Scoring the Keeper’s Sister: Mr. Match Book 1

by Stewart, Delancey

  He stared at me for a long beat, and I was pretty sure he was going to kick me out of his car (which was really nice, by the way, silver with white all-leather interiors and dark wood touches.) And then he leaned back and swiveled slightly to face me. "It's my mom," he said.

  I didn't have a ton of experience with moms myself, but I could still listen. I nodded encouragingly.

  "It's been just her and me for a long time," he said. "Things were hard when I was a kid. My dad died when I was young, and..." he trailed off, squinting at me again. "You don't want to hear about this."

  I tried again to adjust my face. I actually did want to hear about this. When Fernando talked, his eyes glinted and his strong jaw flexed under the scruff of his beard, and it was possibly the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. I wanted him to keep talking. Hell, he could have been talking about motor oil viscosity and I would have been enraptured. But the fact that he was talking about something that was emotional, that seemed like it really mattered to him, made me want to hear even more.

  "I do," I said softly. "Go on."

  He blew out a breath. It was nearly full dark outside the car now and he looked around, as if he'd just noticed we were the only two people left here. "It's Friday night. You probably have somewhere to be."

  "I don't."

  He gave me an evaluative look and then seemed to concede defeat. "So it's just been us. Mom and me. And I can finally give her the things she deserves—the nice house, a car, someone to clean for her so she doesn't have to do everything herself."

  "That's really nice, Fernando."

  "But it's pointless," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

  I pulled my hair over one shoulder and shook my head. "Wait, why? What do you mean?"

  "I think she's dying," he said, his eyes fastened on the steering wheel. I could see a muscle ticking in the side of his jaw, and I knew he was fighting for control.

  "Oh my God," I breathed. "I'm so sorry. She's sick?"

  He nodded. "I knew she was sick. I finally made her see the doctor. They think she has lung cancer."

  "Treatable?"

  He shrugged. "People don't get better from lung cancer. People die."

  "Did they stage it?"

  "Not yet. They won’t even confirm it. Said they need more tests, but they definitely said the C word."

  I sat up straighter, facing forward. "Okay. So nothing is for sure yet. It could be worse. Start with that."

  He looked at me sideways. "It's my mother. It could not be worse."

  If there was one thing I'd learned—mother or not—It was that we didn't get anywhere feeling sorry for ourselves. "Fernando. I know you're worried and scared. That's normal. But it doesn't help your mom. What you need is a plan of action."

  "If it's cancer," he said. "There's no action."

  "There's plenty." This was my world. I was a planner, a doer. I liked things I could manage and control. I couldn't save Fernando's mom, but I could help him manage her care, or show him how to do it. "Look. You need to talk to her doctors, find out what your options are, do your own research and come up with a plan. There's always a best way to approach a problem, and we can figure out what that is."

  He shook his head at me, and I knew that he was in the middle of digesting the news. He wasn't ready for plans yet.

  "You don't have to do this all right now. Right now you should probably just see your mom, right?"

  He nodded.

  "She's scared too, right?"

  "Yeah." He looked at me again with those laser eyes and something in them was different. The arrogance was gone, the defiant I-own-the-world confidence was missing. His eyes were open and a little bit scared, and they actually were so much more beautiful that way. Something inside my chest twisted. "Erica," he said softly. "Thanks."

  "I haven't done anything," I said. "You've got this."

  He sighed and closed his eyes, bringing his hands to cover his face. "Yeah..."

  "I'll be here if you need me. You can call me if you want. Just to talk or...whatever."

  He stared at me for a beat. "Thanks," he said. "I mean it."

  I looked at him a long minute more, and then opened the car door and got out, unlocking my own car and getting in. Fernando started his car and I watched him drive away, suddenly feeling uncertain. It was like everything I knew had shifted ever so slightly off kilter, and now I had to be just a little more careful.

