by Liz Crowe
Choosing to ignore it, he followed Mo into the kitchen and glued a smile on his face, determined to fix this. She turned her face up to his when he leaned over her, hand on her huge stomach. Then blew out a breath and shoved him away.
“Fucking hurts. God, my back is killing me.” She let him kiss her and put her hand against his cheek. He crouched down to be on eye level.
“Aren’t we, I mean, isn’t this…” He stared at her stomach, anxiety strangling him. She put a hand on his hair.
“Yeah, honey. Today is your baby’s due date. And the first day of your season. Perfect timing once again.”
He groaned and leaned into her, putting his lips against the taut skin of her belly, whispering, “Wait, young Inez. Hang on, my man. Give me twenty-four hours, por favor?”
Rafe glanced up at Maureen, fear sending a fresh thrill of stress down his spine. She looked like her whole body hurt. He really should have read some of those “what to expect” books. He’d only made it to one damn breathing class or whatever they called it. He closed his eyes. Sweet Jesus, help him, he could not take this right now.
His phone buzzed again. “Sorry, it’s Jack.” He stood.
She waved him away and kept staring out the window. He frowned and sat and took the call.
“Dude, please tell me you did not piss off my sister any more than you did my own lovely bride last night.”
“Damn, Jack, let’s talk about the team, okay?”
“Sorry, my brother. As Sara has in no uncertain terms informed me for the last, oh, ten hours straight—you have a priorities problem. And I am your enabler, or some shit.”
“She’s right.” Rafe stood, walked around behind Maureen and rubbed her shoulders, keeping the phone propped against his ear. “But we have informed the young Master Inez he should save his appearance for another day or so.” Maureen leaned her head on his hand.
“I’m coming with you,” she stated loud enough for her brother to hear it through the phone.
“Oh hell, no,” Jack sputtered into his ear. “She’ll distract you and, ow! Damn, Sara, cut it out.”
“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry. I’m gonna go. Go control your woman already.” He ended the call, dropped the phone on the table, and leaned down to kiss his wife’s lips.
“Do what you want, Maureen. I know I can’t stop you. But if you guys are coming with me, you gotta get it together. I need to be there in about two hours. Vamanos!” He headed down the hall to the shower, hoping his leapfrogging nerves would calm, but realizing the day had only just begun.
Parker went through his usual pre-game ritual—running five miles and consuming a four egg omelet with a cup of coffee and orange juice. The past months had been a blur of sheer physical stress and strain and avoidance of anything resembling up close and personal time with one Nicolas Garza. They’d battled it out, giving each other mutual black eyes more than once during fifty-fifty battles for the ball, and Parker had loved the contact—had relished the minutes he got to spend so close to a perfect example of a classic midfielder.
He’d remained strictly professional, never lingering long in the locker room and keeping to himself or with the more low-key members of the team, such as Kago and the Germans. He’d even been approached by an agent and had entered into discussions about representation.
“You’ll need a place to land once this little experiment goes pear-shaped, Parker,” the guy had insisted. “And you are the real deal. Not like all these has-beens.”
Parker had been named captain and as the attacking mid with Nicco on his left wing. Many claimed Nicco had caused such external strife for the team in general, getting photographed in any number of compromising positions; he’d put the whole experiment in jeopardy already. But Parker didn’t care. He had determined the team would succeed.
This pre-season startup was absolutely crucial. He’d been over to Rafe’s house for dinner, met his amazingly cool and very pregnant wife and her son from an earlier marriage. They discussed tactics, concepts, personalities and the competition for hours. And for the first time he felt truly needed, a part of something important.
He glanced down at his phone, noting the name he’d programmed in a few weeks ago. Sighing, he answered, acknowledging the surge of undeniable ambivalence. “Hey, Ashley.”
“Just wanted to wish you good luck,” the girl said. “Miss you.”
