Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

  He stabbed at the buttons on his phone to play back the voicemail. Her words made little impact on him. He knew she’d planned to quit her job at CSM. She’d apologized a million times, and he already figured out Evan was more interested in money than soccer.

  But the catch in her voice. That threw him. Maybe it was just another weapon in her arsenal of tricks, but what would be the purpose now? She’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, and he’d helped her every step of the way. In fact, was still helping her. His behavior matched hers in its immaturity.

  How could he withhold his forgiveness when he was guilty of similar tactics? Did she want more than his forgiveness? He hoped so. He missed her.

  Maybe they could start over with no deceptions between them, and to do that, he had to stop deceiving himself.

  He glanced at the clock on the stove, shook out a couple of ibuprofen from the bottle, and downed them with his tea.

  Time to show up for practice.

  ***

  Jessica scowled at the display on her cell phone. Her shitty week just got shittier. She punched the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Hi Jessie. Dad and I want you to come over for dinner tonight.”

  “What’s the surprise this time, a wedding for me and that weasel, David?”

  “We do have a surprise for you, but it doesn’t involve David, and we think it’s something you’ll like.” Her parents had no idea what she liked, and had proved it over and over again. At least she preferred to believe that instead of the alternative, which was, they knew exactly what she liked and tried their damndest to keep it from her. She didn’t want to contemplate that particular pain.

  “Dinner’s at seven thirty, but we want to talk before, so be there at six thirty.”

  “I’ll be there, Mom.”

  She didn’t even have the heart to show up late, so at six twenty-seven she pulled up in front of her parents’

  mansion. If she saw David lurking in any corners, she’d give him another bloody nose. He must’ve put some spin on the story he told Simon. Not that it required much spinning. It had enough force on its own to spin her right out of Simon’s life.

  R.C. met her at the front door, and she asked him if he knew what Mom and Dad had in store for her.

  “They don’t tell me anything.” He shrugged. “Is Simon coming back? God, that was awesome when he decked David. Tell me you’re not going to marry that dick.”

  “No freakin’ way. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Sometimes you do dumb-ass things just to get at Mom and Dad.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked his toe at the Eighteenth Century Chippendale side table in the foyer. “I mean if they turned around and said they hated David, you wouldn’t suddenly marry him just to piss them off, would you?”

  She sucked in a breath. Even her seventeen year-old brother had her pegged. “I’m done with that, R.C. What about you? Are you going to continue to pack on the pounds just because Dad wants you to be an athlete?”

  “You got me there.” A pink tide washed over her brother’s cheeks. “Is Simon coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Did you screw that up too?”

  She opened her mouth, and then snapped it shut when Mom peeked out of the door to the great room. “I thought I heard you. You’re early, and Pilar doesn’t have the appetizers out yet. R.C., can you please run to the kitchen and tell her to start serving?”

  R.C. rolled his eyes before crossing the hallway to the kitchen.

  Mom grabbed her arm and pulled her into the great room. Dad, sitting on the sofa, looked up from a pile of papers neatly stacked on the coffee table. A faint whiff of Mom’s Chanel Number Five and the citrusy scent of Dad’s hair gel caused a drum beat of dread to thrum along Jessica’s veins. It was the smell of power. It was the smell she remembered when they told her she had to enter that last riding competition of the season.

  She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from the smile frozen on Mom’s perfectly lined lips. She tripped to the wet bar and unscrewed a cap from a water bottle with trembling fingers.

  “What’s the surprise?” She glugged down half the water and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, which still felt dry.

  Dad spoke up. “We heard you resigned your position at Chase Sports Management.”

  For not taking orders from her father, Evan sure reported back to him quickly. Bet he didn’t tell him about the reality TV show.

  “Yeah.” She took another swig of water, and licked her lips. “Turns out I’m not so good at babysitting pampered sports stars after all.”

  “You’re capable of a lot more than that, Jessie.” Dad drummed on the papers in front of him, and Jessica’s gaze followed his tapping fingers as if hypnotized.

