Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  He shook his head disapprovingly, opening a bakery box and arranging a delicious-looking series of doughnuts on a large plate.

  “Do you have any idea how many people would love to be here right now, and to see what I’m about to show you?”

  “Ooh, pink frosting.” She snatched up a doughnut and took a bite.

  “I’m serious. I’ve been offered enormous sums of money to teach people my system. I was even approached by this day-trader guy in Brazil to fly down there to do a group lesson.” He picked up his coffee, the plate, and headed to the door to the basement.

  “I thought this was all super secret. How do these people know who you are?” She opened the door and held it while he descended the staircase with his hands full.

  “Technically they don’t know they’re approaching Brendan Young, goalkeeper extraordinaire. There are some online forums where people trade tips. I was a frequent flier when I lived in England.”

  “Signed to one of the best clubs in the world and he spent his time trolling online message boards.” She sighed.

  “Visit Liverpool in November. You’ll understand. Eventually I got nervous about being identified and stopped posting. Also I moved to Spain, and sunshine became a real thing again instead of an abstract concept.”

  “Nice work if you can get it. I still don’t understand why I need to learn your system at all, though. Can’t I just be your minion, carrying out your bidding?”

  He took up a stool in front of the bar and motioned her to join him, setting down the doughnuts. He slid over a stack of two marble composition books, taking a tattered one off the top and passing a brand-new one to her.

  “How do you think you got into all that debt?” he asked.

  “By losing more than I won?”

  He shook his head. “By being compulsive. Reckless. Disorganized.”

  “It’s not possible to be strategic on a slot-machine app. That’s the point.”

  “It is. I can’t tell you how—not my game—but trust me, everything can be won and nothing is insurmountably random. With a little discipline and dedication, not to mention a way to keep the league from finding out, I promise you’ll pay off that debt and generate some nice income, too.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You sound like an infomercial. No, I don’t want to buy a timeshare on the Lake of the Ozarks, but thanks.”

  “I’m serious. Gambling is an art and a science. I can’t just start texting you my bets. You have to understand the framework behind it, even if you decide never to try it yourself.”

  “Whatever. As long as doughnuts are involved, I’m in.”

  He passed her a pen and opened his notebook. She did the same.

  “Step one. Comfortable surroundings, free of distraction.” He gestured to the replica pub.

  “I’m not writing that down.”

  “You shouldn’t. That notebook is for your odds, fixtures, and bets. In fact, that’s step two—make sure you have a tidy, well-organized central database. In my case”— he tapped the notebook—“I get through one of these every couple of months, but I save them all, ordered by season, so I can refer back to my previous wagers and whether or not they panned out.”

  “Step three. Doughnut.” She helped herself to a blueberry one and lifted her coffee mug in salute.

  “That’s probably part of step one, but never mind. Step four… Or three… Forget the steps.”

  He waved one hand distractedly and shoved the other through his hair, and it hit her again, that almost irresistible tug of affection that had her gripping her pen to keep her hand from touching his shoulder.

  An unbidden, unfamiliar, and unwelcome impulse, she frowned at the blank page in front of her in an effort to ignore it. She’d never been the gooey lovey type, never dreamed of a doting husband, got bored halfway through most of her dates and over the years had developed a preference for skipping straight to sex. Scratch the itch, enjoy the night, and move on.

  Brendan stood out as a lifetime exception. He’d ingratiated himself early with his act of kindness toward a naïve freshman, and so maybe she’d been predisposed to think generously on everything he did thereafter, but he was special in other ways, too. In college she’d been drawn to his quiet intensity, the introversion that lay just beneath the surface of his otherwise affable, polite persona. He seemed to approach life with a gravity lacking in other guys, particularly other athletes. He studied hard, trained hard, fulfilled all the social expectations of a number-one-ranked soccer team yet always seemed slightly aloof. Like he’d rather be somewhere else, probably alone.

  At first she’d trailed him like a typical fangirl, her heart leaping whenever she caught sight of him on campus yet never approaching him, deciding it wasn’t the right moment or she wasn’t wearing the right outfit. If she knew he’d be at a party she dressed to the nines, spending hours perfecting her hair and makeup and then posing prettily near him, laughing too loudly with her friends, anxiously glancing his way to see if he noticed.

  If he did, he never said anything. He certainly never made a move.

  By Thanksgiving she’d more or less given up, distracted by her studies and her sport. Over Christmas she went home to New Jersey and promptly lost her virginity to the brother of one of her high-school classmates, having decided it was a complicating burden she was tired of working around. She started her second semester with greater confidence and authenticity, and although she still had a flutter when she ran into Brendan, she invested far less energy into caring what he thought of her.

  They didn’t exactly become friends, but they became friendly. Instead of staring at him at parties, she talked to him. Instead of stalking him around campus, she waved and continued on her way.

