Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  Randall’s tit for tat was annoying, but nothing new. Every rung she’d mounted on the professional ladder had required some measure of compromise. In college she agreed to participate in a bachelorette auction for the campus newspaper on the condition they dedicated an entire sports page to the women’s team. At New York Empire she repeatedly butted heads with the manager about including the Empire Ladies in publicity events until he said, fine—she could appear in a bikini in the men’s team’s topless calendar.

  Moving to the corporate side of sports made the exchanges more subtle but even more frequent. Swiftly ascertaining that the squeaky wheel tended to get fired, she worked twice as hard as her male peers yet shared equal credit and kept her mouth shut when their promotions came more quickly than hers. She trusted that patience and diplomacy were the best routes to the top, bit her tongue so often she couldn’t believe it wasn’t severed and delivered what her superiors wanted while stockpiling favors.

  She’d only been at the league a couple of weeks, though, and her well of loyalty and goodwill was empty. That shouldn’t have been a problem—in principle she had no issue with Randall’s request and would’ve eagerly dumped some hapless gambler in his lap to secure her travel budget.

  But the only candidate she had was Brendan Young. Who also happened to be the only person in the world with the ammunition to destroy her hard-won career.

  She gritted her teeth as for the millionth time she regretted shoving that stupid credit card bill in her purse. She’d flown to Vegas from New Jersey after Christmas at her parents’ house. Her mom presented her with a stack of unopened mail as she was leaving for the airport, and after seeing the first bill she’d panicked—she thought she’d switched to paperless statements and had no idea evidence of her compulsive gambling was being delivered to her parents’ doorstep on a monthly basis. She’d stuffed the bill in her purse, then paced in front of the boarding gate as she argued with a customer service rep who insisted her paper statements had been canceled and couldn’t explain why they were still being mailed.

  An uneasy mixture of guilt and relief trailed her all the way to Las Vegas. On one hand, she knew the best way to avoid a repeat of this situation was to finally pull herself together, delete the slot-machine apps from her phone, and begin paying off her credit card debt. On the other, she was triumphant with the heady elation of getting away with it yet again—of keeping her secret and making another narrow escape.

  Clearly, that thrill made her careless. She pressed her palm over her eyes and groaned as she imagined Brendan’s reaction when he found it. She’d like to think he hadn’t cared at that point, particularly after everything they shared that night. But the fact that he’d kept it all this time—waiting, quietly holding on to it, securing himself against some future betrayal—assured her there had never been anything between them except mistrust, foolishness, and a dash of lust.

  She exhaled. What was done was done. The fact remained: Brendan was both lock and key to the future of her career.

  Now she had to find a way around it.

  Around him.

  She stared at her magnificent view for ten minutes, not seeing an inch of it as she weighed, measured, and discarded idea after idea.

  Erin had to fight fire with fire, she decided, dismissing once and for all the potential for this to be resolved amicably. She tried to be nice and keep their friendship intact. He responded with hostility, so now she would do the same.

  She crossed her arms, thinking about their night in Vegas. She kept trying to persuade him to stick money on roulette spins but he resisted, drifting back to the poker and blackjack tables, his easy smile belied by his ferocious skill at both and the towering stack of chips he took away.

  It made sense, she supposed—goalkeepers were trained to read the game more deeply than any other player, and to predict their opponents’ movements before they made them. If he could read the intentions of a world-class striker, reading an amateur poker player should be a no-brainer.

  Not that it did her any good—casino gambling was perfectly within the league’s ethics code. Only sports betting was off-limits.

  If the articles were to be believed, the sums of money he’d won on SportBetNet were staggering. How did he do it?

  More importantly, what was the likelihood he’d actually stopped?

  That’s where she could get him. He’d paid for his past transgressions, but anything new she dug up would be the weapon she needed to rebalance the scale.

  She smiled. She knew just where to start looking.

  Erin swept up her tablet from her desk and typed “Brendan Young house” into a search engine. Immediately a gossipy article in one of the local papers popped up—a feature on the grandiose abodes of Skyline’s players. Five paragraphs in was a photograph of a handsome, beige-clad house with a generous front porch, accompanied by a description of goalkeeper Brendan Young’s Craftsman-style home in the affluent neighborhood of Virginia Highland.

  Another few taps on the screen and she found the real estate listing. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, high ceilings, close to all local amenities.

  “One-point-five million,” she read aloud.

  Nice work if you can get it.

  She picked up her cell phone and dialed the number on the listing. A woman answered in two rings.

  “Hi, I’ve just seen a house on your website, a Craftsman-style in Virginia Highland? I’d like to make an appointment for a viewing.”

  Chapter 4

  “We’ve looked at a couple of other schools. Iveta thinks it’ll be too hard for Adela to move in the middle of the year, but I want her out as soon as possible. This anorexia fad amongst her friends scares me to death.”

  Brendan shook his head sympathetically, pulling on the rowing machine in sync with Skyline’s first-choice goalkeeper, Pavel Kovar. “They’re only, what, ten? Eleven? How do they even know about that stuff?”

