Defending Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  “Dissent.”

  “That is an absolute joke. That is a complete fucking—”

  “He is sorry.” Kojo, Oz’s Togolese counterpart on the right wing, stepped in with his palm raised.

  “Play on,” the referee decreed, and the two defenders jogged toward the midline.

  Oz heard his name. Roland gestured angrily from the manager’s box, and although the crowd was too loud to make out what he said, it was clear he was unimpressed.

  He exhaled, trying to ignore the cramp in his thigh, the free kick awarded against him, the manager swearing at him in Swedish. They were winning, and unless something outrageous happened in the next ten minutes, this home match would end with three points on their score sheet.

  Yet he was as pissed off as if he’d personally conceded a goal. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Kate.

  It was unlike him to be so fixated on a woman, never mind one who’d made her disinterest so abundantly clear.

  Then again, he’d never had to get over a woman who’d turned him down before.

  Maybe this was his karmic comeuppance. His turn to feel the sting of the rejection he’d dished out time and time again. Maybe this would be a valuable lesson in humility. Hadn’t every woman he’d ever been with eventually told him he was arrogant? And maybe Kate was right, his attraction was misguided, and it was best this whole crazy idea ended before it began.

  He’d get back on the dating app, he decided as Skyline’s forwards passed the ball slowly between them, letting the clock tick down. Lots of bored, single people spent their Sunday nights flipping through profiles, trying to set up dates for the week. He’d be one of them, and by Wednesday Kate would be a distant memory.

  “You better slow down or your thumb’s going to fall off. Is it left here?”

  “Sorry.” Oz looked up from the app to peer through the windscreen of Deon Ellis’s super-high-end SUV. With his own car in the shop for a minor repair, he was grateful for the post-match lift. “Yeah, left here.”

  “What is that, anyway?” The striker stopped at a red light and craned his neck to see Oz’s phone.

  “Dating app. You swipe left to reject, or right to say you’re interested.”

  Deon winced. “Harsh.”

  “It’s a jungle out there. You’re lucky you got to Olivia before she knew better.”

  “So lucky. At fourteen I only had to compete with the other guys in our high school. No social-media catfishers to intercept my game.”

  “That’s the problem. There are so many profiles you have to be ruthless. Like this one. Amanda. Located five miles away, age twenty-six. Brand and marketing executive. Interested in literature, baseball, wine, and jazz.” He held up the phone so Deon could glance at her photo.

  “Looks hot. Are you going to swipe right?”

  “Left.” He moved his thumb across the screen decisively.

  “What? Why? She’s perfect. You like wine, and you also refer to books as literature.”

  “I hate jazz.”

  Deon shook his head. “Picky. Read me the next one.”

  “Layla. Age twenty-seven, six miles away. She’s wearing a ski outfit in her photo.” He held up his phone.

  “She’s cute. What’s her profile say?”

  “She likes tennis, whiskey, and the Sunday crossword. Recovering corporate lawyer now working for a legal-aid charity. Then she writes, Let’s get pizza.”

  “Dude, swipe right. Swipe right immediately.”

  He swiped left. “Not for me.”

  Deon shot him a look of shock. “Are you trying to be single forever?”

  “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

  “What do you want, then, if not a crossword-completing, whiskey-drinking, public-good-doing lawyer?”

  “I don’t know.” Oz lifted a shoulder. “I’m looking for someone a little more down-to-earth. Someone who’ll stick with me after the soccer thing fizzles out. Who can spend a Saturday afternoon in my VIP box and not get conceited about it. Who’ll laugh at me and tell me I’m being pretentious. Then beat me at pool.”

  Someone exactly like Kate Mitchell.

  “But you’re assuming the women in those photos aren’t like that, when there was nothing in their profiles that suggests that.”

  “True.” He pocketed his phone and turned to the striker. “What’s the secret to a long and happy relationship?”

  Deon smiled and shook his head. “I’ve got only eleven years of experience. You should ask someone else.”

  “I’m serious. You and Olivia are the couple everyone wants to be. Steady, drama-free, and so affectionate it makes most of us feel sick, to be honest. What’s the magic formula?”

  “Compromise,” Deon answered promptly. “Adjusting what you want or need—or what you think you need—to suit the other person in a way that respects you both.”

  Oz waited, and when Deon didn’t elaborate he asked, “That’s it?”

  “That’s most of it.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  Deon’s teeth shone bright white in the dark SUV. “Super-hot sex as often as possible.”

  A bolt of desire arrowed through him with such force he had to grip the edge of his seat to brace himself as Kate’s image lodged in his mind. That inch of skin between her shirt and her jeans. Warm and soft and beckoning. He wanted to know what the rest of her felt like. Wanted to see her, touch her, taste every hill and valley in—

  “Here we are.” The striker stopped in Oz’s driveway. Oz swept up his gym bag from between his feet, hoping his teammate didn’t notice his unsteady hands.

  “Thanks for the lift. And the advice.”

  “Swipe right on Layla. I want to hear all about your date at Pizza Hut.”

  “I’ll think about it. See you on Monday.”

