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

by Stewart, Delancey

  "There's a reason I didn't report it. I’m sorry, Erica, but I just don’t want to use that, okay?" He stood up. “Was there anything else?”

  I shook my head, a little stunned at his reaction.

  “Okay, well, sorry.” He walked to the door and pulled it open. Then he turned back to me and smiled over his shoulder, mouthing, "See you Friday."

  The door swung shut behind him, and I stood there a minute longer, staring after him. What was that about? I realized Annette was watching me, and the woman was always ready with some kind of bizarre southern saying, most of which made no sense at all. I wasn’t really in the mood for one of those, so I quickly smoothed my skirt and sat back down. My job was going be significantly harder if Fernando wouldn't help me. I'd have to go with plan B.

  I picked up the phone and called Marissa.

  * * *

  I met Marissa at five in a coffee shop in La Jolla, near where she was living. She sat in the corner waiting for me, looking like a starlet trying to be incognito with a baseball cap pulled low over her oversized sunglasses. The fact she wore sunglasses inside and hunched over the table like a fugitive didn't give her the anonymity she was clearly looking for—it made her stand out instead.

  "Thanks for meeting me," I said, taking a seat across from her.

  "You recognized me when you walked in?"

  "Um. Yeah. We've met before." I looked around. "It's not a big place."

  She looked disappointed and removed the ridiculous shades, revealing a pretty face with maybe a little more plastic adjustment than most forty-something women might have. Her lips were puffy and when she removed the cap and pushed her hair back into the ponytail holder, her forehead was shiny and tight. Marissa had evidently chosen the opposite of aging gracefully and had opted to go kicking and screaming into the second half of life.

  I hoped I wouldn't feel the need to do the same.

  "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the story you sold to HOT-LA."

  She shook her head, sending a blond lock flying from her ponytail, which she pushed back in an agitated manner. "It's exclusive. I can't talk about it. I thought maybe you had some kind of news for me from Theo."

  I shook my head. Wouldn’t that kind of news come from her lawyer? "Sorry, no. The thing is, I'm not looking to scoop HOT-LA. I'm hoping to talk you out of it. You're hurting an innocent man."

  "Who, Theo? He's not innocent. He's a lying, cheating—"

  I sighed. "Not Theo. Fernando Fuerte."

  She spit out a mirthless laugh. "Him? This only helps his reputation as a ladies' man. He loves it."

  "Have you asked him how he feels about it?" I felt a little flicker of anger on Fernando’s behalf.

  She smiled at me as if I had no idea what I was talking about, shaking her head lightly. "Men love it when people think they're players. And women just want them that much more. Each new girl he dates believes she might be the one to actually land him, and the reputation just makes it that much more of a thrill."

  I pushed down the acknowledgment that there was some truth in what she said. Didn't I feel like maybe I was the girl who could land Fuerte? Wasn't that my secret hope?

  Marissa made me wonder if maybe I was just another groupie, another girl falling into a player's net.

  But no, I trusted Fernando. And I knew he really wasn’t like that. I’d seen a different side of him, and I’d decided to trust it.

  "Listen," I tried. "His mother is really sick and he's got a lot on his plate at the moment. This kind of scandal is just adding stress, and his mother is very upset about it all." I threw that last part in, hoping it might gain me an edge and that Mrs. Fuerte would forgive me for using her.

  "That's sad," she said, and I felt a spark of hope as her mouth turned down and she traced an old water stain on the wooden tabletop. "But it's too late. There's nothing I can do now."

  "You could call and tell them it wasn't true," I suggested.

  She raised her eyes to meet mine for a brief second. "They don't care," she said. "And they already paid me. It's too late."

  "You won't even try? You're ruining a man's reputation, upsetting his family..." I wanted to reach across the table and grab her, try to shake some human decency into her.

  "I'm sorry about his mom, I really am. But I have my reasons too."

