Red Card

by Liz Crowe

  He kept his voice mild. “Zach, what I will do remains to be seen. There’s no need to talk like that to your brother.”

  “You know what? Fuck you. You are not my… you’re not anything to me. Not anymore. You were a colossal dick the last time we saw you.” Breathing heavily, he advanced on Metin, who rose with hands at his sides. “You took a swing at my mother,” he hissed, his face beet red. “At her own sister’s funeral. I think you should leave. Crawl back into the bottle where you hid for two years and leave us the hell alone. No one wants you here. Trust me, I’ve heard my mom say it enough times.”

  Metin put his hands in his pockets and mentally counted to ten before speaking. His own temper pounded in his ears. He realized matching the kid word for word, when he’d said nothing that wasn’t true, would only make a shit situation worse.

  But Mel spoke first. “Zach, I don’t need you to do this. Metin and I have made our peace.”

  Metin mentally startled, hearing the words he’d been thinking fall from her lips.

  Zach wouldn’t take his eyes off Metin’s. “Stay away from us. I mean it.”

  “You’re overacting, but I don’t blame you,” Metin said, his ears still buzzing with fury.

  “Do not psychoanalyze me, you selfish prick.”

  Mel slid between them just as Metin was about to grab the boy and shove him into the wall. This he knew and remembered well. The Matthews women and their infernal “hands-off” approach to parenting. But Zach was correct about one thing—Metin had no say whatsoever, and anything he did would be misinterpreted anyway.

  “Zachary Miller, shut your mouth and go upstairs. Now.” Melanie stood her ground, staring up into her son’s eyes until they flickered away from her gaze. She put a hand on his arm. “Honey. It’s okay. I swear it. I… we….”

  At the look of desperation on her face, Metin took a step back from the two of them. He blinked, his head awash with memory and emotion he couldn’t name. Friends, former family, this is what you are, nothing more.

  “Oh. My. God,” Zach spit out. “Mom. You are not fucking this guy, are you?” His blue eyes flashed, and he sidestepped Mel and made for Metin.

  “Zach, shut up!” Tanner shot out of his chair and launched at his brother, his fists flying. Because he caught Zach off guard, he knocked the boy on his ass and pounded on him. They rolled around on the kitchen floor, cursing and beating on each other. Metin and Mel watched, speechless.

  “I’m glad to see the drama quotient around you hasn’t changed,” Metin said, once things progressed between the boys too far and he’d waded in to pluck Tanner off of Zach. The younger boy’s arms flailed and tears streamed. “Tanner, it’s okay. Zach doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And he needs to leave the room before he makes me mad.”

  Mel put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “Let me handle this. I’m intimately familiar with being the youngest brother trying to beat the living shit out of an older one who deserves it.”

  He walked into the family room and plunked Tanner down on the couch, crouching in front of him then handing him a tissue. “Calm down, Tanner. It’s okay.”

  Zach scrambled to his feet and ran out the door, slamming it hard. His truck scratched out into the quiet suburban street. Mel dropped into a seat at the table. Metin patted Tanner’s leg while the boy calmed. Bruce, the bear-dog, lumbered in and slobbered all over his arm. He smiled. Yeah, the Matthews family drama never ceased to amaze him. The animal shoved him off balance, onto his butt and Tanner giggled through his tears.

  The rightness of the moment, despite its inauspicious beginning, hit him hard in the chest. Metin smiled, and when he caught Melanie’s eye as she walked over to help him up, he had a small flicker of hope that perhaps everything would all be okay, somehow.

  Chapter Eight

  Metin watched the team scrimmage, noting without a hint of irony that he had never in his life seen such a rag-tag bunch of players. There were hints of greatness—Nicco Garza, one of them, although also the dictionary definition of “loose cannon.” And that Parker kid, the one fresh from college, showed serious promise as a leader. As for the rest, well, they were exactly what Zach had called them—nobodies, mixed in with a load of has-beens. In short, a shit ton of potential grounded in zero reality.

