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

by Stewart, Delancey

  "She'd probably pass out at some point if she couldn't breathe," I pointed out.

  We watched with a combination of fascination, disgust, and envy as they finished their kiss and broke apart, laughing at some private joke. When the music changed, they came back to the bar, holding hands like teenagers. I almost regretted hooking them up, they were so disgustingly happy.

  But deep down inside, it made me happy too.

  "Is it time to get a room?" I asked them.

  "How do her tonsils taste, Fuerte?" Hoss threw in.

  "I don't have tonsils," Erica said, matter-of-factly, narrowing her eyes at Hoss.

  Trace had been the only one having any real trouble adjusting to the constant public displays of affection, and he seemed to be coping by drinking himself silly. Tonight he was in the middle of building a tower of shot glasses on the bar while the bartenders rolled their eyes.

  Erica caught sight of the wobbly glass tower and her spine went rigid. "Trace didn't drink all those himself, did he?"

  "I had three of 'em," Hoss volunteered.

  She looked around, hoping for more of us to admit to helping.

  "I'm sure a few went to the guys next to him," I said.

  As the tower crashed loudly to the bar and Trace bellowed out a laugh, Erica looked sad and turned to Fernando. "You guys are going to keep an eye on him this season, right?"

  "I'll look out for him," Fuerte promised her, squeezing her shoulder.

  "I'm going to worry."

  "That's part of your charm," he told her, and they moved together toward Trace.

  I watched them go, and raised a silent toast to Mr. Match. I'd hooked up people all over San Diego, but it was nice to be able to help out people I knew personally. It was good to see them happy.

  That said, I wasn't feeling much like hanging out and being jovial tonight myself. I slid my glass onto the bar and slipped out when Hoss got up to help Trace build his next catastrophe.

  When I got home, I checked in with my mom and my sister. When I was sure the women I loved were safe and happy, I slid into bed with a sigh and listened to the empty silence of my house move around me.

  It didn’t happen often, but now and then I felt a little sad to always be the matcher and never be the matchee. But that was for the best.

  Epilogue

  Child-Bearing Hips - Erica

  Fernando and I had one week together before the season started—though we'd be together after that too, of course. But we set out to take advantage of the time when he was in town.

  And by take advantage, I mean that we had more sex than I would have said was possible in seven days.

  But we did take a break the Sunday before he left for his first away match in Vancouver to have dinner with his mother.

  "You ready for this?" he asked me outside the front door of a beautiful condominium in La Jolla.

  "I think so," I said. "She's your mom, so I'm sure I'll like her. I just hope she likes me."

  His brows pulled together and he looked down at me with a strange expression on his face. "As far as you know, are you fertile?"

  I couldn't help the nervous bark of laughter that escaped my lips. "As far as I know!"

  "Then you'll be fine," he laughed, taking my hand.

  "I guess her standards are pretty low."

  "It's only one of her criteria," he told me. "But she's been talking about grand babies a lot lately, so I'd say it's an important one."

  "Good to know," I said, the nerves I hadn't felt before suddenly swirling into activity inside me. All the stories I'd ever heard about girls being evaluated by potential future in-laws with phrases like "childbearing hips" were coming back to me. Did I have childbearing hips? My hips had certainly never borne any children that I knew about. I swallowed hard as the door swung open and plastered on a smile to cover my nerves.

  A tiny woman stood just inside the threshold, dark hair down around her face and shoulders, and chocolate eyes peering up at us. She gave me a friendly smile, and when her gaze fell on Fernando, she beamed, the eyes warming and her thin lips pulling into an even wider smile.

  "Nando," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "And Erica. I'm so happy to have you here." She pulled the door open and waved us in, and I couldn't help but marvel that a man as big as Fernando could have come from such a petite woman. I was five-foot-six, and I would have bet she was barely five feet tall. Of course that was if I'd been a betting woman. And after the cheese incident, I was absolutely not a betting woman.

  "It's so nice to meet you," I told her. "Thank you so much for inviting me along tonight."

  The pretty woman took one of my hands and smiled up at me. "I had to meet the girl who's making my son so happy."

  It was straightforward and honest, full of truth and hope—it was everything I loved about Fernando, and now I knew exactly where it had come from. I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd been a little worried about the very close relationship between Fernando and his mother. I'd met other men who were close to their moms in a kind of off-putting, codependent way that meant they checked in with her about everything—including their girlfriend's opinion on something. But these two weren't like that.

  Fernando loved his mother. He worried about her and did his best to take care of her. But he didn't seem dependent on her for approval or to tell him what to do. The obvious love between them as the evening wore on made me wish I'd had more time with my own mother—though really, I wished that constantly.

  Mrs. Fuerte served us a stiff drink—something she called guaro—that was a little bit sweet and tasted like licorice, but burned like hell on the way down. "Now you are a Colombian," she told me after I'd taken a few sips.

  Fernando watched this with laughter dancing in his beautiful green eyes, his own glass of guaro in his hand. "Do you like it?"

  "I do. I've always liked black licorice."

  "Of course she does," Mrs. Fuerte said, looking almost offended that Fernando would ask otherwise. "She is made to be a Colombian."