  What did he do, get her into law school? Medical school? Land her a spot on the space station?

  “I prefer to discover my own capabilities and not have them shoved down my throat.”

  Her father waved his hands, as if brushing aside all her preferences like pesky fruit flies. “I think you’ll like this surprise, especially since you’ve developed such a fondness for soccer...and soccer players.” She dug her fist into her hip, only because she refused to clamp her arms across her churning stomach. The stench of the perfume and the hair gel filled her nostrils, and she crushed a gag with the back of her tongue.

  Her father’s deep voice rumbled across the room.

  “Come on over here, Jessie, and let me show you what I have.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  Her father chuckled and it was the same chuckle she’d overheard the night her horse threw her on that last jump. Of course, he’d reserved the chuckle until he found out the fall hadn’t injured her physically. The man was all heart.

  Mom tut-tutted, and Jessica ground her teeth together to suppress the scream barreling up throat. Mom tut-tutted that night too.

  “Don’t be childish, Jessie. Your father went through a lot of trouble to secure this gift for you.” Mom was right. Immaturity signaled weakness, and she never wanted to show weakness in front of these two again.

  Dropping her hand from her hip, she spun around toward the wet bar. “Whatever. What’s this wonderful gift? Lay it on me.”

  Dad cleared his throat in lieu of a drum roll. “I bought out Casellas’s shares of the Waves and signed them over to you. You’re the new co-owner of the L.A. Waves.” Chapter Fifteen

  The laughter bubbled up from Jessica’s chest, spewing out her nose in snorts. She doubled over, clutching her belly, her giggles weakening her knees so much she sank to the arm of the sofa.

  “I fail to see the humor.” Her mother wrinkled her nose.

  “And that snorting thing you do when you laugh is so distasteful.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jessica snorted again for good measure and wiped her eyes. “It was a real bitch during those beauty pageants too. Judges didn’t like it at all.” Her father said, “I’m glad to see you’re happy about it. I think soccer’s really going to take off in this country, and owning a team will afford you plenty of responsibility.”

  “Cut the shit, Dad.”

  “I heard laughing.” R.C. poked his head in the door. “Is it safe to come in now?”

  “Coward. Dad just turned over half of the Waves to me.”

  “Cool. Does this mean we’ll see more of Simon?” Her jaw dropped. “How selfish can you be? Dad just hung an albatross around my neck, and you’re worried about your rematch with Simon.”

  “I don’t know why you consider this an albatross. You cut your teeth on sports management at CSM.” Dad scooped up the papers and waved them at her. “Now you have something you can sink your chops into. This is the big time.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You think I’m responsible for Simon’s out of control behavior this past week.” She grabbed the sheaf of papers from Dad’s hand, ignoring
the sting as the edge of a page sliced her finger. “You think by giving me half of the Waves, I’ll reel him in, but Simon and his behavior are beyond me. I haven’t even seen him this week, so you can’t blame me for his antics. I can’t help you.”

  “Oh really?” Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This is your baby now, Jessica. I didn’t exactly give you fifty percent of the Waves. I gave you fifty-one percent. You’re the controlling partner.”

  Dad always knew how to pump things up to the next level. So if she couldn’t or wouldn’t put a stop to Simon’s shenanigans, she and her team would go down with him.

  She didn’t care about herself or this silly partnership, but she wanted Simon to come to his senses. She knew he could be a success for the team. She saw a glimmer of the athlete and his passion for the game amid all the celebrity hype. But he wouldn’t do it for her. He had to do it for himself. He had to believe in himself and forget his father’s disappointment.

  She thumbed through the legal documents that named her co-owner of the Waves, staining the top page with blood from her paper cut. “What if I turn around and sell my shares to someone else?”

  Her father pushed up from the sofa and dusted his hands together. “In the words of...well...you, whatever.” hands together. “In the words of...well...you, whatever.”