  He leaned in to Rafe at one point after observing a pitiful excuse for a breakaway. “You know, I never understood why people would get mad and call me a “showboat” until now,” he said as that asswipe Garza nearly took out the goalie’s testicles with a fierce slide.

  The man, a bald, dark-skinned guy who appeared as though he could eat Garza for breakfast, leapt up and throttled the old Spaniard, bringing both sides of the scrimmage into the scrum. Rafe put his whistle to his lips, but stayed put, letting them duke it out.

  Finally, Parker, probably ten years younger than the average age of the rest of the team, waded in and separated the two, cursing at them both and shoving them down onto the pitch.

  “I like that kid,” Metin observed. “You should make him the coach.”

  “Listen, I know this is hardly a dream come true for you,” Rafe said as they watched the rest of the men get up and slink off the field for water. Nicco stayed down, glaring at the goalkeeper who got up and gave him a hard push before stomping off to find ice for his oncoming black eye. “But I think we… that is to say… you can make something of this bunch. Honestly. You aren’t a jaded manager or anything but a former player who was always captain of his team and whose coaches always called a ‘leader on the pitch.’”

  Metin kept his gaze trained on the man sitting on the field by himself. “I hated that fucking guy,” he said mildly, unwilling to engage beyond that. “And you honestly think he will let me coach him?”

  Rafe glanced down at his clipboard, blew a whistle, and trotted out to the field to get the men back in line for some drills now that they had simmered down. Nicco stayed put, elbows propped on his knees, glaring straight at Metin.

  “Well, what are you waitin’ for, Garza, an engraved invite? Get your ass over here with the team,” Rafe hollered. The man rose slowly, shot a salute Metin’s way, then made his way over to the gathered group.

  Metin sighed and took in his surroundings. They were practicing in an American football stadium at a small college near Detroit, but so much money had been procured by this Jack Gordon fellow that a brand new, state-of-the-art facility was being constructed downtown, a few blocks from Ford Field.

  It would house the team and a women’s equivalent club, The Lady Jacks. He cringed at the name mainly because he practically heard Alicia’s snort of derision over it. There were giant locker and training rooms, several bars, a brew pub, and anything else one would want or need in such a place. He’d never felt the absence of Alicia more keenly. Not since walking away from her and jumping into a booze bottle two years earlier had he wanted nothing more than to talk to her, to get her no-nonsense advice. And to kiss her—yes, that too—very much.

  The urge to call or text Mel washed over him like a wave, forcing his eyes shut. She’d be a good one to ask. But he’d avoided her completely for the last couple of days, letting himself be wined and dined by the money guys, accepting their condolences with nods and smiles and silence. Thinking the entire time that there was no fucking

  way he would do this. The list of reasons not to was just too many miles long.

  But there was one fairly compelling reason to stay. He sat on the opposing team’s bench and watched the men go through their paces, impressed with some, aghast at others. Narrowing his eyes, he forced himself to get real and acknowledge his terror. He was flat-out, gut-deep afraid to return to Turkey. It was the scene of his failing, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to walk into that penthouse condo again without falling straight into bad habits.

  At least in Detroit, he had a goal, a focus. And there was Mel. He smiled, recalling how they’d ended up going out with Tanner for a burger after all that drama and how utterly comfo
rtable and happy he’d been with them for a few hours.

  He could very possibly be sublimating his still-fresh grief by focusing on an entirely inappropriate woman. But Melanie Matthews, once a woman he went out of his way to avoid, would not leave his thoughts. And not just for physical reasons. The time they had spent talking, easing into something comfortable with Tanner over dinner soothed him late into the night as he did his usual insomniac battle with brutal memories.

  Mel cursed and railed and generally did her bitchy boss thing the day before Metin was to go home. She hated that the fact his presence mere miles away, affected her at all. Much less the raw, physical way it did, right this minute. She took out her edginess on the staff, unable to stop herself.