  The following year she was a sophomore and he was a senior, and their paths diverged more than ever as he attracted attention from scouts for several international teams. She still thought he was mega hot and certainly wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d asked, but sex had fallen so far down her list of priorities she barely remembered how it worked. Meanwhile he was almost a celebrity, the constant subject of awed gossip amongst the players, already rising so far above the rest of them that he seemed untouchable.

  The last time they spoke was that spring, at a lunch during families’ weekend, when most of the players’ parents and siblings visited campus for two days of events. She watched him move through the dining room, the tallest in a tall-person family. His dad and older brother were both big and heavyset, with football-player builds. His mom was slim and sharp-eyed, clearly the mobilizing force in the household. His younger brother, Liam—gregarious, playful, unself-conscious—instantly became the center of attention as he showed anyone who would look his head-to-toe Notre Dame outfit printed with his brother’s name and number.

  Seemingly by chance, their two families ended up at the same table, but as Brendan took the seat next to her she wondered if she’d been a safe option, offering no risk of teammates’ jealous parents ruing his disproportionate success. The meal was short and only slightly awkward. Her parents were their usual charming, diplomatic selves, downplaying their affluence as her dad asked earnest questions about Keith Young’s car dealership and her mother made appropriate noises during Marie’s tale of fighting the public school system to offer Liam a more mainstream curriculum. Maggie and Aidan—the eldest brother—both looked like they’d rather be somewhere else but had the good sense not to say anything.

  Brendan kept quiet beside her, and instinctively she didn’t press him. Something told her he liked to disappear on occasion, to slip between everyone’s lines of attention and withdraw into whatever was happening inside his handsome head.

  Toward the end of lunch, he seemed to collect himself and turned to her. “Do you have plans for the summer?”

  “I’ve got an internship in New York City, working in the sports department at a TV network,�
� she replied proudly.

  He smiled, rare and so fulfilling. “Nice.”

  “It’s only three days a week, and it’s not paid, but I figure that gives me time to train and maybe get a part-time job, too. Last summer I worked at my dad’s law firm and the money was definitely helpful, but I didn’t feel like I was moving my career forward, and you only really get three summers before…” She trailed off, deciding he probably wasn’t that interested. “Anyway, what are you up to this summer?”

  She regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. She knew what he was doing. Everyone did.

  But if he thought it was a stupid question he gave no sign. “Hanging out at home for a while. Then, in July, I’m moving to England.”

  “Awesome,” she said softly, unsure how to follow it up. Luckily she didn’t have to, as chairs started scraping the floor around the room. Another event started in five minutes.

  Every occupant at their table stood, ready to go their separate ways. As the dads shook hands and the moms insisted it had been nice to meet each other, she turned to Brendan.

  “So, good luck in—”

  He cut her off with a sudden, tight hug, one of his hands cupping the nape of her neck beneath her ponytail. She closed her eyes against his firm chest, inhaling the scent she didn’t know then she’d still remember when she sat next to him at a wedding more than ten years later.

  His grip lingered, its pressure so much more than friendly, but she was young and confused and he was a shooting star bolting away from her and when he let go she didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. She stared at him dumbly, arms at her sides, bewildered and excited and suddenly on the verge of tears.

  “Be good,” he said simply, as remote and inscrutable as always. She nodded as though she had any idea what he meant, and then they both turned and walked out in separate directions.

  Months ago, brimming with champagne and triumph at finally catching the biggest fish in her romantic sea, she’d alluded to that moment in one of their postcoital calms. He just shook his head, and although she wasn’t sure whether he meant he didn’t remember or he didn’t want to talk about college, she decided not to push it. Like it or not, she treasured that hug for years and years. It would hurt too much to finally be told it never meant anything.

  “Are you listening?”

  She jerked back to the present, blueberry doughnut still clutched halfway to her mouth. “Not at all. Sorry. Start again.”

  “I said, the reason we’re up so early is the time difference. England is five hours ahead of Atlanta. Most of the matches are in the afternoon, but today we have a midday kickoff because—”

  “It’s a big derby and they schedule those at noon so the fans don’t have too much time to get wasted and punch each other,” she supplied. “I may not have reached the dizzy heights you did, but I did play professionally. I know my sport. Try not to patronize me.”

  He held up a hand. “Fair point.”

  “Is there a reason we can’t place bets on the English games the night before?”

  “If absolutely necessary, we can. This week I’m playing on Sunday, but if I’d had a game this morning I would’ve put in the bets last night. Ideally, though, you want to bet as close to kickoff as possible, so you have the maximum amount of information. We won’t really know which players are in, and in what formation until they walk onto the pitch.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I can see that in the tight matches, but what about when the number-one team is playing number twelve? Surely that’s a safe choice, even if one or two players from the top team pick up unexpected injuries.”

  He patted her hand. “Oh, Erin. So much to learn.”

  She polished off her doughnut. “All right, then, Maestro. Go for it.”

