Defending Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  Oz was right behind her. “Kate, stop. Please,” he implored, his tone softening. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, okay? You don’t have to go.”

  She shook her head. “I really should get back to the office.”

  He slid his forefinger beneath her chin, prompting her to meet his gaze. “What changed? We were having fun.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” she admitted, heat crawling up her cheeks. “I threw myself at you, and if I’d known—”

  “I threw myself at you first,” he reminded her, his hands linking around her waist.

  “I guess.” But his attempt to console her only made her feel worse. She’d been proud of her lack of inhibition and her sexual confidence—two things she’d always struggled with. She wanted Oz to know her as a self-assured, sensual dynamo. Instead, she was back in the all-too-familiar territory of uncertainty, anxiety and regret.

  “Stay. Have lunch. We’ll talk.” His thumb swept over her stomach, bare beneath her hastily pulled-on suit jacket. “Or not.”

  She hesitated. He looked so good. And she was starving.

  But the moment was gone. She’d be awkward and stiff if she stayed. She needed time to collect herself. If he’d waited this long, he probably wanted to wait for a relationship, and that was so far from what she could offer it was in another galaxy.

  “I’m going,” she decided.

  “Dressed like this?” He touched her top button. It sat high on her stomach. The jacket lapels barely covered her nipples.

  “Yes.” Quickly she did up the other two buttons. It made no difference.

  “I’ll enjoy imagining your drive back to the office. And hope you don’t get pulled over.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, then cringed at the rigidity in her voice.

  He reached around her, unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I guess I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” She nearly stuck out her hand to shake before she caught herself. Jesus, this wasn’t a business meeting.

  “I’d tell you to call me if you want to get together before then, but you’ve got my phone.”

  “Right. Of course. I’ll make sure our cyber-security guy couriers it back to you as soon as he’s done with it.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” he said neutrally.

  She narrowed her eyes. Was he making fun of her? He wore his characteristically indecipherable expression, though it was slightly undermined by his passion-mussed hair and still-unbuttoned fly.

  Whatever. She tossed an excessively upbeat farewell over her shoulder as she hurried down the porch steps and around to her car, praying none of the neighbors spotted her daring take on business attire.

  She tucked into the driver’s seat, reversed down his driveway and sped along the street without noticing in which direction she’d gone. She turned the corner and pulled over halfway down the next block. Then she cut the engine and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

  Regret, disappointment, humiliation, and unfulfilled lust competed for attention in her swirling thoughts. She exhaled, forcing herself to take each one in turn.

  Regret. She wished she’d slowed down and presented a calmer, more contained version of herself. But would she feel the same if Oz hadn’t stopped her and they’d had sex? He certainly hadn’t minded her forward, even brazen style. She had no reason to regret. Cross that one off the list.

  Disappointment. That was fair enough, frankly. She wanted to have sex with Oz, looked forward to having sex with Oz, bad idea though it was, and now it would never happen. She winced as disappointment bit even more sharply. Ouch.

  Humiliation. Again, this was all down to her. Oz gave her no reason to feel embarrassed. On the contrary, he’d insinuated she could stay and get up to even more frisky behavior. She sighed. It was hard—really hard—but she had to push away the humiliation. Its roots were planted firmly in her mind and nowhere else.

  Last but certainly not least, the hot pressure that still thudded between her legs. With a quick glance out of the car windows to double-check that the residential street was empty, she slipped her hand inside her suit jacket and teased her bare nipple.

  Yes, just like that.

  She settled back in her seat. Let her hand drop between her thighs. She thought of Oz, his clean scent, his hard body. She slipped her fingers beneath the damp fabric of her panties and rubbed slow, lingering circles against her clit.

  Her eyes fell shut, her vision filling with images of him. His thick, soft, midnight-black hair. His eyes—large, hungry, shining with appreciation as he watched her. She imagined his hand in place of hers, his skillful, unhurried fingers instead of hers, his expression shifting from playful to intensely serious as he watched her breathing hasten, her mouth open, her head fall back…

  She came suddenly, sharply, too briefly. She moaned her dissatisfaction as the pleasure subsided, jerked her hand up and started the engine.

  She put trembling hands on the steering wheel and checked her mirrors before pulling out onto the road. That hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. And she wouldn’t get anything more.

  Chapter 11

  “Number twenty-four, Kojo Agassa. Number eighteen, Özkan Terim.”

  Oz barely registered the applause of the away fans. He swept his hands down his face to complete his prayer, then studied the team lined up on the other side of the pitch.

  Charlotte was one of Skyline’s fiercest competitors this season. Their striker was big and powerful, but he was getting older and slowing down. The midfielders were clever, creative and agile but struggled with finishing, and relied on the striker to convert their elegant assists. Skyline’s job would be to intercept those long passes, or even better, to beat the midfielders off the ball.

  The whistle blew and the match started tentatively. Laurent made the first move for Skyline, darting forward to win the ball. Charlotte’s right-back chased him to the sideline, then kicked the ball out of play, giving Skyline a throw-in.