  She and Zach had not exchanged more than three words in the last four days, which hurt her feelings and pissed her off in equal measure. His accusation had hit her hard in the gut and even after she, Metin, and Tanner had gone out for a very nice and surprisingly relaxed dinner, she still thrummed with enough lusty energy to power a small city.

  Finally, an hour before they closed, she sat, looking out onto the busy State Street hustle and bustle, Metin’s dark eyes looming in her brain. She ran her hands over a smooth, mahogany tabletop. Her palms fairly burned with memory of his dark skin under hers, of the way his silky hair slipped between her fingers. She crossed her legs, embarrassed, mortified, and sick at her own seeming inability to purge him from her sensory memory bank.

  Grabbing her phone, she hit his number, typing out a text before she changed her mind. This had to be, as they say, nipped in the bud. She would not allow it to progress a single step further, for her own sake. The words “second string” kept popping into her head. And “replacement player,” and all sorts of nonsense phrases relative to the game still such a part of her life, thanks to her sister, her son, and so many others. She would not be that for Metin Sevim. No fucking way.

  Sorry. Can’t do dinner tonight. Have a safe trip home and stay in touch.

  She hit send and started to power the phone off before focusing on ripping the lazy bartender a new asshole. But Tanner and Zach would flip out if they couldn’t reach her, so she left it on, determined to ignore any message from the annoyingly handsome Turk who would not vacate her dreams. He tested her resolve within minutes.

  I really need to talk to you though. About this job. I don’t know what I should do.

  She shot back, You’re a grown man, Metin. Do whatever you want.

  I don’t want to go home. To Turkey, I mean. That much I know.

  She rolled her eyes and firmly suppressed a slight flutter of excitement. Nope. She had no business feeling that. None at all.

  Then don’t. But don’t move here expecting anything… from me, I mean. I told you that was a one-and-done for us.

  I am fairly certain it was three….

  A goofy grin spread over her face at that.

  Whatever. You know what I mean. Don’t flirt with me. I don’t have time for that shit.

  Mel, I swear I will not touch you, but I need to talk to somebody about this, and you are the one person who’ll give me a straight answer.

  I don’t know a damn thing about soccer clubs or leagues or any of that. I barely understand the rules, and only because I watched Alicia play, and now have to watch Zach.

  He answered in seconds. Humor me.

  She frowned, trying to climb back onto her high horse and rebuff him. Fine. But someplace completely public.

  Like where?

  No hotel rooms, not my house, not here at the restaurant. No place that could have any dark corners. You know what I mean. Don’t be obtuse. Your email was one of the most erudite ones I’ve ever read.

  Yes, I read and write English better than I speak it sometimes.

  She put her hand over her lips. What in the hell was happening to her?

  Look, let’s just talk on the phone. I don’t think we should be in the same room for a while, you know?

  Never mind. I don’t want to put you out.

  She frowned and hit the call button, unwilling to play that game.

  “What?” he answered, his voice rough.

  “Don’t pout, Metin. I’m only doing this to protect us both. We don’t need to be messing around anymore. Especially not… here.”

  He blew out a breath. “I don’t want to put you out,” he repeated.

  “You’re not. Now tell me the pros and cons of this thing, and let’s see if we can figure out what makes the most sense.” She put her head down on the table wanting nothing more than to have his arms around her which meant she was doing the right thing, keeping as much distance between them as she possibly could. He didn’t care about her. And if he did move here, she would have to maintain that distance. Best set those boundaries now. But she shivered hearing his voice which she took as not a good sign for her resolve.

  Metin sat in front of the open balcony door in his hotel suite, the sounds of a half-dead city floating up to him on the breeze. Detroit had become one of the places people used to scare kids in Europe. As in, don’t be naughty or I’ll send you to live in Detroit with the arsonists and the killers. He took a breath and propped his feet up on the adjacent chair, his hamstrings crying out in agony. Getting back into shape had proven harder than he’d thought, and fighting the urge to pop open a beer or sit at a bar and have five or six martinis in a row took a lot out of him.