  I wasn't sure what that meant—I'd definitely never been to Colombia, but I could sense the fierce pride in Mrs. Fuerte when she talked about her homeland, so I just nodded along and felt relief wash over me when Fernando finished my little shot and offered to open the white wine we'd brought.

  The night was easy after that. Mrs. Fuerte served Arroz Atollado, a dish that reminded me a lot of Arroz con Pollo—the chicken and rice dish served at a lot of Mexican and South American restaurants. Except this dish had pork instead of chicken, and it was delicious.

  "You must be special," Fernando said, smiling at me across the table Mrs. Fuerte had set on her outdoor patio. "Mama only makes this for special occasions."

  Mrs. Fuerte put down her fork and gave him a frank look. "Of course this is a special occasion. How many times have you brought a girl to meet me?"

  He didn't answer, but looked uncomfortable. I was suddenly very curious about the answer to the question.

  "How many, Nando?" she asked again.

  "Never," he said. "I've never brought a girl home before now." A light blush turned his cheeks rosy.

  I was surprised, and honored. I'd always thought of Fernando as a player—even after we'd gotten together, part of me figured I might just be the next in a long line of women. But now that I thought about it, he never referenced an ex-girlfriend, never talked about other women he'd dated. "You have had girlfriends, though," I said, not quite a question.

  Fernando shrugged. "I've had a few. Nothing serious. Before I was playing for the Sharks, I was focused on making it in soccer. I dated a little, but girls were a distraction. And once I signed..." he sighed. "Every woman I met was more interested in the team—in my position—than in me, really."

  That made sense. I'd seen that with Trace, too. Women threw themselves at soccer players. It was part of the reason I'd sworn never to date one. But Fernando wasn't full of himself. The fame didn't bother him, except when it turned on him like the situation with Marissa h
ad. He was a good man. The knowledge warmed me inside and out and I couldn't help smiling at him across the table.

  His mother caught my happy smile, and reached over to squeeze my hand. "You are special," she told me. "And I expect to see you next Sunday, even though ‘Nando will be out of town. Sunday dinners are for family."

  A little spike of surprise tempered my smile for a second. Family. She had no idea how loaded that word was for me. Family was the one thing I'd never had. The thing I'd always yearned for. "Okay," I managed. "Thank you, I'd like that."

  "And when your brother comes back the week after that, I'll expect to see him, too."

  "Mama," Fernando said. "You can't order people to dinner."

  "You can when they're family," she said lightly, and smiled at him before returning her attention to her meal.

  * * *

  Later that night I lay in the circle of Fernando's arms, the moonlight streaming over us from the high windows facing the expanse of the Pacific reaching westward.

  "I wish you weren't leaving," I told him. They'd head to Vancouver and then on to a match in New York before coming home. He'd be gone almost two weeks, and so would Trace. I'd be lonely, though I knew I'd be busy, too. My new job had kept me jumping, trying to learn everything I needed to know to succeed.

  "Me too," he said. "But we'll have lots of time together when I get back."

  He'd be back in town for two weeks before they traveled again. I ran a hand over his smooth hard chest, loving the silky feel of his skin beneath my palm. "I'm going to miss you."

  "I'll miss you too," he said, lifting my hand to his lips and pulling me closer.

  We lay quietly after that, and I tried to memorize the way it felt to be in Fernando's arms, to breathe in the masculine scent of him, to feel surrounded by him.

  It was the happiest I'd ever felt in my life, and though we'd really been together only a week, I knew I'd finally met my match.

  THE END

  Sneak Peek of Book 2

  Scoring a Fake Fiancée

  If you’re the confident type and you don’t need no stinkin’ sneak peek, you can pre-order book 2 right here!

  Order Book 2!

  Chapter 1 - Trace

  Co-Dependency is a Valid Lifestyle Choice

  "Erica, this is ridiculous." I got up from the computer for the seventeenth time to pace the living room. My sister was forcing me to fill out the stupid Mr. Match profile, and the damned thing wanted to know literally everything about me. "I'm pretty sure its gonna ask me to jizz into a cup and then take a whiff and categorize the aromas any second here."

  "That was definitely not one of the questions, Trace. I'd remember," she said from the couch, where she was watching some house-related HGTV show. House porn, basically. Ever since she and my team's striker, Fernando Fuerte, had hooked up, she'd become weirdly domestic. I hated it. I missed the old version of my sister from a couple months ago, the one who was always game to go grab a beer or some wings, the one who was pretty much always around. Now I rarely saw her, and when I did she was with Fuerte and pushing me to find the same kind of romantic bliss she and Fuerte had.

  "Just sit down and go through it question by question. You can take breaks," she said. "But it's totally worth it."

  "Yeah, if you want to spend the rest of your life making out with Fuerte in public and forcing everyone else to practice not throwing up."

  "I'm pretty sure that's just you. And you're not going to get matched with Fuerte. He's mine." Erica smiled in a way that challenged my gag reflex.