  Chapter 9

  Mama Mia

  Fernando

  Erica was right. I knew she was. I needed to go be with my mom. My mom had called right after practice when I was busy making jokes and relaxing, when I’d basically forgotten about her since we’d spoken Wednesday. And when she told me what the doctor had said, the guilt hit.

  Hard.

  And that was when Erica found me.

  I hadn’t been there for my mom, she’d been alone at the doctor’s, getting scary news, and I was pretty sure that made me a shitty son. After everything my mother had done for me, everything she’d sacrificed, I’d promised myself it was my turn to do right for her. And I was failing.

  Sitting in the car and staring into space might have seemed like a weird reaction, but in that moment, after I’d finished cleaning up and had headed outside, fully intending to go straight to Mama, I found that I couldn’t. I sat in my car, running through a million what-if scenarios.

  In some fucked up way, it seemed like if I went over there and we talked about the potential that my mom was really sick, that she might die—it would make it real. And as long as I sat in suspended animation in my car?

  It was still real, but maybe just a little bit less so.

  I had not expected Erica Johnson to be the one to point that out to me. Or to be the one to talk me down off the ledge I’d inched out onto over the course of the hour I’d been sitting there like a zombie.

  It also occurred to me that seeing me freak out about my mom was probably not sexy at all, but in the face of Mama being really sick, Mr. Match and everything to do with dating and hookups just didn’t feel important. Although there was one split second, when Erica was looking at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and listening to me so intently, that I wondered what it might feel like to have someone on my side all the time. What would it be like to have someone who always had your back? Besides my teammates and my mom, I mean.

  After Erica talked me down, I drove to La Jolla, to the condo Mom had chosen overlooking the cove. It was the place where I remembered first feeling like I could finally give her what she deserved, where I could finally pay her back for the way she'd cared for me. She had been so excited about the place—about having her own place.

  "Mi chicito," Mama said when I let myself into the condo. She was wrapped in a blanket on the couch, watching television.

  "Mama," I said, moving to her side and giving her a kiss. I slid next to her on the couch and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "How are you doing today?"

  She looked up at me, those warm brown eyes I'd known my whole life full of concern. "You need to stop worrying, Mijo. It's not good for you." She laid a cool hand on my cheek and I felt my heart break inside my chest. My mother had been my whole life; I couldn't imagine losing her.

  "I can't," I told her. And then, searching those eyes I knew better than my own, I admitted something I'd only ever say to my mother. "I'm scared, Mama."

  She wrapped her arms around me and we sat like that for a long minute. I thought about how things had reversed, how big I was compared to her now, how I could fit her whole body inside the circle of my arms. We had switched places, Mama and I. It had happened gradually over the past ten years or so. And this meant it was my turn to be strong, my turn to take care of her.

  But how did I protect her from cancer?

  Erica's words rang in my head and I found a strange comfort in her confidence. In her ability to look at this like just another problem that could be tackled and solved.

  I needed to be strong for my mother. I needed to dr
aw from Erica's confidence and be the one to handle this problem. I had let my mother see my fear, but that had been one time and it wouldn't happen again.

  "We will fight this, Mama," I told her, pulling back. "We'll get the best doctors, the best medicine. We'll make you well again."

  "Of course," she said. "I don't believe the doctor anyway. He doesn't know how much I want to live to see my grand babies."

  I felt my spine stiffen. "There are no grand babies, Mama."

  "Not yet, Mijo. But you should maybe move a little quicker, eh?"

  I let that comment slide away with a laugh and went to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a little island with a couple stools pulled up to it. I could still see Mama and talk to her from there. "I'll make you some dinner, okay?"

  "Such a good boy."

  Cooking was something she had taught me, and it was comforting to go through the familiar motions, follow a normal routine.

  Mama and I ate together and I stayed with her until she started to look sleepy. When she got up and went to her room for bed, I kissed her goodnight and then sat for a bit on the balcony, staring out at the Pacific shining beneath a silvery full moon.