  The fact that she was willing to drag Fernando into a dispute between her and her ex-husband made me angry. This wasn't about him, it was between her and Theo. "That's what divorce lawyers are for, Marissa. This isn't fair. And there's always the chance that Fuerte could decide to sue you for defamation."

  She rolled her eyes at that.

  "So that's it? You'll take your money and just sit by while your lies about Fuerte go nationwide?"

  "What's done is done. He'll be fine. I bet he loves the attention."

  "Keep telling yourself that," I said, standing. Frustration coursed through my veins. Why had I thought maybe I could find sympathy here? Marissa only cared about herself.

  I stormed out of the coffee shop. I was not going to let Marissa sink Fernando.

  Chapter 22

  Benching a Bus

  Fernando

  Erica and I had an actual date planned for Friday night, but that didn't mean I was going to wait until then to see her again outside of the Sharks' corporate offices. I was a little thrown off by her questions about the kids’ soccer team I helped out with—I had thought I’d managed to keep that off the corporate radar, but clearly I hadn’t. I loved that Erica was working to try to salvage my reputation, but that was one thing I wasn’t going to use to do it.

  I'd spent all of practice remembering the feel of her skin under my hands, hearing the sexy little noises she made in her throat echoing inside my mind. And the thought of doing some more public relations with her actually made practice go especially well. I still needed to clear things with Trace, but after I'd chatted with Erica, I headed to the weight room to find him squatting the rough equivalent of three school busses. He glared at me, his face red and the veins in his neck bulging. I considered how the conversation might go, based on his warning about twisting off my nipples and putting them in a less than comfortable location if I were to touch his sister, and decided the question could wait.

  "Looking strong, Trace."

  Complimenting other dudes in the weight room wasn't really something we did regularly, and Trace's expression was a cross between confusion and psychotic intent.

  I left him there and moved to the side of the gym for my own workout.

  I was in the midst of a set of preacher curls when Hammer Ellis plopped himself on the bench beside me, watching me expectantly. I finished out the set and turned to him. "Can I help you?" Hammer was a nickname for Hamish. The guy was fresh off the boat from the Durnish highlands—he even wore a kilt to team events. He was a favorite with the media, probably thanks to the heavy brogue and the fact he was some kind of royalty in the tiny island nation. I'd honestly never heard of Durnland prior to meeting Hammer, but I'd gleaned from him that subtlety wasn't among the traits the Durnish cherished.

  "What are you doing about the thing with the owner's wife?" he asked.

  I squinted at him. I guessed the whole team must know about this now. Fantastic. "Not a lot I can do. What's your concern about it, exactly?"

  He shifted on the bench and leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee and dropping his voice. "My mother watches that show religiously—streams it on the Internet. She gets upset whenever the news is about American sports stars, thinks I'm tarnishing my royal heritage by mingling in this den of American athletic depravity." He sat up straighter. "If the show is actually about my team, about my teammates, I can't even imagine what she'll do. She's likely to get on a plane and fly over here."

  "And you'd have a nice visit with your mom." I gave him my best smile. Hammer’s mom wasn’t my biggest concern.

  "You've never seen a Durnish woman angry, I guess." It was half-question, half-statement, and was delive
red with a shake of the shaggy red head.

  "I've never seen a Durnish woman at all. I didn't even know Durnland existed until you strolled in here wearing your skirt."

  "It's a kilt and you know it," he growled.

  "Right." I stood up. It seemed my workout was over. "Look, Erica Johnson is working on this, and there isn't much else I can do. It will be what it will be."

  "Mum's gonna flip."

  "Why don't you warn her ahead of time and maybe explain how American tabloids work? Tell her the stories are made up?"

  He stood, scratching his chin. "Not sure she'll believe me."

  I shrugged. "Can't help you." I started to walk away, but then turned back. "Hey, the kids have practice tomorrow. You coming out?"