  ***

  Simon opened one eye and groaned, and for the first time this week, the groan didn’t originate from a hangover.

  He reached down and rubbed his knotted calf muscle.

  Working out hard with the Waves yesterday felt great at the time, but giving his all had consequences, and those consequences had seeped into every cell of his body this morning.

  He stretched before rolling out of bed and hitting the shower. He had an appointment with a sports nutritionist Ivo had recommended, and then he planned to pay a longoverdue visit to that gym he’d joined last month for a light workout with weights. Thankfully, Franco cancelled practice this afternoon for a team meeting with management.

  Maybe he should save his thanks. He figured Roger Brett planned to use the team meeting to announce his coownership of the Waves with Casellas. Simon hadn’t spoken to Brett since he’d charged out of his mansion, dragging his daughter with him. Hadn’t spoken to Jessica either.

  Maybe he owed her another chance. She didn’t exactly twist his arm to convince him to run amok. If only she’d told him herself. Hearing it from that smug, rich boy, David made it a hundred times worse. Nobody made a fool of The Boss...at least not without getting a broken nose for the effrontery.

  Simon jogged downstairs, the stretching and hot water easing the soreness of his legs. He stopped short half-way to the kitchen when a shimmer of gold caught his eye.

  to the kitchen when a shimmer of gold caught his eye.

  Gemma slumped against the sofa cushions, legs extended in front of her, a shiny dress crumpled around her thighs.

  “Do not bleedin’ tell me you just got in.” He drew his brows together and pursed his lips, feeling like his old schoolmaster, Mr. Pynchon, whom the schoolboys tagged with the nickname, Old Pinchbottom for his uptight demeanor.

  “Oh no. I got in hours ago. I crashed on the sofa because I didn’t want to disturb you. Just woke up.” She struggled to sit upright and yawned.

  Simon sucked in his lower lip, grabbing a carton of juice from the fridge. His sister never accompanied him out anymore. She and Ivo were on the outs, and Ivo had been scarce since practices started anyway. He didn’t even know who she was hanging with, although she’d mentioned a friend of Jessica’s. Hell, she hadn’t been to one acting class since she got here.

  “Have you looked into any acting classes yet? Did you forget our deal already?” He poured some orange juice in a glass, the tangy citrus smell making his mouth water.

  Gemma plodded to the counter, plopped down on a stool, and dug her chin in her hands. Simon sloshed the juice over the rim of the glass and onto the sleeve of his jacket. Dark circles beneath Gemma’s eyes marred her porcelain complexion. Puffiness accentuated her normally round, smooth cheeks, and a pallor surrounded her mouth.

  “Are you sick? You look terrible.”

  “Yeah, I might be coming down with something. I don’t feel well.” She ran her hands over her face, as if to erase the signs of illness, but she emerged looking just as bad as before.

  A shaft of guilt lanced his belly. He’d been so selfabsorbed, he hadn’t been watching out for his little sister, and he knew from experience she needed a keeper.

  “Do you want me to make you some breakfast?” He grabbed the ibuprofen from the cabinet and slid the bottle toward her. Then he poured a second glass of juice.

  She shook out two pills and tossed them back with her juice. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then you need to go right upstairs, take a shower, and get to bed. Let’s start looking at some acting classes this weekend. Deal?”

  She finished the juice and stood up, swaying. “Yeah, I’d like that. I’m getting pretty tired of L.A. nightlife.” Make that two Bosfords. “Glad to hear you say that. I think I’ve had my fill too. Now go rest. I’ll be out all day—

  nutritionist, gym, lunch, meeting with the Waves. Give me a call if you need anything.” He patted the pocket of his jacket where he’d stashed his cell phone.

  “I think I just need sleep.” She tilted her head, catching her tousled hair in a ponytail. “Simon, I’m glad you’re getting back to work.”

  “You are?”

  “In that last World Cup I was so proud of you. I watched the final game at Dad’s house.”

  “Did you?” He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the sticky spot on his sleeve.

