“Actually it is. I feel responsible for you. We recruited you away from the going-nowhere league. I like to think I taught you a few things. You helped make the Black Jacks what they are today. I didn’t want to trade you and fought it because I don’t think you want to go. I think you’re leaving for the wrong reasons. Those reasons all center around one person: Amber London. She doesn’t want you here. And while I know why…I….”
He sucked in a breath. “What do you know exactly?” Something simmered between the two men. Brody sensed unspoken words burning a hole in Metin’s throat. Words he wanted to say, but couldn’t or wouldn’t, for whatever reason.
“Listen, Brody.” Metin set his empty water bottle on the table next to the photo, letting his gaze rest on it once more. The pure emotion hit him hard. He narrowed his eyes, something tickling the back of his brain. He leapt up and began to pace.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’ll be fine. Whatever it is you aren’t telling me probably shouldn’t be said. I…I need to go.” He stumbled out, climbed on his bike, and roared off, not paying attention to anything but forward motion, away from a truth that lurked around the edges of his life but that he simply would not acknowledge.
****
One week later, he’d lined up some players as groomsmen and asked Metin to be his best man. The coach had smiled, clapped Brody on the shoulder, and said he’d be honored. No sign of the secret remained between them, leaving him relieved, if a little sad. He had an appointment with the legal lady, which he anticipated with an inappropriate amount of excitement. Then, remembering the reason for the meeting, he sighed and climbed off the bike, stashing his helmet and pushing his sunglasses up on his head.
It would be his last time with her, his last day in this building actually. He’d cleaned out his locker, taken his nameplate off the front of it with a sort of bemused detachment. He had no control over his life anymore, which on some levels gave him relief. Someone did…Amber…soon to be his wife. She held the reins, looked out for his best interests in her own way. He shivered, wishing that whatever had been niggling at him since Metin had done his little don’t marry her thing would just reveal itself.
His footfalls echoed in the hall. Familiar smells of new building, new turf, and plenty of sweat wafted across his senses. His heart pounded and his body seemed to head into a weird fight-or-flight mode. Simultaneously sweaty, cold, antsy, and stressed in a way he hated, he would give anything to have Amber there handling it. But she had a fitting or some shit for her dress and wanted to go out with her giant posse of girlfriends afterward. Sophie and Jack had requested his presence today, a Saturday, days before he got married. He shook his head, dispelling doubts for the millionth time in the last few weeks.
He turned the corner, his mind running a thousand miles a minute, and felt something run straight into his lower legs. He grabbed the wall and nearly fell down on a kid who sat on his butt, rubbing his forehead and frowning. Brody stared at the boy.
He’d seen him before, hanging around practices. Nicco gave him shoulder rides, and the others would kick around with him as if he were somehow a part of them. He had longish, jet-black, thick hair. And wore a small replica of the Black Jack’s uniform shirt, jeans that were undeniably grass-stained at the knees, and flat, indoor soccer shoes. Brody crouched down to get on his level.
“Sorry, dude,” he said, then took a step back when the boy glared at him. Brody had found an old shoebox that contained what he assumed were a few photos of himself a few days ago. It had been at the bottom of his closet, almost hidden. He’d dragged it out and sat with his back to the wall, thumbing through its contents.
Photos, mostly cheap Polaroids, faded to nearly gone. A few actually from film, developed, in the old way before camera phones and digital processing put the Kodaks of the world nearly out of business. One in particular floated across his vision at that moment, of him, about five maybe, or four years old, he didn’t know, his dark hair flopped over his forehead, double-dimpled, clutching a no-doubt dead frog and grinning a huge, toothy smile at whoever snapped the picture. He stared at the boy’s face now in front of him, soccer ball cradled in his arms like a precious treasure and experienced the most bizarre sensation—that of gazing into a time-traveling mirror.
The boy’s eyes darkened. Brody watched as the kid’s anger warred with his politeness training. His heart seemed to skip a few beats when the boy got to his feet, tucked the ball under one foot like a mini expert, and stuck out his hand. Brody swallowed hard and took it. The warmth from the kid’s flesh gave him the oddest urge to sweep him up into his arms and hold on tight.
“Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He preempted him with his own apology. His voice sounded a million miles away. The large, carpeted hall disappeared, faded to nothing but the two of them—he and this astonishing, small version of him.
He finally let go, realizing he’d been crouched down, gawking at him too long.
“Sam!” a familiar female voice called out. The boy stepped back from him, his small face confused. His ball rolled away from them and Brody snagged it, popped it up into the air, then tucked it under his arm. He held out a hand, somewhat surprised when the boy took it.
“Where are you?” the female voice continued.
“Sounds like you’re in trouble, little man. Let’s go get you out of it.”
The boy nodded solemnly, his face splitting into a heart-stopping grin when Brody winked at him. They walked hand-in-hand toward the sound of the woman’s voice. His pulse raced when he caught sight of Sophie, the legal lady he’d rough fucked then mentally obsessed over for the last few years. She always took his good-natured flirtation well, and he admired that. But she also populated some of his more erotic, yet intensely emotional, dreams. The oddest sensation hit him when she spotted them, him and the boy, together. That of relief.
“Sam!” She jumped for them, yanking the kid away from him as if he were the creepy dude in the van with candy. “Where have you been? You know you aren’t allowed to roam around like…like that.”
Sam protested. “Mommy! I was just…he is…” The boy stared at him, pleading wordlessly for Brody to help him out of the oncoming jam.
“Sorry, Soph,” he said, shrugging. “We were kicking the ball around in the hall some. I distracted him, I guess. Anyway…” He straightened, trying to dispel the very eerie vision that flashed through his mind.
Sophie, him, in bed, her smell and taste, her words in his ear, soothing and calming him, a vision so clear he had to clench his fists to stop from grabbing her and holding her close. But her eyes were not happy so he figured he had projected something forbidden. Something he might want but would never have. Besides, he was an engaged man—almost a husband. He grimaced at that realization. He crouched down to the kid standing beside his mother’s legs. “How old are you, Sam?” The question surprised everyone in a ten-mile radius.
“I’m almost four.” The little boy’s chest puffed up. “My birthday is….”
But Sophie stepped into the middle of the conversation shoving Sam behind her and glaring at Brody. “His birthday is coming up and none of your business. You’re late. Let’s get this over with.”
The irrational compulsion to run his finger down her tightly clenched jaw, to kiss her just under her ear, to thread his fingers in the brown tumble of her hair forced Brody to take a step back. He blinked, and it appeared again, the vision and even the graphic sensation of being connected with her, inside her body, moving together in perfect, sensuous rhythm.
Jack appeared behind her. She jumped then frowned again, and the vision vanished like so much smoke. She emanated such distress, such agonizing level of discomfort, it gave him physical pain to see it.
Unthin
king, as if by rote or memory, he touched her upper arm. The entire group of them—Sophie, her son, and Jack Gordon, founder of the club, observed quietly as his hand moved lower, trailing down to her elbow, to her wrist. Unable, perhaps unwilling, to stop, he put her fingers to his lips. He felt her shaking, sensed her son’s gaze on him, registered the boy’s open-mouthed stare. He only wished to soothe, to drive that expression of terrified unhappiness off her beautiful face. Jack cleared his throat. Brody and Sophie took a step away from each other.
“Mommy?” Sam’s small, confused voice broke through his dream state.
She tugged out of his grip. Then the surprise on her face morphed immediately into resignation. “Come on,” she said, turning away. “Let’s get this shit done.”
Chapter Nine
Sophie’s legs shook, but she marched back the few yards to her open office door, heart pounding and face flushed with anger. She stood, braced in the doorway with both hands, surveying the scene. Her large, luxurious office with its leather-writing-desk-style workspace, subtle lamp lighting, cushy leather seats, Turkish rugs, and giant glass wall mocked her. She sighed, mentally rewinding the last hour of shocking news and even more earth-shattering encounters.
