Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  She pulled her knees to her chest and began unlacing the cleats, making no effort to block his view of her still-damp crotch. “Friendly friends who fuck. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  He was quiet for a minute, thoughtfully picking blades of grass off his shorts. When he finally spoke his voice was hushed, his tone so confiding that she snapped to attention.

  “I’m worried you’ll be wrong,” he told her softly. “I’m worried it’ll hurt.”

  “It won’t,” she replied hastily. Too hastily. She realized after the words were out of her mouth that she might not believe them.

  If she was honest with herself, she was worried too. Never in her life had any other man penetrated her no-strings armor like Brendan had, from the day he shoved that bottle of water in her hand to seriously considering unprotected sex with him only minutes earlier.

  Not only had he threatened her long-untouched defenses, he did it without even trying. If anything, she was the one pushing him and not the other way around. What would happen if he became a full-fledged fuck buddy?

  But she’d made her offer and she couldn’t—no, didn’t want to withdraw it now. If their arrangement started to get emotional—and that was a big if—she’d deal with it.

  No point in denying herself what she wanted on the slim chance it became complicated.

  “I have to think about it,” he concluded, pushing to his feet. He offered her a hand and she took it, levering herself upright.

  “There’s not much to think about. You’re leaving to find your Midwestern dream girl. I’m not interested in anything except my career and the occasional externally assisted orgasm. It’s just sex, Brendan. I promise.”

  “I know you do.” He nodded toward the back door into the house. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Silently she followed him across the jasmine-scented back porch, through the kitchen and into the garage, where he held her door open as she settled into the driver’s seat of the gleaming white sports car for which she barely managed to make the monthly payments.

  “I need time to get it right in my mind,” he said suddenly, stalling her hand mid-turn in the ignition. “I have to consider all the angles, all the possibilities. I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.”

  “Don’t make me wait too long or the offer will expire.” She forced a confident smile, trying to ignore the unease stirring in her gut.

  “I won’t.” He straightened and pressed the remote to open the garage door. “Let me know you’re home safe.”

  “I will.”

  He shut her door and stepped back, raising a hand in farewell. She returned the gesture, then shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. The quiet residential street was empty, and in seconds she was out of sight of the house and speeding her way home.

  The engine purred. Her thoughts spun. Her underwear stuck damply between her legs.

  She spent the entire drive wondering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

  Chapter 12

  “Brendan.” Iveta Kovar smiled warmly as she opened the door of Pavel’s sprawling house in Buckhead, then opened her arms for a hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  He pulled in the former model for a quick embrace, then raised the expensive bottle of Scotch he’d brought. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m hoping he’ll forgive me once he sees this.”

  She shook her head, motioning for him to step inside. “There’s nothing to forgive. Pavel didn’t want any visitors at the hospital. Now that he’s home he’s agreed to see a few people. Your name was at the top of his list.”

  “Good to know he’s feeling well enough to velvet-rope his sickbed.” He stopped Iveta’s brisk progress through the entrance hall with a hand on her arm. “How is he?”

  “He’ll be fine,” she assured him, her stiff smile undermining her positive tone. “It was a serious skull fracture, but he got the surgery he needed right away and the doctor says he’s extremely lucky. He’ll be out for three months but should be able to start training just in time for the new season.”

  “That’s great,” he told her sincerely. “How are you and Adela holding up?”

  She hesitated, eventually letting the smile drop from her face. “It’s been hard, Brendan. We almost lost him.”

  “I know.” He put his arm around her as her chin started to quiver. “But he’s a hardheaded son of a bitch and he’ll be absolutely fine.”

  She nodded weakly, regaining her composure. “I’ll take you upstairs. He’s waiting for you.”

  He followed her up the grand, curving staircase to the thickly carpeted upper floor. He’d been to Pavel’s house before, but only when his teammate had thrown parties. Compared to those raucous, crowded visits the house seemed cavernous and eerily quiet. Their footsteps were inaudible as she led him down the hallway and tapped lightly on a door at the end.

  He braced himself as she pushed it open. He’d developed a strong stomach after a decade of witnessing hideous injuries on the pitch but he prepared himself nonetheless, schooling his expression to stay relaxed and friendly.

  As soon as he stepped through the doorway he realized there was no need. Pavel didn’t look bad at all.

  Fully dressed and seated in a chair in his masculine, oak-paneled study, Skyline’s first-choice goalkeeper looked more like he’d had a bad fall than life-threatening brain surgery. Fading rings of bruises surrounded his eyes and a square of gauze was stuck against a patch of shaved hair, but otherwise, he seemed fine. He even smiled as he spotted the bottle of Scotch.