  A wide grin spread across Hammer's face, making his dark eyes sparkle. "Aye. Wouldn't miss it." Hamish evidently grew up the second-oldest of something like twelve kids—he says it gets very cold in Durnland and there's nothing else for folks to do in the winter months but bed down and try to stay warm—and he loves kids. He was missing his littlest siblings when he first arrived, so I invited him to come hang out with my old soccer team down in Barrio Logan. "I've got something for the wee ones, actually," he grinned.

  "Awesome, see you there, man. Thanks." If my schedule didn't have me traveling so much, I would have volunteered to coach the team officially. As it was, I dropped by when I could, and basically sponsored the team that had been the foundation for my own career. I supplied jerseys and shoes, and usually brought in dinner at the end of practice. It was nothing official, and nothing I made a big deal about. It was something I did to give back, and it was important to me—and to the kids. And I was absolutely not going to let them get dragged into my publicity problems. They had enough to worry about.

  I headed out of the weight room and off to the showers. I still needed to talk to Trace, but I could do it at practice Thursday, when he wasn't holding anything that could be used as a sledgehammer when I told him I was taking his sister out.

  After work I visited my mom, taking her out to dinner at the café she loved, overlooking the cove.

  I needed to talk to her about the shitstorm that would erupt on Friday with Marissa’s story coming out, and I wasn’t sure what she’d make of the whole thing. But if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that Mom deserved and expected honesty. So I gave it to her, even when it was hard. "Mom, I need to prepare you for a story that's coming out this week about me."

  She narrowed her gaze at me. "What have you done now?"

  "I made friends with someone I shouldn't have." I told her the story, hoping it wouldn't upset her too much, and she shook her head when I'd finished. "People," she breathed. "I don't understand them. You were trying to be a friend. A good boy, just like I raised you."

  "I just wanted to warn you," I said. "So you wouldn't be shocked when you hear about it."

  A little smile flickered across her face. “My friends are going to have questions,” she said, but she didn’t look upset.

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, you can ask me anything you want. Or tell them to call me. I don’t mind.”

  She smiled, and then coughed for a few long seconds, sending worry spiking in me again.

  “What have you heard form the doctors?”

  “The last time I spoke to them, they told me it would be at least a week before we had anything conclusive.”

  Frustration made me want to launch the table across the room, throw things, and shout. But none of that would help, so I swallowed hard and forced myself to take a few deep breaths.

  "Whatever will be..." she said, quoting the first part of the saying she'd been fond of my whole life.

  "Right," I sighed, staring out the window toward the ocean. I hated the uncertainty, the not knowing. Once we understood what we were dealing with, we could come up with a plan of attack. But having this potential enemy lurking out there made it impossible to come up with a defense. I thought about Hammer and his eleven brothers and sisters. It would be nice to have someone to share the worry with, someone who understood.

  "Son," she said, taking my hand across the table. "We'll take it as it comes. Now tell me about this girl. What has happened since we talked last?"

  I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, so I gave her part of it. I didn’t mention how much I thought about Erica, or how I’d managed to convince her to believe me about Marissa. I didn’t mention how I’d almost lost her or how happy it made me to know I hadn’t. "I'm taking her out on Friday."

  Mom clapped her hands against her chest and grinned at me. "When do I get to meet her?"

  "Soon, Mama." I made the promise, fully understanding the gravity of it. When I introduced a girl to my Mama, it would mean something. And I thought there was a good chance Erica would be the first girl I'd ever taken home.

  Chapter 23

  The Hammer Plan

  Erica

  Despite my best efforts—a constant stream of feel-good social media, numerous calls to local stations and even the offer of a replacement story for HOT-LA—I hadn't managed to get enough momentum to offset what was still going to be a major blow to the team and a potential nail in my own coffin where work was concerned. I didn't like doing it, but I called Beckie to see if our long friendship might equate to a favor of epic proportions.

  "Is there any way I could commandeer a camera team?" I asked, still grasping at straws.

  "To film what, exactly?"