It had begun innocuously enough. She’d anticipated the final meeting with Brody without too much angst. Ever since Amber lobbed the threat at her with Sam’s name splashed all over that bogus report about Sophie’s other life, she’d been slowly coming to terms with the fact that she had to let Brody go. She had all she needed now—her son, her careers, money, and security, along with several good friends, now that she counted Jack Gordon and his wife Sara among them. Would be nice to get laid, or even just share a romantic dinner with a man again someday. But she figured that would materialize eventually.
Now that she’d resumed her focus, the one she lost after Evan…and Frank…men were off her to-do list. Well, unless she jumped back into her role as chief Dominatrix—highly unlikely.
Arriving with Sam in tow had not been on the agenda today. She’d been irritated by him since early morning when he did his usual rise-at-the-crack-of-dawn and jump into her bed stating his intent to go to the soccer place. She’d groaned and rolled over, gathered him close, buried her nose in his neck, willing him to sleep a few more minutes. He had allowed entrapment for a few moments. Then wiggled free with a squeal and a bounce.
“You’re not going with me today, Sam.” She’d trudged to the bathroom. I love my child, I swear it. God help me if he does not learn to sleep in….
“Yes I am, Mommy. You gots a message on the phone. Jen is sick today and can’t play with me while you’re at the soccer place.”
“Why are you listening to my phone messages, Samuel?” she asked, climbing out and drying off. Sam had lounged on her bed with his cat and army men, crafting an elaborate Gulliver’s Travels-style siege on the poor animal.
He never glanced up from his plastic-toy attack. “Because I saw her name. So I listened.” His matter-of-factness made her smile in spite of her annoyance of the main message: she had to take Sam with her, the day she said goodbye to the boy’s father over a contract—sort of the way they met actually. She’d stared in the mirror wishing for nothing more than for Brody to know about his son.
Too late for that now of course, she’d reasoned, pulling on a slim pantsuit and fastening her hair up as Sam got louder and more excited about his field trip to Detroit. Beyond spent in body and spirit, she’d put oatmeal in front of him and threw some coloring books and toys in a backpack, along with granola bars and bananas so he wouldn’t nag her about his ever-empty stomach. Goddamn it, she had no energy to deal with her son today. His chattering, singing, banging crap around on the table, brought nothing but aggravation. She gritted her teeth from her spot inside the pantry closet.
Adding the keep-up-with and keep-Sam-entertained element to the anticipated drama of her day made her nearly physically ill. Or want to cry. She did neither, choosing instead to yell at him when his oatmeal bowl ended up on the floor and his milk all over the table. He’d responded back the same way then cleaned it up in sullen silence.
When they finally got to the soccer complex, she’d been ready to put the kid out on the side of the road. He acted like he had a sugar high or something, on top of his already huge energy supply. She bit her tongue against the urge to tell him to please shut up, please give her some peace and quiet. That today of all days, mommy wanted her space.
He hit the asphalt running, kicking his ball in front of him, his strong, jean-clad legs pumping, his dark hair blown by the spring wind. He needed a haircut, she observed idly. Then stopped, the extreme déjà vu of that simple thought making her dizzy. Shouldering her briefcase, she herded her son into the building, relieved when they ran into Metin who had his infant daughter in a running stroller, headed out to jog around the perimeter of the field.
Surrendering Sam into Metin’s capable and less-irritable hands, she started for the elevator. The anticipation of the final meeting with Brody had her in such a snit, she could hardly stand herself. Since she’d skipped her second cup of tea in an effort to get Sam dressed and ready, she stopped at the kiosk that fronted the sidewalk and did brisk business inside and out of the complex. Reinforced by the rich Earl Grey aroma, she walked the long hall toward the elevators up to the executive suites, greeting the usual cadre of marketing suits and sales girls, trying not to sound stressed. Today had portent. The very air seemed heavy with it. It pissed her off and at that point she wanted the damn paper signed and Robert J. Vaughn out of her life and onto his new one in Boston with the bitchy Missus.