  Oz shut the door behind him and waved as Deon reversed down the driveway.

  The noise of the SUV’s engine receded as Oz fumbled in his bag for his house keys. He unearthed them from beneath a spare pair of shin pads and made his way up the flagstones to the front porch.

  Maybe Deon—and Glynn and Ted and Sean, for that matter—were right. So his last few dates fell flat—how much of that was his fault? He’d let Kate, or the idea of Kate, distract him from the type of woman he’d always been with, the type he’d always sought. The type who would finally make his parents proud.

  The busted evening with Davida was one hundred percent at his feet. He didn’t give her the respect and attention he should have. He wondered whether she would take his call now if he was sufficiently groveling and apologetic.

  Probably not.

  He hiked his bag up onto his shoulder and took his phone from his pocket as he climbed the front steps. He’d swiped left on Layla and Amanda, but there were plenty of other profiles to thumb through. He’d make his recovery shake, settle into the study with—

  He stopped two steps inside the house, his hand hesitating over the light-switch panel.

  He’d just pushed open the door without unlocking it.

  Or turning the handle.

  He barely breathed as he stepped backward onto the porch, squinting up at the house and around at the lawn, on high alert for any sign that something, or someone, was where it shouldn’t be. Moving as quietly as possible toward the road, he unlocked the screen on his phone and typed in 9-1-1—then stopped, his thumb hovering by the call button.

  He was being paranoid. As far as he could see nothing was out of place or broken. The security lights were on, the garage door was shut. The mailbox was clean and shiny, free of graffiti.

  “What the hell?” he asked himself in Swedish.

  Maybe he left it open and never noticed. He normally came in through the garage—when was the last time he even used that door? It could’ve been hanging open for days. He hadn’t bothere
d to put on the alarm or the beams, as usual, and the keychain with the panic button linked to the security company was on the kitchen counter.

  He was definitely being paranoid. He cancelled the 911 call and scrolled to Kate’s number instead. She was his security contractor, after all. This was what the team paid for.

  She answered on the second ring, sounding exasperated. “Hi, Oz.”

  “Don’t worry, this is a professional call.” He mounted the steps again.

  “With regard to?”

  “I just came home from our match and my front door was open.”

  “Where are you now?” she demanded, her tone rocketing from casual to urgent. The change made him slightly uneasy, but he pushed through the door a second time and dropped his bag on the floor.

  “I’m inside.”

  “Don’t take another step. Turn around and leave. I’ll alert our dispatch to send a car, but in the meantime you need to call the police.”

  “It’s really not—”

  “Give me two seconds to call dispatch. Get out of the house.”

  The line crackled as she put him on hold. He flicked on the lights in the entryway and scanned the vast room. Everything looked exactly as he left it. He exhaled in relief.

  “Oz? Are you there?”

  “I’m here. I probably left the door open by mistake. Everything seems completely normal.” He wandered through the big house toward the kitchen, turning on lights as he went.

  “The car should be there in less than five minutes, and I’m on my way,” she explained. He heard the whoosh of wind and the thud of her car door. “Did you call the police?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. I hardly ever use the front door. It’s probably been open for days. Anyway, I’m in the lounge now and all the windows are shut tight, the TV’s still here. Nothing’s been touched as far as I can tell.”

  “You’re still in the house?” she asked, incredulity shrilling her voice. “Oz, get out of the house.”

  “Look, I shouldn’t have called you. I overreacted. I’ve checked the whole ground floor. I’m walking into the kitchen now. The back door is shut, everything is—”

  He stopped short, his jaw slackening. Words dried up in his mouth. Thoughts slowed to a halt in his brain. All he could do was stare.

  Kate’s voice squawked his name on the line, but at a lower and lower volume. Eventually he realized it was because his hand was drifting to his side, his fingers barely managing to stay tight around the phone.

  “Oz? Are you there? Tell me what’s going on. Are you all right? Oz? Hello? For God’s sake, will you please say something?”

  He couldn’t. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t believe this was happening to him.

  * * * *

  “I arrived approximately fifteen minutes after my patrol-team colleagues and found the scene exactly as you see it.”

  Detective Hegarty nodded, scribbling in his notebook. “And did Mr. Terim explain why he called you instead of dialing 911?”

  “He thought he’d been absent-minded and left the door open,” Kate explained.

  “Why would he call private security if he’d been absent-minded?”

  “My bet is he second-guessed himself. Instinctively he suspected something was wrong, but he didn’t want to make a fuss in case it was nothing.”

  “Got it. Anything else he said, or that you want to share, which you think could be of value to this investigation?”

  She bit her lower lip, thinking carefully. “No, I’ve told you our whole exchange. You have the history and context—the graffiti on the mailbox and all that. But if I remember anything else, I’ll let you know.

  “I’d appreciate that.” He scanned over the page. “I think that’s all we need from you.”

  “You have my number, if not.”

  “We do. Thank you, Miss Mitchell.”

  “No problem.”

  At the other end of the room a police officer wearing rubber gloves shook open a large plastic bag. He used it to scoop up the severed pig’s head that had been dumped on Oz’s kitchen counter amidst a series of swastikas—finger-painted in animal blood—marring the pristine white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances.