  Oz exhaled. Tried to get his head in the game. Tried to remember that fans had traveled and spent money and waited to see this match, and that he was paid a princely sum to perform to their expectations.

  He couldn’t think about the unspoken, unresolved sexual tension that settled heavily on his shoulders whenever Kate entered a room.

  He couldn’t think about the way her eyes widened in disbelief when he’d told her he was a virgin, or about her decisive, sudden departure, or about his sulky disappointment.

  He definitely couldn’t think about her total silence from the moment she left his house until they met again at the stadium before the team’s departure for Charlotte, or her detached, professional manner when she did speak to him.

  And, on that note he most certainly couldn’t think about the embarrassing level of personal security he’d endured on this trip, from having to wait alone in the lobby so his room could be inspected to the bouncer-looking guy who’d preceded him on and off the team bus. Although his teammates knew he wasn’t the prima donna his security presence suggested, he hated the thought of a fan or an opposing player coming to a different conclusion.

  He shook his head as he jogged to mark a midfielder, imagining he was shaking out thoughts about anything except this match.

  Soccer. Listen, react, run. Nothing else.

  He spent the next ninety minutes in constant motion. Precise, controlled, relentless. He executed tackle after perfect tackle, neatly winning possession and sailing the ball up the midfield. He chased Charlotte’s forwards, leapt to defeat their stylish passes and cleared the striker’s best, squarest shot of the match, a breath away from the goal line.

  He was at his best, playing with exactly the combination of ruthless aggression and clinical self-control that made him stand out in his youth-league team when he was ten years old. He was faster now, sharper, better trained, but a
t times he still found himself reaching back to the raw instinct discovered in his childhood, the relentless determination and brutal efficiency he’d learned from watching his uncle.

  The scoreboard read nil-nil when the final whistle blew. Skyline’s forwards’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, but Oz smiled. That zero was hard earned and he was proud of it.

  He slapped backs to celebrate with his fellow defenders and shook the hands of the opposing players. He bantered with one of the Charlotte midfielders, traded a joke with their goalkeeper and accepted wry praise from their famed striker.

  He grinned as he left the pitch, exhausted, relaxed, pleased.

  “Very nice.” Roland nodded his approval and spoke in Swedish as Oz walked past. “Stunning work today.”

  Oz stuck up his thumb to show he’d heard, following his teammates toward the dressing room. One of Charlotte’s media coordinators waved at him from a bend in the hallway, beckoning him over.

  “Number eighteen, you’ve been named Skyline’s man of the match,” she announced brightly. “Can we grab you for a five-minute interview?”

  “Of course,” he replied, delighted. Man of the match was rarely awarded to defenders, and he hadn’t been given the honor since he unexpectedly scored a winner at the beginning of the season. He followed her to the pressroom, where tall boards showing the sponsors’ logos were set up to form a corner.

  Pavel Kovar, Skyline’s goalkeeper, was already in place. As the team’s captain he gave a short interview after most of the matches, and his comfort in front of the cameras was evident in his easy posture.

  “Good work today.” The Czech slapped Oz on the back as he took his position in front of the boards. “Especially that last clearance.”

  “I’m sure you would’ve saved it if I hadn’t.”

  The older man smiled. “I wasn’t going to say it, but since you did…”

  The correspondent from the major sports channel which aired CSL matches hurried in, microphone and cameraman at the ready.

  “Good to go?” he asked without preamble, and the two players nodded.

  He motioned for the cameraman to start rolling. “Pavel, Oz, thanks so much for joining us after what appeared to be a punishing draw against Charlotte. The match was truly box-to-box and a real credit to both defensive sides that neither team was able to create an opportunity to score. Pavel, how important is communication for you with pacesetters like Oz and Kojo Agassa on your end?”

  “Communication is absolutely fundamental to keeping a clean sheet,” Pavel explained. “We know where we all are at all times, to avoid mistakes and maximize our strengths.”

  The reporter pivoted. “Oz, stats show us that you run more than the average left-back, but in this match you clocked a whopping eight miles of distance covered, more than anyone else on the pitch. Do you see your position as being more than a defender?”

  “Much more,” Oz replied. “I have my defensive duties, of course, and I can’t neglect them, but where possible I love to chase up the pitch and get involved. My aim is always to assist the team from wherever, whenever.”

  “And I know you must be tired, but tell us, Oz, you consistently hit top marks in speed and distance. Would you say you’re in the shape of your life?”

  Oz smiled, envisioning the headline the reporter clearly wanted. I’m in the shape of my life, reports Skyline’s man of the match Oz Terim. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to do the guy a favor.

  “Yes, absolutely,” Oz affirmed. “I’m twenty-seven and at a physical peak, but I’m also settled at Skyline, settled in Atlanta, and surrounded by some of the best players in the CSL.”

  The reporter signaled for the cameraman to cut, then nodded to the media assistant. She produced a soccer ball-shaped statuette and handed it to Pavel.

  “We’ll just get a shot of you receiving your award, Oz, and then we’re done.”