She opened her door, shocked to see Jack there already, sipping coffee and reading something on his tablet computer. “Hi.”
Dropping her briefcase on the desk, she suppressed a shiver of irritation. She required a few minutes alone. How was that so fucking much to ask? But she sipped and waited for her boss to impart his daily dose of wisdom.
He put the tablet down and tented his fingers, staring at her thoughtfully. He’d dressed in his usual, suited best, silky tie in its perfect knot, thick, black hair smooth, his extreme togetherness marred only by a shadow of uncharacteristic stubble on his jaw That one detail jarred her, being so out of the ordinary for him, enough so she had a moment of worry. Then he spoke, bringing actual anxiety to the table.
“I am going to nominate you to be general manager at next month’s board meeting,” he said, his voice neutral as if he’d just recited the weather forecast.
“What?” She set her cup down before she dropped it onto the expensive carpet. “I’m not…you’re…where are you going?” He’d started this whole thing and had spearheaded it for years with a boundless energy and enthusiasm. She’d noticed the last time she’d been with him and his wife at a fundraiser, Sara had been quieter than normal, pensive, observing her husband as if he were a stranger. “Is everything okay?”
Jack took a deep breath. “Not really. But I’m dealing with it. Plus, I’ve got a new wrinkle. Just something I’ve been asked to consider…” He trailed off, broke their eye contact gazing out over the soccer pitch where Sam ran alongside Metin, the stroller in front of them. The sight of her son contented her for a half second. Until she remembered what Jack had said. She patted his leg and sat back.
“I can’t be GM. Rafe should be.”
“He has the soccer background, yeah. But…” Jack ran a hand down his face. “You are all-around the most professional one in the building. Rafe is a great guy. I love having him as a brother-in-law and working with Metin on recruiting. I’m recommending him as head of Soccer Operations. Sort of the COO, if you will.” He shot her a serious look. “You are the only one I’d trust to do this. You can hire whatever assistant you need or want, and get a new legal department, Sophie. Please consider it. You deserve it and one thing I don’t do is recommend promotions for no reason. You would be a great GM for this club.”
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning at him. “Wha
t is going on with you, Jack? You love this job. You gave Sara the general manager responsibility at Stewarts.” He and his wife had met as agents at the highly successful real estate company he owned. “Is it Brandis?” She didn’t want to bring it up, but it wasn’t a secret that Jack’s son had been in trouble.
“No. Well, sort of.” Jack shot her a bemused look. “Boys are horrible beasts. I would know, I guess, having been one.” He took a breath. “I’ve been asked to run for office. Considered it long enough to allow Sara to threaten to move out if I added one more project to my personal plate. And you know her well enough to realize as much as I do, that is no joke.”
“No, I’m guessing she had her reasons though. What office? Dog catcher?” She kept her voice light.
Jack nodded, chuckling without much humor. “She did have her reasons. She puts up with a lot from me, no doubt. And this latest thing…it’s senator, actually.” He shook his head. “Fucking crazy talk.”
The light in his eyes had sharpened, and Sophie guessed it resembled the same one Sara had seen years ago when he’d first been asked to explore the possibility of pursuing the new soccer expansion league for a team in Detroit, which had worked out very well. Jack Gordon did nothing halfway, likely leading to his wife’s non-idle threat.
“So,” he said, refocusing on her. “I am taking several steps back from the fun house here,” he waved a arm indicating the soccer world they’d inhabited together for the last almost five years, “to ponder my options, and to give some serious attention to my home life. I have to…I can’t lose that. I have to know this is being taken care of the way I would do it. No matter how rocky our beginning years ago, I know you are the only one who can do this for me.” He patted her leg and sat back, leaving her a little breathless at the prospect.
It would mean one thing for certain, something she’d been contemplating for awhile now. Giving up her share of Katrina’s, becoming a completely silent partner, and letting Lance hire a manager in her place. Perhaps the time had come.
