Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  “I can’t,” he told her finally, and she knew from his tone there would be no further explanation.

  “Whatever. Your loss,” she decreed, rising again, this time to find her purse and make her way home. He nodded his agreement but as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag and dug around inside for her car keys, she couldn’t help but think it was her loss.

  Massively, overwhelmingly her loss.

  Chapter 9

  Skyline pressed Boston hard, all ten players over the midline, yet every one of Brendan’s nerves seemed to whine with alertness. A high, tinny buzz like a hundred mosquitos drifted in and out of the space between his thoughts.

  He squinted toward the other end of the pitch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Only fifteen minutes left and the score was nil-nil. Not wildly unexpected against such a high-quality opponent—particularly because Roland used to be Boston’s manager so a few of the players had axes to grind—but not the victory they were capable of, either.

  Whether or not they scored was totally out of his hands. Whether or not they kept a clean sheet, however, fell squarely at his feet.

  He leaned left, right, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his mental stock ticker running faster than ever. Despite the players’ distance, every second he imagined another scenario, another angle from which Boston Liberty might try to score and moved in preparation, only to frantically reset his position to the center.

  He glanced needlessly at the match clock. Fourteen minutes left. Exactly one minute since he’d last looked.

  “Stop,” he instructed himself quietly, standing motionless in the center of the goal. His anxiety on the pitch hadn’t been this bad since the beginning of his career, and although he expected to be frazzled in his first match since last season, he didn’t think it would be so extreme.

  To be fair, he’d been better in the first half. His almost year-long absence from the pitch hadn’t seemed to impact his concentration, his reaction times or his communication with the defensive players. He made two crucial saves to the cheers and applause of the away fans, and at halftime, Roland acknowledged his contribution in his dressing-room talk.

  He began the second half with his characteristically efficient hyper-focus, but as the clock ticked it progressively moved from awareness to worry to anxiety to borderline panic. The physical exhaustion of playing a full ninety minutes for the first time in such a long time, plus the added pressure of knowing there was no one to sub him out if he made a catastrophic error or picked up an injury eroded his mental self-control. Over the second half, he spiraled from on-point and alert to agitated and scattered.

  Stilling himself, he took several long, slow breaths, fighting to rein in his veering thoughts.

  Visualize what you want and focus on it. The league trophy, glinting gold under bright lights. Renovating the house in Nebraska, knocking down walls, ripping up old carpet, days filled with useful exertion. A big, fat payout from the wagers he and Erin placed that weekend.

  Erin. Blue eyes alight with mischief. Sensuous lips curving in satisfaction. Broad, muscular thighs, echoes of her time as a professional athlete. Soft breasts pressed against his chest, her warm fingers on his bare skin—

  He shook his head, shutting down that line of thought and throwing all his energy into breathing slowly, watching carefully, blocking out everything except the match.

  Boston was on the counterattack, passing the ball back into Skyline’s half with their striker in possession. Brendan dug his cleats into the earth as the action shifted in his direction.

  Instinctively he exhaled, pulling down the screen of cool-headed serenity he’d developed to keep his paranoid anxieties separate from the supercharged analytical machinations that created them. He had nothing to worry about. He was unbeatable. He was the best.

  The affirmation tucked safely in his turbo-boosted brain, he narrowed his eyes at his own defenders as they sprinted to beat Boston back to their goal.

  He widened his stance and slightly bent his knees, gloved hands raised in readiness. One of Skyline’s center-backs, Paulo, got close enough to make eye contact. Brendan nodded to ease the concern in the Brazilian’s expression.

  I’ve got your back, his nod assured his teammate. Do what you need to do.

  Paulo received his message loud and clear. The defender turned his back on the goal to mark an advancing Boston winger. It was a sensible decision—the winger was the most likely person for the striker to pass to, and by all accounts, he really should pass given no less than three Skyline players were vying for possession.

  But Brendan read the striker’s posture, his face, the momentary glance he tried to conceal by immediately looking the other way.

  He shot. An audacious chance, backed up by serious technical skill as it arced over the heads of the Skyline players on a perfect trajectory toward the upper right-hand corner of the net. Clever, elegant, well executed, with potential not only to win the game but make the striker man of the match.

  Except for the third-choice goalkeeper on the pitch.

  Brendan’s feet left the ground as he jumped to save the shot, batting the sixty-mile-an-hour ball away from the goal.

  The away fans cheered the save and the Skyline players’ postures registered visible relief, but a quick sweep of his opponents told Brendan they weren’t safe yet. The ball was still too close to the goal for his liking.

  Guedes—Paulo’s counterpart—captured possession and passed to Oz, who passed to Paulo, who lost the ball in an interception. The Boston winger pivoted and booted the ball toward the goal in an accurate, powerful shot. Skyline’s defenders were so spread out they couldn’t do anything but watch it, faces stricken.

  Brendan leaped sideways to intercept the shot, cupping his hands together in front of his chest. As soon as the ball thudded against his body he fell on it, trapping it underneath his ribs.