  A few minutes later Oz entered the dressing room with his statuette in hand, to the warm applause of his teammates. He accepted high fives and fist bumps and although everyone was clearly tired, their smiles and well wishes were genuine. Oz undressed and showered with a sense of relief, glad to have proof that no one judged him for his new bodyguard.

  He dressed in his Skyline tracksuit and joined the rest of his team in the lobby to board the bus back to the hotel. When Kate appeared from around a corner he forgot the awkwardness between them, pushed aside her rejection and launched into unapologetic flirt mode.

  “Hey, do you think we’ll need a bigger bus so I can get this back to the hotel?” he joked, holding up the statuette and beaming at her as she approached. “I don’t know what the load limit on these things is, and I’m pretty sure this is one hundred percent solid plastic, so—”

  His words died at her grim expression.

  “We have a problem,” she told him soberly. “A self-proclaimed jihadi opened fire on a shopping center in Decatur. He wounded three people and killed a mall security officer before turning the gun on himself.”

  It took him a few moments to process her statement and form his response. “That’s terrible, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

  “Citizens First called for its Atlanta supporters to speak out against people they consider to be jihadi sympathizers.” Her lips thinned into a line. “Fifty people are picketing outside your house.”

  Chapter 12

  “Got it. Will do.” Kate thanked her boss and pressed the red button to end the call. Hard. “Undermining prick.”

  She rapped on the hotel-room door behind her. The last remaining contract bodyguard opened it, his colleagues having been dismissed in waves that afternoon.

  “I spoke to Rich, he wants you to escort Oz to Atlanta. Does that work for you? All on the clock, including the drive back tomorrow, but not double time.”

  The beefy guy shrugged. “Fine by me. Can I go home and pack a bag?”

  “Take your time. We’ll hit the road at eighteen hundred.”

  As the guard set off down the hallway, she moved into the room and let the door shut behind her. It slammed loudly into the frame but Oz didn’t flinch. He sat motionless by the window, a book overturned on his knee.

  She perched on the edge of the bed. This was the first time they’d been alone together since—well, since everything.

  “I talked to my boss,” she told him, plunging headfirst into the silence. “He wants us to wait until six.”

  Oz sighed, dragging his gaze away from the window to meet hers. “That’s another two hours. The rest of the team has been back since noon. If anyone was hanging around the training ground to see if I arrived with them, they’d know I didn’t.”

  “There’s still a crowd outside your house. Smaller, but not by much. Hopefully they’ll start to disperse once it gets dark.”

  “Some of them camped out last night,” he countered.

  “And if that’s the case again, we’ll have to put you in a hotel.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to a hotel in the city where I own a house. I want to go home.”

  “I know, but you have to be safe. Spending the night in your house with twenty angry bigots outside is not a good idea.”

  He arched a brow. “Are you allowed to call them bigots?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the conference call this morning your boss was very careful to refer to them as protesters.”

  “I’ll call them what I want.”

  He picked up the book on his knee and slid a boarding-pass stub between the pages. “Why is your boss suddenly taking an interest in all of this?”

  Because he’s an opportunistic asshole who’s just woken up to the value of the Skyline account. “Given the escalation in the threat he thought it would be useful to have an extra set of hands.”

  “I thought you were doing fine on your o
wn.”

  “Thank you.”

  He put the book on the bedside table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Look, Kate, the other day…”

  She tensed, bracing herself to finally have the conversation she’d imagined over and over, each time with a different version of herself. Version one: sexual vixen who saucily offered to show him the ropes. Version two: seen-it-all stalwart who casually dismissed his inexperience. Version three: earnest good listener who assured him she understood and respected his choice. Version four: borderline dominant who asserted—

  “What did you think about it?” he asked, tossing the subject over to her and throwing her completely off guard.

  All the responses she’d rehearsed, and personas she’d dreamed up, disappeared. She had no choice but to be herself, whoever she was.

  “I think I could’ve handled it better,” she told him truthfully. “I’d never been in that situation before. I felt awkward and embarrassed, and I left. I should’ve stayed and talked to you about it.”

  “I could’ve handled it better, too. I should’ve told you earlier.” He shifted in his seat and raised his eyes to hers. “But I didn’t want you to stop.”

  “Can I ask why you’ve chosen not to… you know?”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “Have sex?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a promise I made to myself at the beginning of my professional career. My uncle was a footballer—Erdem Terim.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Not many people have. He was a minor star in Turkey, for a while. Then he took a bad tackle, broke his leg in three places and rode out his contract on the injury list.”

  He shifted in his seat. “When his career was on the rise, his life was made. He had a huge house, a fleet of cars, and a wife he loved more than any of the rest of it. She hung around for a few months after he retired, but when the money went, so did she. He was devastated. Eventually my father brought him to live with us in Sweden, but it was too late. I watched my childhood hero deteriorate into a directionless, depressed alcoholic. He started wandering away from the house, sleeping on the streets, and one night he walked in front of a car.” He wiped his palms together. “That was that. My dad insists it was an accident, but I’m not so sure.”