  Don't get me wrong—I liked seeing my twin sister happy. I'd spent most of my life trying to accomplish exactly that. We hadn't had it easy growing up. Our dad had taken off before we were born, Mom had died when we were eight, and we’d been through a string of foster families after that. So we had become a team—looking out for each other, sticking together, having each other's back.

  So I should have been happy when she found love too, I knew. Maybe I should have been relieved. It was like those guys on Game of Thrones—my watch had come to an end. Only I wasn't dead, and I didn't have to wear a huge black cape crafted from crow feathers or stand on some wall made out of ice. We lived in San Diego, so the odds of white walkers bursting from a frozen lake were pretty slim, really. Though I wouldn't have minded seeing a dragon or two around.

  "I'll be retired before I manage to finish this, sis. It's like a horrible test. I've never been good at tests. And this has all the family stuff . . ." I draped myself over the back of the couch, blocking her view of the television.

  Erica pushed at my head, which had landed on the pillow in her lap so I could whine more effectively, and she heaved a frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes at me. "I know the family part is crappy, but you've always totally underestimated yourself in the test-taking department. Go finish this."

  "I just want to drink scotch, play soccer, and die alone. Why won't you let me?" My back was starting to hurt from being draped sideways over the couch, so I slid all the way down, landing in a reclined position next to my sister, my head still on her lap looking up at her.

  "Get off me."

  I swung my legs down and sat up. "I don't need a match."

  "You're driving me nuts, you need to grow up, and one day I want to be Auntie Erica."

  "I feel like it’d be weird if I called you that.

  “Oh my God, seriously. You need a girlfriend."

  “Why? I have you. And Fuerte.”

  "I'm not your match, I'm your sister. And we have to live our own lives."

  I knew she was right, but it still hurt to hear her say it. I knew it was immature and ridiculous to be pouting over my twenty-seven year old sister talking about moving out, but I couldn't help it. I didn't want her to go. I'd tried refusing to allow her to date Fuerte in the first place, but that didn't go very well. Plus, he's a good guy, and I actually like him a lot. Of all the guys on the team she could have picked, he's probably the one I would have chosen for her.

  And while I'd dated a little in the past, I'd never been serious about anyone. And those women I might have gotten serious about could have potentially been scared away by Erica's dominant presence in my life. We were probably the definition of co-dependent, but Erica had taken great strides recently in changing all of that. And now she was forcing me ahead, too.

  Erica picked up the remote and turned off the television. "Fine," she said, standing and walking to the dining table where the laptop sat open. "Want me to help you?"

  I pushed out my bottom lip and made my best sad puppy face. "Yes please," I said.

  She sighed again, and began typing. She didn't even have to ask me half the questions because she already knew the answers, and she knew what to put in the ones about our parents. I tried not to think about that stuff, but she knew their names, their birthdays, everything. I didn’t want to know—they’d never wanted to know me. Or at least Dad hadn’t. I kicked back on the couch and made myself comfortable, switching the television back on and turning it to watch FOX Soccer Plus.

  As I watched, I rolled the shoulder that had been bothering me since the last match and thought about my life as a player. Not a lot of guys were willing to sacrifice themselves to keep their team in the game, which was why I was a good keeper. I'd been kicked in the face, kicked in the junk, dislocated a shoulder, and smashed my head into the goalpost—all in the name of saving the ball. But I was one of the best goalies in the league, and that was something I was effing proud about.

  Soccer was pretty much my life. Well, being there for my sis, and soccer. And if Erica was insisting on the whole ‘next phase of adulthood’ thing—if she really thought it was time we looked after ourselves—then I was going to be sure as hell that the soccer part of my life worked out. Because if I lost that? I'd have nothing.

  Chapter 2 - Magalie

  French for “Faking out Maman”

  "Maman, non," I sliced my hand across my chest in a definitive motion as I spoke to my overbearing mothe
r on the phone, though I realized she could not see me from France. I spoke with my hands whether I was on the phone or not. I couldn't help it, and I needed my mother to hear how seriously I did not want her racing around the world to visit me after I’d been here less than six months. Not yet.

  "But Magalie," she said in French, "I know you are going to change your mind anyway, and if I can come there and help you change it just a little bit quicker, then you will not have wasted so much time. These are your productive years—the best ones for children. I don't want you to wake up one day, old and dried out, and regret your barren womb."

  This was classic Maman. She tossed off mentions of my "barren womb" without a second thought, but when it came to being supportive about my accomplishments, it was like pulling teeth. "Maman," I said, my voice rising in an effort to practice patience with the woman who was more capable of driving me to anger than anyone else in the world. "Maman, I know you don't agree with my choice to move, but in many ways you forced me into it."

  My mother made an aggravated little noise in the back of her throat. I stared out my sliding glass doors at the vineyards marching over the hills behind the building where I rented my apartment. The sun was just beginning to reach purple and red fingers over the horizon to the east, and my heart settled as the familiar landscape out my window began to appear. This was the right place for me. Among the vines, doing the work I loved, with a real chance to build a career and a life. I’d found a position where I could lead winemaking for a small winery, which was working to establish itself through old world-style wines, and September was smack dab in the middle of the crush. This would be my first season in the lead as we blended and bottled wines for the coming years.