  The force of the impact had knocked the air out of his lungs and he gave himself a second to recover, resting facedown, his forehead pressed into the grass. Slowly he made his way up, pleased to find his teammates had already started running back toward the midline. He gestured for them to keep going, assessing each one of their positions before placing the ball at his feet. He took a couple of steps backward to give himself a run-up, noted Oz was unmarked, and thwacked the ball in a long-range kick which the left-back controlled out of the sky with his head, his chest and finally his feet.

  Oz negotiated the ball down the left channel, and Brendan checked the clock as his teammate made an aggressive run.

  Nine minutes left.

  He stepped to the edge of his area, watching Oz’s unstoppable sprint. The left-back was hungry to score against his former club, and in the last thirty minutes, he’d channeled his first-half frustration into sheer determination.

  He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders. At the other end of the pitch, Oz made laughingstocks of one of Boston’s central defenders, popping the ball over his head and recovering it on his other side, then slamming it into the net.

  Brendan smiled as his teammates celebrated. The away fans lost their minds and the scoreboard ticked up to one-nil. Boston wouldn’t score in the next seven minutes—they were too tired, and now would be too demoralized, knowing their only hope was to equalize.

  They would try, though. He reset his position between the goalposts, bending his ankles, exhaling the swell of anxiety that bubbled up in his mind, recapturing his all-over calm as Boston charged toward Skyline’s half.

  They would try. They would fail.

  * * * *

  Midfielder Brian Scholtz slapped his hands over his ears as Swedish techno music thumped through the dressing room.

  “Do we really have to listen to this shit?”

  “Goal-scorer’s pick,” Nico reminded him. “Terim got the winning point so Terim picks the music. When you score the winning point, we�
��ll listen to whatever you want.”

  “Still, I’m not sure it needs to be so loud,” Brian grumbled.

  “Brian.” Laurent shot him a withering look from across the dressing room. “You didn’t even play. Stop being a dick.”

  Brendan exchanged an amused glance with Nico as the young midfielder backed down against Laurent’s remark, delivered in his thick French accent.

  “Here’s the man of the hour,” Nico enthused as Oz walked past them toward the showers. They both stood to embrace the left-back in turn.

  “Fantastic shot,” Brendan commended him, choosing his words carefully. Oz and Roland were thick as thieves, having played together in Boston and in Sweden before that. Although he trusted Oz as a teammate and they’d never been less than friendly, Brendan had no illusion that anything he did or said had potential to get back to Roland.

  “Would’ve been a different story without your double save. It was a pleasure to have you behind us today. You really are a world-class keeper.”

  Oz stuck out his hand, and Brendan shook it gratefully. The young Swede wasn’t a particularly forthcoming guy, and Brendan knew this was Oz’s way of telling him the gambling scandal was behind them and that he had the left-back’s support.

  He smiled his appreciation at Oz’s back as the defender proceeded toward the showers. His teammates’ approval used to be the last thing he cared about. Now, at the end of his career, he treasured it.

  “He’s right,” Nico agreed. “You saved our one-nil-scraping asses today. No one will forget it.”

  “Just doing my job.” He slapped the winger on the back and sat down to finish untying his cleats. He stowed his boots in the cubby below the locker, stripped off his socks to toss into the laundry bin, and stuck his feet into his shower flip-flops. Then he reached up and pulled his jersey over his head, holding it at arm’s length to read the name and number printed on the back.

  Young. 1.

  He’d come to Skyline as number one and kept the number after Roland arrived and he dropped to second and then third choice. At points over the last year, he’d felt like a fraud, tugging on a number-one shirt for training, knowing full well he wouldn’t even be dressing for the next match, let alone playing in it. The badge of honor he’d spent so long earning became a scarlet letter, mocking his fall from grace, signifying everything he’d thrown away.

  Pride swelled in his chest. He’d never take anything so important, so rare, or so hard-won for granted again.

  He added the jersey to the laundry pile, then took off his shorts, his briefs, and wrapped the provided towel from Boston Liberty’s sponsor around his waist.

  He looked down. “Oh.”

  Nico glanced over and burst into hysterical laughter, pointing at the too-small towel’s early finish at the top of his thighs.

  “Guys, look at Young’s towel,” he called to the room at large, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “They gave him an extra small.”

  “To be fair, they don’t make towels in giraffe size,” Laurent joked.

  “He asked for extra long, but then they called his ex-girlfriend,” Oz hollered from the shower.

  “Very funny.” But Brendan grinned as he made his way to the showers, enjoying being a part of the team banter after so long on its fringes. He picked a stall and turned on the water, ducking under the showerhead. Then he balled up the offending towel and hurled it at Nico’s head, hitting his mark with accuracy that would make any striker envious.

  His good mood persisted as he dressed, boarded the bus with the rest of the Skyline players and took the short journey back to their hotel. He waited until he was safely in his room to read a text message from Erin, easing onto the edge of the bed.

  They hadn’t seen each other since the previous weekend’s strategy session—as she had coined it—but they’d texted constantly, trading updates on odds and player stats and lobbing predictions about the results of the upcoming match schedule.

  Hey, you! Watched the 1st half, great stuff! You look like you don’t even know where the bench is let alone been on it most of the season. Best of luck in the 2nd 45 mins!