He ran a hand down his face. Ashley had fallen into his lap more or less, at a team bonding event. She worked in the marketing department and happened to be a dead ringer for Christie. When he’d spotted her across the room blatantly staring at him, he’d lifted his juice glass at her pretty smile. By the end of the night he had her back in a dark corner, kissing her with something approaching desperation.
The next morning he’d actually been shocked to find her in his bed, snuggled down into his chest. Now, apparently, he had a girlfriend. Who, thankfully, proved the opposite of Christie personality-wise. Undemanding, busy with her own job, not clingy or needy, but a damn tiger between the sheets. Ashley Trent could be what any man hoped for in a girlfriend. Parker hated himself for staying so disconnected from her, using her body to take his edge off, to quell the near constant level of lust he lived with daily. She, however, didn’t seem to mind or resent it. She left him alone when he needed and appeared when he wanted.
“Thanks. We’ll be fine, I think. I hope. I don’t know.” The butterflies beating the inside of his stomach transformed into small bats making him a little nauseated. “See you after?” he asked weakly, not even caring, but knowing he was supposed to ask.
“Maybe,” she said breezily, making him grateful in a way that sickened him. He needed her but he knew why—she kept him from facing himself, from acknowledging he would play this season and then get his shiny new agent to find him something else.
He could not play with Nicco. No matter they formed the middle of a strong team. Their chemistry on the pitch was undeniable. The press that had been allowed to watch some early scrimmages commented on it—how the two of them seemed able to anticipate each other’s moves before they made them. Which would be key to winning in a new league surprisingly stacked with talented players.
“Parker,” she said, sounding a million miles away.
He blinked, realized he’d been drifting, pondering exactly how much he enjoyed playing the game he loved with Nicolas Garza. “Sorry, babe. What?”
“Nothing….” Her voice faded. “Just…play well. I’ll be watching.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He hung up. Dropping the phone to the floor of his rented loft overlooking the Detroit River, he allowed himself a few minutes of remorse. She deserved better. He resolved to break it off with her after this game. He was obviously incapable of real emotion, so embroiled in his own mind with Nicco.
The thought of coming back to an empty condo after the game today made him twitchy. He toyed with calling her back, asking her to meet him afterward, for dinner, for anything. But he let it go.
The intervening weeks had been tough beyond imagining as the Detroit summer edged away and the temperatures eased down into the seventies. The lack of humidity provided a nice break to his Southern-bred thin blood. The covered, state-of-the-art venue had inevitable delays but had its grand opening. The team got exactly one full workout on its artificial turf after the giant, ribbon-cutting opening ceremony.
Tempers ran short and hot among the team and its coaches. Frustrated by delays and the onslaught of media plus all their extra chores online, the men still put in near nightly appearances at high-visibility fundraisers and other boring events. After all the drama, the stress, and brutal practices in the summer sun, the day had arrived—their first official game as a team.
Rafe scheduled aggressively, putting together a nice mix of gimmie games and challenging matches. The new coach, once he’d finally shown, had proved as tough as everyone had warned. The tall, dark Turk with the terrible tragedy lurking in his past seemed to embrace the conflict roilin
g through the players’ ranks. He even egged on some of the more volatile players, coaxing higher levels of play with his harsh but apparently effective words. Willing them to explode with fury for the express purpose of showing them how immature they had acted.
Parker emerged from the shower, rubbing his hair, ignoring his body’s clamor for more physical contact. His phone buzzed again—Nicco.
Parker’s scalp tingled, and he contemplated ignoring the call. But the two men had formed a bond around the concept of a winning season—they were both fierce competitors. Plus, for all his bullshit, all the drama seeming to trail after him like fog, Garza remained a stone-cold pro at the game. He had a fiercely strategic mind when it came to breaking down opponents since he’d played against many members of opposing teams in Europe.
He and Parker had spent several hours evaluating the team’s strengths and weaknesses with both Rafe and the new coach. He blew out a breath and answered the call.