  “The stupid internet, I guess,” Pavel replied, the words sharpened by his Czech accent. “I had no idea having a daughter would be this complicated.”

  For a few minutes, they continued their workout in silence, the swish of the rowing machines the only sound in the empty gym.

  Brendan considered Pavel’s predicament but had nothing to add, and he knew his teammate preferred silence to unnecessary chitchat. On paper he should dislike Pavel, who took his first-team slot when Roland joined and brought the Czech keeper over from Europe. Instead, he resented Roland’s decision, not Pavel himself, and over time they’d become solid friends. A steady family man, Pavel always had a litany of domestic stresses ready for discussion, which Brendan found a welcome window into a life much less lonely and isolated than his own.

  “How far have we gone?” Pavel spoke first, squinting at the display on the machine.

  “Five miles. Keep going.”

  The Czech keeper groaned but pulled with renewed vigor. Skyline’s team training session had ended more than an hour earlier, and they were both eager to wrap up their workout and head home.

  They’d made it another half-mile down the imaginary river when the gym door opened. Brendan didn’t bother to look up—lots of players stopped in for a workout after training—but when Pavel glanced over his shoulder and then stopped mid-pull, Brendan did the same.

  Roland approached them wearing a grim expression, forehead creased behind his stylish plastic-framed glasses.

  Brendan groaned inwardly as he let the seat go slack and flexed his calves. He’d never had a bad relationship with a manager until the Swede arrived a year into his Skyline contract. Even then, he thought Roland’s reputation for bringing European excellence to American teams would make them fast friends—after all, Brendan had spent years playing in England and Spain.

  Yet they’d disliked each other from the moment they met. Roland clearly resented inheriting an expensive player on a long-term contract, and
Brendan wasn’t thrilled to go from starting every game for Skyline to being displaced by Pavel.

  But there was more to it. Brendan chafed under Roland’s intense training programs and admittedly could’ve been more tactful. Even after he’d adapted his style and began shutting his mouth he still felt the manager’s suspicion every time they interacted. As though Roland never quite believed the hype around this great American goalkeeper but didn’t have enough evidence to do anything about it.

  Like now, as the Swede’s gaze darted between the mileage on the two rowing machines.

  “We’re not cheating, I promise,” Brendan assured him dryly.

  “I’ve just spoken to Tony,” Roland replied, ignoring Brendan’s comment as he named the team’s medic. “Peter went in for an MRI today.”

  Brendan’s attention sharpened at the mention of Peter Lucas, the young, second-choice goalkeeper Roland pulled up from the academy after the SportBetNet debacle in February. Peter had limped off the training field yesterday and hadn’t turned up for this morning’s session.

  “It’s not good news,” Roland continued. “He ruptured his Achilles tendon.”

  He and Pavel cringed in unison.

  “He thought it was just a sprain,” Pavel said, wincing.

  Roland shook his head. “Much more serious. He’ll be out until next year.”

  The fact and its implications settled between them with the weight and subtly of an eighteen-wheeler. Upside down. And on fire.

  “So,” Brendan said unnecessarily.

  “So,” Roland echoed. “Looks like you’ll be watching the rest of the season from the sideline instead of the stands. Be prepared to dress for Saturday.”

  Brendan fought to keep his nodding reply calm and neutral. “I hope Peter makes a quick recovery. He has a long career ahead of him.”

  Roland made a sound that seemed to be the vocal equivalent of a sneer, then left the room without another word.

  Pavel grinned as soon as the door shut behind their manager. “Congratulations. You’ve just been promoted to second-choice keeper.”

  “Apparently.” Brendan repositioned his feet on the rowing machine, processing the bombshell that had just fallen into his lap. His elation felt wrong, coming at his teammate’s expense.

  He’d spent the last six months coming to terms with the reality that he wouldn’t retire in the blaze of glory he’d imagined during his eleven years playing professional soccer. His last match wouldn’t be marked by a legendary save, a clean sheet, or a guard of honor applauding him on his final trip down the tunnel. Instead, he’d be in the stands with the rest of the squad, anonymous and forgotten, his locker already cleaned out, his cleats hung up for good.

  Not anymore.

  “Unfortunately for me you have the constitution of a prize bull,” Brendan remarked, taking up the rowing-machine handle again.

  Pavel shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “You never get injured.”

  His teammate grinned. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Please, don’t.” He indicated their twin machines. “Come on, another ten minutes.”

  Pavel groaned but repositioned himself on the machine.

  Within seconds the swish of their workout pervaded the gym. Brendan tried to focus on the sound, on his form, and on the satisfying use of his body. He tried to narrow his awareness, maximize his workout, and push himself as hard as he could, as always.

  But his thoughts clamored for attention and his hands trembled and his heart insisted on an erratic, too-fast-too-slow rhythm.

  It’s not over, he repeated with every pull. It’s not over.

  * * * *

  “Very nice,” Erin remarked approvingly as the real estate agent led her through the front door of Brendan’s home. On a quiet, residential street, the house occupied a big lot made private by lots of mature trees. As Erin crossed the threshold into the pristine, open-concept living room, she realized the million-plus price tag reflected more than the good location.