  “Here’s the thing. Anyone can pick Manchester United to beat Swansea City at Old Trafford. The bookmakers’ odds will reflect that. The upsets are where you make the real money, and those can be predicted with detailed analysis and a whole lot of thought.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Thought takes the fun out of gambling. I prefer the instinct-and-luck method.”

  “Most people do. That’s why they end up in a church basement talking about their feelings instead of a nice, big house like this one.”

  She picked up her pen. “Where do we start?”

  “The midday derby in London.” He pointed to the relevant line on his whiteboard. “Those are the bookies’ odds for a win, a loss, and a draw, plus whether both teams will score. You can get into really detailed bets, like who will score first, which striker will score and how many times, but for the most part I stick with the overall result. With so many matches, it’s better to hedge across the whole league rather than put too big a wager on any one specific occurrence.”

  She squinted at the chart. “Where did you get those odds? Are those from a particular site?”

  “Yeah. The slight downside to winning a lot is the bookies tend to shut your account or put a ceiling on your wagers, so you have to move from one to the other. These are from the one my account is still live on—but I guess now we can start over since we’re using your details, not mine.”

  He turned to her, thoughtful. “You’re sure no one can trace this? I get that no one has an eye out for you like they do for me, but are you absolutely certain—”

  “Totally,” she assured him. “First, I have about a million credit cards. Second, they’re all under my initials—E. Bailey or E.P. Bailey. The likelihood of anyone linking that back to me is tiny.”

  “Okay. Okay,” he repeated, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself. He looked up. “What’s the ‘P’ for?”

  “Patricia.”

  “Nice.”

  “I guess. What’s your middle name?”

  “David.”

  “That’s a good name.”

  “Sure.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds, the atmosphere softening along this random personal detour. She summoned her memory of the young man he’d been that spring afternoon, comparing the twenty-two-year-old at the table with the thirty-three-year-old in front of her, taking the time to measure the changes.

  His hair was longer, cut better, no less thick or blond for the years in between. He had a strong jaw, a straight nose, green eyes darkened by the shifting shadows of what went on behind them. Lines spliced his forehead now, and although the other physical changes were surprisingly minimal, his expression was always underlined by a slight weariness that was hard to ignore. As though he’d grown used to disappointment, expected it, but felt its full weight nonetheless.

  He returned her gaze for another second before dropping it to his notebook. She wondered if he’d attempted to make the same comparison she had, the present versus the past, and what he’d concluded about the woman she’d become.

  “London derby,” he announced, bringing them both back to the task at hand. “Historic rivals, managers are sworn enemies, both teams sitting near the top of the table. Each one wants the three points as much as they want to deny the other from getting them. So. Who will win?”

  She tapped her chin, considering what she knew about each team, then pointed. “One-nil to them.”

  “Why?”

  “They finished higher last season, and they bought that Congolese guy who’s a goal machine.”

  He shook his head. “Here’s what we do.”

  He turned to a blank page in his notebook and jotted down two sets of names on either side, representing the full squads of both teams.

  “How do you remember all this?” she asked, impressed as he easily recalled more than twenty names with no Google in sight.

  “I just do. Anyway.” He pointed to the Congolese player’s name. “Let’s take your striker. He was a late purchase in the transfer window after this club supposedly outbid one
up north. As a result he only landed in London at the beginning of August, so he’s had relatively little time to train with the team. He’s also never played in England before.”

  He looked at her expectantly, but she shrugged.

  “You have to consider each player’s mindset, not just their stats.” He tapped his temple. “This guy doesn’t know his teammates very well. His English probably isn’t great, so he’s feeling a little isolated in the dressing room and in a new country. He hasn’t played for the club long enough to be truly invested in this derby, or to understand beyond an academic level what it means for the fans. I think the quality of play in this match and the intensity of the atmosphere is going to make him stumble. If he scores, it’ll be a lucky header. He’s not going to beat the keeper.”

  She frowned, simultaneously impressed and skeptical. “But that’s all speculation. He’s a professional. Maybe he can put aside all these emotional issues and just play.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “That’s why it’s a gamble.”

  “It works for you, though. This system, this psychological approach.”

  He nodded. “Always has.”

  “Here goes nothing.” In her own notebook, she wrote down the striker’s name and added a hyphen and a zero afterward, indicating that he wouldn’t score.

  Brendan pointed to one of the winger’s names. “Right, let’s figure out whether this guy will score.”

  It took nearly an hour to go through each player and settle on a result, which would draw a decent but not enormous payout if it came good. Erin sat back and exhaled, picking up her coffee mug to discover it was empty.

  “That took forever. How do you manage to make any money out of this? It must suck up all your time.”

  “It’s quicker when I do it by myself, mostly because I read all the news in the week up to the game so by the time the team is announced I have a pretty good idea of the result to expect. Anyway, I enjoy it.” He shrugged.

  “No one could fault your attention to detail. Now let’s put our money where our mouths are.” She unlocked her phone screen. He scooted his stool closer to hers to get a look.