Nicco sat, nursing a giant pitcher of ice water and fist full of painkillers, gazing out the window of his newly-rented condo in Royal Oak. He knew damn good and well avoiding temptation by placing himself a solid forty-minute ride away from downtown had been wise in theory. While his natural inclination for constant input, for physical and mental stimulation, kept him dipping into pools of debauchery plenty. Much to the chagrin of his new coaches and the club’s constantly yammering public relations people.
He’d ditched Terrance and taken up with a girl he’d met at a club about a month ago. She provided the sort of caretaking that soothed him, staying over and making breakfast, coffee, doing his laundry. She never asked for much in return, which made Nicco face and embrace his total shithead most days. He was honestly satisfied with both men and women sexually speaking. But something drove him to a female after Terry—if for no other reason than to dispel the near constant lowlying level of horny he sustained over his teammate, Parker Rollings.
Playing with the guy hadn’t helped. They’d clicked as if they shared a brain on the field, which shocked him. He’d always been a lone ranger, the superstar buoyed by a supporting cast of normal men. Parker proved soccer truly is a beautiful game— he was a dancer in motion, an amazing blur of arms, legs, torso, his footwork nothing less than exquisite. Shocked he was playing at this expansion level, and he hadn’t ended up at least in the major league soccer ranks if not in one of the premiere European leagues, Nicco watched, and his respect grew daily, along with desire to have him.
He sighed, and clutched his phone, an unfamiliar nervousness taking hold. Before he knew it, he’d pulled up a number, stared at it a minute then put the device to his ear.
“Hola.”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Parker answered, his voice the usual blend of polite interest and deflection.
Nicco put a hand over his eyes. Why had he called the guy? Parker epitomized the phrase “cool as a cucumber,” keeping his wits at his crucial position, a natural leader on the field. Poor kid took no end of shit from the rest of the team for his tendency to blush bright red at any provocation. Nicco adored watching him, playing against him and being in his general vicinity, so much that he’d caught himself fantasizing about him with alarming regularity.
Didn’t help he’d manipulated the poor kid into a position so he, Nicco, knew exactly what to expect down under as it were—and he had never forgotten it. He wanted more but remained convinced Parker couldn’t handle it. Besides, he’d seen the new girlfriend hanging off his arm. They made a lovely couple.
“Watch out for Bolo today.” He named the striker for Orlando, the established major league soccer team they faced in their inaugural game. “He’s got a wicked bad habit of high cleats when he gets frustrated. You will frustrate him I am certain.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.”
Silence swirled between them. Parker spoke, making Nicco’s pulse race. “You’re pretty amazing, you know. Don’t think I’ve said that yet.”
Nicco snorted, tried to get the image of Parker in his arms as far out of his head as possible. “No, I’m just a plodder. I practice a lot. I’m over the hill, as I’m reminded daily watching all you youngsters.”
“Spare me, Nicco. False modesty doesn’t suit you.”
He laughed. “Nailed, as it were.” He sank into his seat, ran a hand down his face. “Okay, I’m good. I know it. But you, young Parker, you are….”
“Spare me, will you?”
“Fine. Watch Bolo. See you in a few hours.” He stood and stretched, hoping a shower would chill his ramped-up libido at the sound of the other man’s warm, American southern accent.
“Nicco?”
He stopped, gripped the phone so hard his hand ached. “Hmm?” Attempts to sound casual when nearly dying of lust proved harder than he’d thought.
“Thanks.”
Trying not to beg to let him prove how great they could be together, Nicco ground out, “For what?”
“For showing me how to play the game at this level. Proving to me I can do it. You pushed me harder than anyone, and I know it.”
“Oh, uh, sure. Well, you know, I’m a natural born teacher.”
Parker’s easy laughter made him smile. “Well, natural born something, but anyways, thanks. See you in a few.”
Nicco stared at the phone, willing the man back to his ear, then finally set it on the table and flopped down on the bed. He couldn’t play like this—pent up, horny, moony over some kid who barely even realized what he wanted out of life. Didn’t take long to get it done, as images floated through his head of Parker, of his strong torso, and deep blue eyes.