  “The house is just shy of six thousand square feet,” the agent, Marsha, explained, her heels clicking across the wooden floorboards as she led Erin into the kitchen. “Hardwood floors flow throughout. The kitchen was totally redone two years ago, then hardly ever used as far as I understand. Granite counters, stainless steel—”

  “Why hasn’t the kitchen been used?” Erin interrupted.

  The agent smiled, her heavily made-up eyes crinkling at the corners. “The owner’s a confirmed bachelor. Luckily he has pretty good taste so it isn’t all man-caves and game rooms.”

  “Big house for a single guy.”

  Marsha leaned in. “Between you and me, the owner is a professional athlete.”

  Erin made what she hoped was an appropriately impressed face before returning her attention to her surroundings.

  Tick. Definitely the right house.

  Erin scanned each room intently as Marsha showed her the rest of the ground floor and then led her upstairs, alert for anything incriminating. The living room, dining room, and first couple of extra bedrooms were all frustratingly bland. In the third bedroom—which had obviously been professionally staged, unless Brendan had the unlikely habit of decorating unused rooms with fresh flowers—she began to wonder if this was a pointless exercise. His house was on the market and open for viewings. Not exactly the context in which he was likely to leave scandalous personal materials or recently dated betting slips lying around.

  “And here’s the master,” Marsha said grandly, pushing open the double doors.

  “Finally somewhere that looks a little human,” Erin muttered, stepping inside.

  The master bedroom was big, so big that one end had been divided into a seating area by brackets of open shelving. As opposed to the boringly neutral choices elsewhere, this room was palpably masculine. Beige carpet, bluish gray walls, and on the large bed a gray duvet folded down over white sheets.

  She skimmed her fingers across a pillow, taking in the details of this personal space. She’d known Brendan for years and she’d known him physically, intimately, but as she drifted around his room she realized she didn’t really know him at all.

  She wandered into the seating area, where an Eames chair was positioned in front of a wall-mounted flat-screen TV. Maybe he spent most of his time in here, and that explained why the living areas downstairs seemed so sterile.

  She stood beside the chair, imagining his long frame stretched in front of a soccer game, legs crossed at the ankles.

  Her gaze slid to the bookcase. Maybe he was more of a reader.

  The shelves were certainly packed. Fat travel guides for countries across Europe, Spanish-language textbooks and a few books actually written in Spanish. Not too many novels, but lots of non-fiction, mostly about sports.

  She squinted at a spine on the bottom shelf. The Zen of Gambling.

  Not exactly damning, but she mentally filed its presence nonetheless.

  “I like this.” She stood in front of the glass doors leading out to a small terrace overlooking the backyard.

  “Wait until you see the bathroom,” Marsha promised.

  Erin stepped into the en-suite. Like the bedroom, it was oversized and minimal in a manly way, with navy-and-gray mosaic tiling, a huge tub, and a separate, equally large stall shower.

  His scent hit her when she opened the shower door, setting off memories strong enough to rock her back on her heels.

  Bright yellow lemon. Freshly stained wood. The hint of a distant bonfire carried on an autumn wind.

  She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by vivid flashes of recollection. That same scent on his skin when he hugged her at the wedding, her nose brushing his neck above his crisp collar. In the crowded elevator, when he quietly took her hand and she squeezed his big palm, confident the signals she’d sent him all evening had b
een received. Feeling safe and satisfied as she rolled over in the tangled sheets to find his lazy grin, his mussed hair.

  And back in New York, unpacking her suitcase, lifting the dress she wore that night. The smell of him overpowered her then exactly as it did now and she’d dropped to the bed, expensive silk clutched in tight fists as she braced herself, breathed to quiet her racing heart, crossed her legs to ease the sudden pressure between them.

  “Did you notice the floating vanity?”

  Marsha’s voice slammed through her thoughts like a bus running a red light. She propped her arm against the floating vanity in question as receding adrenaline left her weak and unsteady.

  Ever since Vegas, the thought of Brendan incited a strange, not totally unpleasant but heart-pounding and then draining physical response. Sort of like stepping off a roller coaster, knees wobbling, jaw tight, totally pumped to ride it again.

  Belatedly she realized Marsha was waiting for a response.

  “It’s great,” she enthused hollowly.

  “I know!” Marsha pressed her hands together. “Wait ‘til you see what he’s done with the basement.”

  As Erin trailed Marsha through the hall, down the stairs, and across the kitchen to the basement door, her adrenaline spike gave way to guilt knotting so fiercely in her stomach she almost doubled over.

  What the hell was she doing, spying on Brendan’s house, trying to dig up blackmail material? Yes, he’d undermined her favorable impression of his hard body and gentle hands and—focus, Erin—and turned out to be a backstabbing son of a bitch instead, but that didn’t mean she should sink to his level.

  She reached deep into her stores of empathy, driven by the intimacy of seeing his bed, touching his sink, inhaling his scent.

  Maybe he felt cornered when she brought up the year-end report. Maybe he truly believed he did nothing wrong. Or maybe she hurt him more than she realized when she called to insist their one-night stand could never be anything more.