  He stretched his arms up, relishing the way his muscles ached. He felt alive again, something he’d never believed he’d feel. The pain in his soul would not cease. He recognized that. But living with it versus letting it control him seemed like a very real possibility lately.

  He’d even starting chatting in his head with Alicia, usually late at night. She remained as bright and real to him as she had been the first second he’d laid eyes on her at that party. But his son—Ayden—the amazing thing they had created between them, he refused to remember. Because that one thing, the thought of his sweet laughter, his little-boy wonder at the world, his crushed potential, would surely send Metin spiraling straight into a black hole of stupid choices.

  The long conversation with Melanie had helped, although he still didn’t know what the hell he was going to do. It helped him in a different way—to feel connected to something he’d lost. He’d begun to recognize that fact meant more to him than anything.

  His scalp tingled with recent erotic memory—well, almost anything. He shook his head. Melanie was off limits. They would be friends, and that was enough—it had to be. Anything else was out of the question for more reasons than he could name. He steadfastly ignored any other thoughts of her, as tempting as they were.

  Metin picked up the contract Rafe had left, with a salary in the high six figures—an astonishing sum considering the start-up nature of this whole thing. They wanted him. That much seemed crystal clear. An antsy feeling crept up his spine, forcing him to his feet. He did some sit-ups, push-ups, stared at the television a while, wandered out onto the small balcony.

  A sudden fresh rush of images hit him between the eyes, unwelcome and horrifying. He could see her, hear her—his Alicia. He felt his son’s arms around his neck, his warm, small weight against his hip.

  “Metin,” she said. “Metin.” Her firm voice demanded his attention.

  He gasped, sat down, and clenched his fingers together, wishing he were the praying type at that point. “Alicia,” he ground out through a clenched jaw. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” His gut churned with guilt at his own behavior, all of it, from the ruined career to the recent ill-advised hookup with Melanie.

  The breeze lifted the ends of his hair, caressed his cheek and bare chest. He gripped the cool metal railing, holding on for dear life as the face of his one true love flashed bright, her golden curls, blue eyes, full lips as clear as day. He sucked in a breath, willing it gone, like a cramp. But it stayed until he looked up at the sound of a knock at the door.

  “Metin,” his Alicia whispered. “I love you. Please
go and be happy.” And she disappeared, as if someone hit a delete button on a computer screen, sucking her and his son into the void.

  He heard it again… the knocking. Rising, muscles trembling as if he’d run twenty miles, his heart and head pounding, he walked to the door, opened it, and tugged Melanie into the room, kissing her before slamming it shut. He held her close in a desperate attempt to dispel the memory of Alicia’s voice, his body hardening instantly and his lips forming words he couldn’t hear.

  Chapter Nine

  Mel blinked at the sight of him wearing only shorts, his deep olive skin glowing with sweat, his eyes wild as if he’d seen a ghost before he yanked the door open. A warm breeze blew into the room, ruffling his dark hair, which he’d been wearing much longer than he had while married to Alicia.

  She set her shoulders, prepared to give him some sort of excuse for driving all the way into the city, other than the fact that she had to get her hands on him. But before she could speak, he pulled her into the room, had her pressed against the wall, and his rich, delicious lips were on hers.

  He kept muttering something like, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please… make it stop.”

  But she wasn’t about to stop. Her logical brain rebelled for a split second. She had never in her life wanted anything more than to be here, doing this with the man holding her right now.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and let it happen. He picked her up, back-walking until he sat on the bed and she straddled his lap. But she hovered over him, staring into his dark eyes.

  “I need this,” she insisted, justifying it in her head. “Just this. Nothing more.” Her heart pounded in her ears. His lips touched one nipple, then the other, sending shivers down her spine. “You get that, right?”