  So much had changed in a very short time. Everything I felt inside seemed twisted and reversed. I was scared—that was new. I found myself wanting to call Erica Johnson, and it had nothing to do with her long legs or those feisty remarks she liked to hurl my way. I wanted to talk to her some more, to hear a bit more encouragement that everything might actually be okay.

  I locked up Mama's place, went out to my car and drove home to my own house in Coronado. My phone was in my hand as I went through the door. If I overthought it, I would definitely lose the nerve.

  I poured myself a shot of Aguardiente, downed it, and then pressed "call."

  "Fuerte?" Erica picked up after a couple rings. "Is everything okay?" Her voice held none of the practiced contempt or joking animosity that had been between us for as long as I'd known her. Something had shifted in the car in that darkening parking lot tonight.

  Maybe we were friends now. I'm not sure why believing that sent a warm comfort through me I hadn't felt before. For all the teammates and companions I had, I realized I didn't actually have many real friends.

  "Hey," I said, my voice quieter than normal. "Sorry to bother you," I added. I didn't really have a plan for what I wanted to say, but hearing her voice already had me feeling a little better.

  "No worries," she said. "How's your mom? Did you see her?"

  "Yeah." I sat down in a chair on the sprawling balcony. "Made her some dinner and then she went to bed."

  "You're a good son," Erica said.

  "I hope so. I try."

  “You cook, huh? Something more complicated than freezer waffles?”

  “Is that your specialty?” I laughed.

  “Hey, I know my way around a kitchen,” she said. “I was thinking of my brother. In his defense, I think he can make toast, too.”

  “My mother taught me how to cook,” I said. “When I was small.”

  Erica was quiet a moment, but it was one of those silences that was full, where anticipation expanded inside the space and you knew there was more to be said. A moment later she said, "I think that's really amazing. I wish I had a relationship like that."

  "With your mom?"

  "Yeah." Her voice was soft and I wondered suddenly exactly where she was. I wanted to be able to picture her, to see her. But she went on, a longing in her voice that pulled at something inside me. "I barely remember my mom, though. We were eight when she died. I have no idea what our relationship was like, or what it could have been."

  I realized I knew nothing about the woman on the other end of the phone. I'd never thought anything of her beyond the hair, the smart-ass attitude—the way she presented herself at work and to the team after hours. But of course that wasn't the real her.

  "I'm sorry, Erica. I didn't know that."

  "We don't talk about it much. Never really comes up in casual conversation, you know?" She let out a self-conscious laugh then, and I wondered if maybe it was something she didn't want to talk about.

  "You don't have to," I said. "I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject."

  "No, it's okay actually. I've really only ever talked about that stuff with Trace. I mean, he lived it too. But he says he doesn't like rehashing the past."

  "So did you guys grow up with your dad then?"

  "No," she said, then added slowly, "he wasn't around in the first place."

  "I'm sorry." I cringed. "Seems like I'm just going to keep stepping on landmines."

  "It's fine. He was some loser she met at a party. They were together a few months, and I guess when she got pregnant and found out it was twins, he had second thoughts. Or like, second and third thoughts."

  "Your mom told you all that when you were eight?"

  "Her journal did."

  "Wow." The breeze picked up a little, bringing the salt ocean air swirling through the yard, and I wondered idly if the same breeze was dancing over Erica's smooth skin, lifting her hair to make it swirl around her shoulders. "And so you guys grew up with..."

  "A bunch of people who never really wanted us." She finished my sentence and I sensed that the topic had just been closed. An image flashed through my mind of Erica as a little girl, those innocent blue eyes full of hurt and confusion at being pushed off from one place to another. I had an overwhelming desire to find her, to pull her into my arms right then, but I swallowed the emotion down, clearing my throat. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She didn’t need saving. And I was beginning to see that I couldn’t save the people I cared about from the really bad things anyway.

  "It was okay though. I always had my brother," she said, her voice stronger. "Still do."

  "Right. That's good." It occurred to me that her brother would probably not sanction this particular phone call, but that didn't mean I was going to hang up.