  “Dad was proud too.”

  “Really? So proud he didn’t accept the ticket I sent him to come out and see it live?” He rubbed at the orange juice stain, shredding the napkin and leaving bits of it stuck to his sleeve.

  “Maybe Dad just doesn’t know how to apologize.

  Maybe he can’t admit he was wrong. S-sometimes you make that hard, Simon.”

  “So it’s my fault Dad can’t tell me he’s sorry for all the years he slagged off football as a career, for all the times he called me a failure because I didn’t go to university.”

  “He probably doesn’t think you need his apology.

  You’re always so sure of yourself, always in control. You’re The Boss. It’s hard to admit mistakes to you, Simon.”

  “Rubbish.” He shrugged out of the spoiled jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Swinging his gym bag over his shoulder, he called back, “I’m taking off. Get some rest.” The slamming of the door matched the pain in the back of Gemma’s skull. So much for confiding in Simon.

  She sank back to the stool and buried her head in her arms. If only she could remember what happened last night.

  She couldn’t even recall leaving the club with Megan. They ran into Scar and FredX from Excrement, but she couldn’t remember if they left with her and Megan, or if they went anywhere else...besides the hotel.

  Gemma screwed up her face and rubbed her eyes.

  That’s what she didn’t get. How did she wind up in that hotel room? She woke up alone, but she had the sinking suspicion she didn’t go to bed alone.

  She woke up naked with her throbbing head pointing She woke up naked with her throbbing head pointing the wrong way in the messed up bed. Used towels littered the bathroom floor, and someone had used the hotelsupplied bathroom products.

  Her body felt sore and used and...like she’d had sex.

  Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. If she had sex, she couldn’t remember with whom or under what circumstances, and she hadn’t even had that much to drink.

  Jessica’s dire warnings, which Gemma had shrugged off as hysterical rantings, came back to haunt her.

  The first night they went out, Jessica shook her finger in Gemma’s face and said, “Don’t leave your drink unattended. If you do, don’t drink it when you come back.

  Don’t accept a drink fr
om a stranger unless you get it directly from the bartender.”

  Gemma chewed on her lip. Well, she didn’t do any of those things last night. Megan gave her a couple of drinks, but Megan wasn’t a stranger.

  She wiped her hands across her face, smearing the tears toward her ears. She clutched the bottle of ibuprofen to her chest and stumbled toward the staircase, peering up at the stairs that suddenly resembled Mt. Everest.

  On her way up the mountain, she heard the phone ring.

  She grasped the banister. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. She’d call Megan later, but feared what she might discover about last night.

  She continued her ascent and when she reached the top stair, she heard Simon’s cell phone playing that stupid song from the pocket of the jacket he’d left behind. She shrugged and shuffled to the bedroom. Someone must be shrugged and shuffled to the bedroom. Someone must be intent on reaching him.

  Too bad he was unreachable.

  Too bad he couldn’t help her.

  Too bad she was all alone. ***

  Simon eased his Ferrari into the parking lot of the new stadium. The stadium featured box seats and a clubhouse, the location of their meeting today, for season ticket holders. Casellas told him the Waves had sold more season tickets this year than ever after the team signed Simon. Just maybe he could give them what they paid for.

  Despite his concern over Gemma, he had a good day

  —got some supplements from the nutritionist and a new diet, worked out at the gym, got a massage, and met some friends for lunch—but Gemma’s appearance this morning niggled at his conscience through it all. When he discovered he’d left his cell phone in his jacket at home, he rang her up from a pay phone outside the gym but she didn’t pick up.

  She’d claimed to be sick, but her illness resembled a hangover more than a cold, and the unmistakable stench of booze and cigarettes clung to her trashy dress and disheveled hair. Why did he expect anything better from his sister when he set such a poor example himself? At least she seemed contrite about her behavior. Hell, she even defended the old man.

  Was she right about Dad? Did he have a change of heart about Simon’s chosen profession, and just couldn’t bring himself to admit it?