  He smiled. He expected it to be one of her reminders to send her the finalized wagers to place early tomorrow morning.

  He tapped out a reply. Hope you enjoyed the 2nd half. Nice to get a clean sheet, important win for the team. Will send final picks tonight.

  He’d leaned over to plug his phone into its charger when it dinged. He raised it again and read her reply.

  The humble Mr. Young not taking credit for his super speedy double save in the last 20 mins. Very well played sir, good to see you on the pitch where you belong.

  He shook his head, endeared by her love of emojis as he put his phone down. She didn’t quite get the complexities of his system yet, but he appreciated her enthusiasm. He also appreciated her irresponsibly vast array of credit cards, with which they were able to shop for odds and win tangible, exciting sums of money—money he didn’t need financially but emotionally he was surprisingly dependent on.

  Maybe the monetary wins were the validation he needed to prop up his often faltering ego, he considered, opening the menu for the hotel restaurant. Or maybe they made his endless charts and notebook scribblings real, in a way. Legitimizing his mental maneuverings in the real world instead of only in his head.

  Either way, it worked. What should’ve been one of the most stressful weeks of his life as he prepared for today’s match was relaxed and easy. Whenever his anxiety built he pulled out a notebook and reviewed that weekend’s bets, finding calm in the systematic analysis and reassurance in the knowledge these hypotheses would be put to the real-life test and would live or die on Erin’s credit cards.

  He refocused on the menu, deciding to spend the evening in the restaurant with a celebratory steak and page after page of match analysis. He tucked his notebook under his arm and headed downstairs.

  The restaurant hostess was still halfway through her greeting when his name rang across the crowded room. He turned in that direction to find a handful of his teammates seated around a table, gesturing for him to join them.

  Dammit. He wasn’t in the mood for socializing. His brain was tender after the exertion and fierce control required for the match and his grip on his anxiety felt tenuous, in the same way his hands shook and cramped at the end of a long set of weights repetitions. They’d seen him now, though, and there was no way he could politely move on to sit by himself in a dark corner. He’d have to stay for at least one drink, then make an excuse and find somewhere else to eat.

  His body sagged with weariness but he forced a smile as he joined his teammates. Winger Rio Vidal stood and shifted his chair over, then grabbed another from a nearby table and stuffed it into the empty space.

  Brendan thanked the Chilean as he took his seat. Between his iffy Spanish and Rio’s iffy English the two of them had a surprisingly good rapport.

  “This looks like a Midfielders Anonymous meeting. Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” He looked around the table at Laurent, Nico, Rio, and Aaron Jackson, Laurent’s American counterpart in central midfield.

  “Just this once we’ll make an exception. It’s your lucky day, we haven’t ordered yet. Do you want to see a menu?” Laurent asked.

  “I had a look in the room. I just came down for a drink. I’m not hungry enough to eat yet.”

  “We’ll wait,” Nico offered. “We can have a few starters while you work up an appetite.”

  “No, really, I’m fine. I might go for a walk. See what’s in the neighborhood.”

  Laurent shrugged off his excuse but Nico frowned. Brendan shoved his notebook farther down his lap, balancing it precariously on his knees and safely out of sight of his teammates.

  “Wine?” Laurent asked as the waitress arrived with an expensive bottle of red. He’d planned to indulge in no more than a post-mat
ch beer, maybe two, but at this point, Brendan felt he had to go with the flow.

  “Sure.” He snagged a wineglass from another table and pushed it forward. Laurent expertly poured out the bottle between their five glasses and Brendan took a sip, supposing it would be bad manners to down it all in one, although it would get him out of there faster.

  He managed to drag it out over forty minutes in the end. He bantered with the midfielders and returned the good-humored ribbing he received in equal measure. Time well spent, bonding with the teammates from whom he’d become alienated over the last season as they felt their way back to relying on each other.

  By the time he took the final, draining sip from the glass his thoughts whirred and roared like a buzz saw about to cut through his skull.

  “I’m off,” he announced. “Time to leave you midfield dynamos to congratulate yourselves on your creative passes and clever maneuvers, conveniently forgetting that a defender scored our only goal today.”

  “Hilarious. What’s that?” Nico pointed to his notebook as he stood up from the table.

  Brendan deployed the answer he’d come up with midway through his glass of wine. “Secret goalkeeper stuff.”

  Nico looked like he was about to ask for more detail when Aaron jumped in.

  “You know I love you, Young, but damn, goalkeepers are weird. Have you guys ever noticed that?”

  The other midfielders nodded and Aaron continued, “Every goalkeeper I’ve ever played with has been totally offbeat. Good guys, but strange. I think you might be the most normal one I’ve met.”

  If only you knew. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow for the trip home.”

  He exchanged goodbyes with his teammates and then had to stop himself from running out of the restaurant, across the lobby and outside. When he finally made it through the hotel doors he leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths of humid air in an effort to calm his racing heart.

  He had nothing to worry about, he informed himself. The notebook was so heavily coded he doubted anyone could make it out without any context, and certainly not after a couple seconds’ glimpse. His teammates were his friends and allies, not his enemies.