  "What are the next steps now, Fernando? For your mom?"

  "She sees her doctor Monday. I'm going with her."

  "Good. That's really good. You might even ask if you can record the things the doctor says. Sometimes there's so much information it's easy to forget."

  "Yeah." I hadn't thought of that. "Okay. I will."

  "Just take this one step at a time," she said. "There are amazing doctors in San Diego. We're really lucky to be so close to so much help."

  "Yeah, I know you're right."

  Another silence swelled between us, and I sensed that Erica didn’t want to hang up any more than I did. "Did you grow up here? In San Diego?" she asked.

  "Mostly. I was born in Colombia but I don't remember anything about it. I was a baby when we came here."

  "Have you been back there? To visit family or anything?"

  "Nah. My mom's memories from there aren't good—it's why they left. But one day, maybe."

  "You're probably like a rock star there now, pro soccer player and everything."

  I laughed at that. Colombia definitely idolized its soccer players, but I wasn't sure MLS was considered on par with their own players. “I think they have their own soccer stars to celebrate.”

  It was easy between us on the phone, and actually it had been easy talking to her in the car, too. Her voice was smooth and comforting, and it wrapped me in a kind of solace I hadn't felt in a long time, maybe forever. I didn't want the conversation to end, but when I glanced at the clock to find it was after one in the morning, I knew I should let her go.

  "Hey," I said, both of our voices low and sleepy now. "I should let you go."

  "Oh my God, it's so late," she said.

  "I'm sorry I kept you so long."

  "No," her words came fast. "No, it's actually been... I'm glad I picked up."

  "I'm glad too." I paused, wanting to say a million things, but keeping them inside. I wanted to ask her out, but didn’t want to taint whatever this had been. It was possible Erica was just being a friend, and I cou
ld use one of those. I settled on, "Thanks for talking to me."

  "Any time," she said. "Good night."

  "Good night."

  I put the phone down and stared out into the bay as the water danced in the quiet moonlight. For the first time in a long time, despite the fear crowding into the dark corners of my mind, my heart felt strangely full.

  Chapter 10

  Coronado Capers

  ERICA

  Waking up to work out on Saturday morning after being on the phone until the teeny tiny hours of the night felt a lot like being dragged behind a charging train, my head banging against the tracks. Not that I had any clue what that felt like, but the key here is that it was difficult.

  "What's going on with all...this?" My brother waved his hands around in circles in front of me, indicating that "this" was pretty much my entire existence, which evidently reflected my late night choices.

  "I stayed up late," I said.

  "You were home, right? Wait, did you go out?" He looked confused.

  "No, I was just..." I couldn't tell him I was talking to Fernando. For one thing, I didn't want to have to share anything about what Fernando was going through. If he hadn't confided in his teammates, there was a reason, and I wasn't going to break his trust. But also, I'm competitive. And I wanted to win the bet. I wanted my cheese. If I told Trace that Fernando and I had developed some kind of weird unexpected friendship, he might change the terms of the bet... and I was pretty sure now that if I wanted him to, Fernando would be asking me out soon—a thought that sent my stomach jumping around inside me. “I was watching a movie.”

  “Oh.” Trace rolled his eyes. Movies were the one thing we never agreed on, and I was guaranteed he wouldn’t be asking me anything else about it. I loved rom-coms and dramas, and he only watched movies with a minimum of three explosions. He wasn’t very deep, but I loved my brother anyway. "Well, are we spinning this morning or not?"

  Gah. Soul Cycle. Trace friggin loved this workout and honestly? My thighs and butt probably loved it, but my head made the whole thing a real struggle. I didn't like sitting on a fake bike surrounded by a bunch of sweaty people all joined together in some kind of unified pursuit of an adrenaline high. It was kind of cult-like in my mind, especially when Trace asked me afterwards if I wanted some kombucha. No thanks, man. I'd rather go for a good old-fashioned run, drink some water and then chug a Diet Coke.