  As awful as it was, she hoped ugly hatred was the simple motivation behind the break-in. If the perpetrator knew Oz well enough to understand how deeply he would feel an attack on his beloved house, it made this personal, and gave it potential to happen again.

  She turned at the thought of Oz. He sat on a couch in the lounge with his back to the kitchen, elbows on his knees. The policeman walked past with the bagged pig’s head, and Oz watched him all the way to the front door.

  She stared at Oz for another minute, her lingering irritation receding into sympathy. She wanted to strangle him when she took his call, first for failing to use any of the layers of security in place at his house, and then for recklessly barging into what could’ve been, and turned out to be, a crime scene.

  Now, though, he was quiet and alone amid the busy energy of policemen circulating, Peak Tactical personnel guarding the house’s perimeter, and the occasional flash through the window from the handful of paparazzi lining the curb.

  She bet those photographers were disappointed their police-scanner eavesdropping hadn’t led them to a bigger celebrity crime. Served them right.

  She crossed the room and dropped into the empty space beside Oz.

  “How are you holding up?” On impulse she put her hand on his knee, then ripped it off so quickly she nearly rocked backward.

  Boundaries. That he looked sad and isolated and inappropriately broody-sexy didn’t make her the right person to rescue him.

  “Fine, considering.”

  “Did you speak to Roland?”

  He nodded. “He flipped out, unsurprisingly. He’s probably calling the FBI right now. Or buying a gun.”

  “It’s good to have a boss who cares about you.”

  He shrugged, distracted.

  “I had a long conversation with one of the detectives,” she began. “The good news is that although you wouldn’t let us install surveillance cameras here, one of your neighbors has them on their property. They got a glimpse of a man hurrying down the sidewalk at around the time they think the break-in happened. The picture isn’t great, and the guy has the hood up on his sweatshirt, but it’s something. The other potential lead could be the pig’s head itself. There aren’t too many places to buy one intact like that, and they may be able to—”

  “Why would someone do this to me?” he interjected.

  She paused as he faced her fully. She’d never seen his expression so open, his dark eyes soft and rounded, brow furrowed in confusion. She hadn’t realized his icy exterior protected such a sensitive core, and it took everything she had not to wrap comforting arms around his shoulders.

  She bit her lower lip. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not from the Middle East. I don’t speak Arabic. I’m barely religious. Not that any of those things would justify the crime, but in my case, social media is full of my haram transgressions. Drinking, tattoos, not fasting for Ramadan. I’m a legal immigrant, I’m not politically active, I don’t even have a beard. I’m fucking Swedish,” he finished emphatically.

  “I know,” she soothed. “Hatred isn’t rational.”

  “I get that, but surely it’s at least pragmatic. If I move back to Europe, what changes? My departure wouldn’t topple any secret terror cells, or have radical Muslims throwing their Qur’ans into the Mississippi.” He dug his fingers into his thighs.

  “They’re probably too scared to go after anyone who might actually fight back,” she offered.

  “What, like all those Muslims who are real terrorists? The ones named Ahmed, wearing taqiyahs.” He rolled his eyes.

 
“Actually, yes. You and I know those things don’t make someone a terrorist, but whoever was in your house tonight doesn’t. He or she probably thinks Arabic-speaking men with beards have explosives in their basements. Which is why they chose to come here instead.” She shrugged. “Cowardice, pure and simple.”

  “I’m not convinced breaking into someone’s house is the act of a fearful person.”

  “You’d be surprised what fear can make people do.”

  The detective she’d spoken to made his way over and perched on the edge of the steel-and-glass coffee table in front of the couch. The table creaked under the detective’s weight and she glanced at Oz, whose jaw was tight with obvious displeasure.

  “We’ve got everything we’re going to get from the scene,” the detective explained. “We’ll follow up on a couple of leads and let you know if we find anything.”

  “Are you treating this as a hate crime?” Kate asked.

  “The state of Georgia doesn’t have hate-crime laws, but I assure you we’re taking this seriously.” He hauled himself to his feet. “You’ve both got my number. Give me a shout anytime.”

  Oz gave no indication of movement, so Kate took it upon herself to walk the detective to the front door and see him out. The photographers had moved on so she waved away the Peak Tactical team. With the house finally empty of police personnel she shut the door, locked it, and pressed the button to switch on the alarm system.

  When she turned Oz stood by the fireplace, lifting a clear, rectangular hunk of plastic with what looked like a medal encased inside.

  “They didn’t take this,” he murmured when she joined him. “CSL Young Player of the Year. This is worth a lot of money.”

  “The police said the intruder didn’t take anything of value.”

  “So they were motivated purely by bigotry, not greed. Is that good or bad?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied honestly.

  As he replaced the award on the mantel she noticed his hand trembling, and lightly put steadying fingers to his elbow. “Oz, you’re shaking. Do you want to sit down?”

  “Low blood sugar. Normally I eat right after a match. Tonight there’s been a delay, for obvious reasons.”