Chapter Eleven
Rafe paced the office as Maureen propped her feet up on a chair and flipped through the glossy, full-color program and Adam studied the team’s classroom white board. He replayed the scenes over and over again. The potentially disastrous set-pieces that had gone off without a hitch, the hat trick his amazing young midfielder had managed, a last-minute substitution when his star German defensive back went down on a yellow card foul for the asshole Bolo. And finally the breathtaking final goal by the team’s number one troublemaker, bringing him to the score at the end.
Detroit 4. Orlando 3.
Their first game, an exhibition against a legitimate soccer team, in the rearview mirror finally—with a victory to boot.
Holy shit. He felt the goofy grin encompass his entire face once again, heard the loud yelling and celebration in the locker room next door.
“Go already, Jesus,” Maureen smiled at him from across the room. “Celebrate with them.” She made her slow way over to him; put her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
He leaned down and kissed his wife, long and deep. She put a hand to his face. Adam cleared his throat, loudly.
“Cut it out guys. Can I go with you to the locker room? Please?” Maureen shot him a look of disapproval.
He was about to agree when Jack and Sara burst into the room. Jack held a half empty bottle of expensive champagne and handed it to him.
“Drink up, mi hermano. Here’s to the ballsiest game of soccer I have ever seen. Well the fuck done.” He smacked Rafe on the shoulder and grinned like an idiot.
“You boys carry on.” Maureen put a hand to her back, bringing Rafe right down to the Earth where he was scheduled to become a father at any moment. “Sara, can you run me home?”
“Maybe.” His sister-in-law shot him one of her patented about-to-administer-a-lecture looks.
“Hang on a sec.” Rafe put the champagne bottle on his desk and stopped Maureen before she left. “Honey, I need to be with you. I mean….” He touched her stomach, waited for the usual shifting under his palm. It didn’t come. He frowned and moved his hand lower. She batted him away.
“I’m fine. Go. Be with the team. Then get your ass home. You owe me a foot rub. This kid of yours is about to beat me to death from the inside.” She pressed her lips to his, making his heart beat faster, like it always did when he realized his luck. “Proud of you
, Rafe. Well the fuck done indeed.”
He watched, speechless as she let Jack kiss her cheek and rub her stomach, then waddled out.
“You sure know how to time things, my man.” Jack grabbed the champagne and started out the door. “Now let’s go see the room full of men-boys who are gonna get us the first expansion league championship.”
Rafe shook his head and followed the other man down the hall.
A roar of pleasure made Nicco turn from his locker and smile as the young assistant coach entered the room trailed by a suit, one of the team’s funding sources or something. Metin, the surly Turkish coach had already slapped everyone on the back and left, muttering about getting home to his family.
Nicco had come as close to feeling warm and fuzzy as a guy like him got, watching Sevim’s progress in the past few weeks. He had known the man well—they’d been teammates for a time on the Madrid team. What had happened to him should never happen to any man. If the rumors were true and he had his shit together on all fronts, Nicco wished him nothing but the best.
He shook his head, recalling the match. It had been a fucking gutsy playbook. Long on tricks, passing, and heavy-handed defense and less about attacking than he liked, but the men had executed it to perfection, throwing off Orlando’s run-and-gun style. This damn thing might work, he mused, watching as the team patted Rafe’s back and passed around beers and champagne.
“Well done, ya raging bastard.” Rafe stopped in front of Nicco, arms crossed. “Please confirm for me: your celebration plans do not include farm animals or hookers. The PR department can’t take the stress.”
Nicco shrugged. “No promises, paesono. Must keep my options open.” His eyes betrayed him, strayed to the left and caught Parker facing his locker, the taut muscles of his currently bare ass begging for Nicco’s caress. Rafe’s hand on his arm brought him back from fantasy land. He smirked, hoping to deflect. “Why? You inviting me over for farm games?”