  It was a long shot, but I'd heard the soup kitchen near the stadium was looking for volunteers. "I'm going to get the team serving at the soup kitchen, and if we could get the coverage to run at the same time as the HOT-LA feature—"

  "I really don't think it'll matter," she said.

  "You're supposed to be on my side," I said.

  "You're supposed to be a PR crisis-managing queen," she reminded me. "Remember the UCLA car-fire fiasco?"

  "You mean the heroic and selfless actions of the young players who saved those...women?"

  "Yes. That was gold." Beckie had been a UCLA Bruin too; it's where we met. "Do that."

  "I just don’t know if I can. Plus, that was an actual fire. Nothing’s on fire here."

  "Beg to differ. There’s your career, potentially. And Fuerte's."

  “True.”

  I sighed. She was right. This was my specialty. It was how I'd gotten the job in the first place. If I couldn't put out the flames, I needed to find a way to make the situation work to my advantage—to Fuerte's advantage. I just didn't see a way to do it. "So...can you get me a team? And a spot on Friday's newscast?"

  "Maybe," she said. "Let me see what I can do."

  It was the best progress I'd had so far, so I hung up with my fingers and toes crossed. Hell, I would've crossed my arms and legs too, if it hadn't made it so tough to walk and drive.

  On the strength of Beckie's "maybe," I went ahead and put out the call for volunteers for the soup kitchen Thursday night via team email.

  I decided it would be best to end the day on a high note, so I packed up and made my way out to the staff parking lot.

  Hamish Armstrong was bent over, leaning into his tiny sports car, and soccer balls littered the ground around him. He kept grabbing for them, shoving them back into the car, only to have them pop back out. I could hear him cursing in his thick brogue as he went through the same actions over and over with the same result. Hamish was a teddy bear, but maybe not the smartest teddy bear. And I had no idea what he was doing with forty soccer balls.

  "Hamish," I called to him, causing him to curse even more loudly and then pull his head back out of the car, turning to face me.

  "For the love of God, I canna get these fecking balls into the car!" He bellowed as four more balls rolled out of the open car door.

  "What are you doing with all these balls anyway?"

  He screwed up his eyes and let out a deep breath. "Tryin' to do a good deed, lass. But I'm headed for failure."

  "If you just need to move the
se balls, they'll fit in my car for sure." I pointed to my Explorer, parked a few feet away. Compared to Hamish’s Porsche, it looked massive.

  He wrapped a big hand around the back of his neck and gazed out at the balls rolling all around the car. "That would be a big help," he said, his voice sounding defeated.

  I began picking up soccer balls and tossing them into the back of my car. "Where did these all come from? They're nice balls," I said, looking over the red and black design with appreciation.

  "Ya like my balls, do ya?" Hamish asked, tossing a few balls into my car and turning to give me a cheeky grin before he headed off to pick up a few more. He chuckled and came back to the car with more balls in his arms. "They're a gift from my sponsor. Told him I wanted something for the kiddos."

  I felt my eyes widen as I picked up another ball trying to escape beneath Hamish's wheels. "How many kids do you have?" I didn't know he had any children.

  He let out a hearty laugh and his cheeks turned pink under the scruff on his face. "None, woman. Not my kids. The kids on the soccer team I help out with."

  Understanding dawned and I felt like a moron. "Got it."

  We finished loading up the scattered balls and Hamish grinned at me when we were done. "Now you'll just have to deliver them. You free tomorrow night?"

  "Nope," I told him. "And neither are you. I need the team at the soup kitchen for some feel-good PR ahead of Friday's HOT-LA exposé." There was no one in the organization at this point who hadn't heard about the upcoming exclusive. Theo had been whining loudly to anyone who would listen, and the promos on the channel in the evenings had been almost constant. Fuerte, unfortunately, was big news.

  Hamish shook his head. "Sorry, lass."

  "What do you mean, sorry?" I spread my arms wide. I needed as many players as could come. Hamish had always come through for me in the past when I’d asked for help with things, and I couldn’t help feeling let down.