  “Wow, it’s the man who put Adam Francis off his penalty. I’m honored.” Pavel motioned for Brendan to take the chair opposite him as Iveta slipped out of the room and shut the door.

  “Don’t be. I hope you’re allowed to drink this.” He plunked the bottle on the desk and took a seat.

  “Not for another month at least. Can you believe that? I tried to tell the doctor that beer is like Czech milk, but he insisted.”

  “Check his medical credentials. Doesn’t sound like he knows what he’s doing.”

  Pavel grinned. “You’ve been in fine form on the pitch. How does it feel to finally start every match?”

  “Well, given the circumstances…” Brendan shrugged, uncomfortable, but Pavel waved off his awkwardness.

  “Don’t. We both know we should’ve been competing to start all this time, and it was only a personality clash keeping you on the bench. I’m happy knowing you’re standing between the posts in my place.”

  “I’m enjoying it,” Brendan admitted. “We’re a lock for the final. Even if we don’t win, it would be a nice way to leave the game.”

  “Still intent on retiring?”

  “My contract’s up in December. Roland won’t renew it. I doubt anyone else is interested in a thirty-three-year-old goalkeeper with a gambling problem.” He raised a shoulder, resigned. “It’s time. I’m ready.”

  “I’ll miss you. Maybe not in the gym, though. I’ll finally stop hearing, ‘just one more rep.’”

  “Very funny. Don’t call me when you’re too fat to dive for the ball. I won’t answer.”

  They let the joke settle and dissipate between them, giving themselves time to make a comfortable transition to the seriousness of the situation. When the moment felt right Brendan asked, “How are you?”

  Pavel shrugged, stretching his legs in front of him. “Physically, I’m all right. I get headaches sometimes, severe enough to put me in bed the whole day, but they’re getting better. The swelling’s going down, the bruising is less sore. I should be back in training in another couple of months.”

  “That’s good,” Brendan replied earnestly. “And emotionally?”

  His teammate exhaled. “I don’t remember a lot of what happened. One minute this midfielder was running at me, the next it was four days later and I was
in intensive care. It took a long time for the reality of the situation to sink in.”

  Pavel shook his head slightly, glancing off to the side. “As players, we worry so much about injuries. We worry about whether they’ll end our careers, or even interrupt them long enough to make us lose our spot in the lineup. But we never think they could be life-threatening.”

  “Never,” Brendan echoed in agreement.

  “I’ve been thinking about what’s really important. My career, yes. The money, sure. But family must always come first. On some level, I always knew that, but it wasn’t the same. Having Iveta by my side through this whole thing—knowing she’ll still be there for me long after I become a forgotten piece of soccer history—it puts things in perspective.”

  Suddenly Pavel picked up his head and looked him square in the eye. “You need to get married.”

  Brendan blinked. “What?”

  “I’m serious.” Pavel leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been alone the whole time I’ve known you, and I’ve never understood why.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a few moments before Brendan realized Pavel was waiting for an answer.

  “I haven’t exactly made my love life a priority,” he offered, thinking of the handful of brief but committed relationships that punctuated his adulthood. “I guess I assumed it would work itself out. Anyway, now it’s too late to meet anyone in Atlanta. Maybe I’ll give it more attention once I’m settled in Nebraska.”

  “You should,” Pavel urged. “When she shows up—and you’ll know when she does, I promise—don’t doubt and don’t hesitate. Just grab her. You can work out the details later.”

  Erin’s image flashed in his mind.

  Of course it did—she was the only woman he’d been intimate with in the last year, and they’d almost had sex on his lawn the night before. That didn’t mean she was “the one.” Far from it. He’d known her for years. If she was his soul mate, surely he would’ve figured it out before now.

  He remembered the first time he saw her, a whirlwind of red hair and designer jeans and loudly articulated if slightly slurred opinions. It wasn’t the first time he intervened to help a girl who’d had too much to drink, but it was the first time he had the urge to do more than offer some water and advice and move on.

  They didn’t spend long together—ten, fifteen minutes maybe—but it was enough for him to learn a lot about her. He leaned against the outside of the house as she told him all about her private girls’ high school, the years she spent as the only girl on a boys’ traveling soccer team, her plan to lobby the Athletics Department to better partner with the Career Center to make sure female athletes had an early understanding of the sports-related professions open to them.

  He found her bemusing, intriguing and decidedly attractive. And so he decided to wrap up their conversation, opting not to ask for her number and leaving the party shortly after guiding her back inside.

  At that point, his perspective was totally different to Erin’s. His parents weren’t wealthy. His younger brother’s extra medical and social interventions strained their already tight finances, and his full-ride scholarship was the only thing putting him on the path to a professional soccer career. Otherwise he’d be at the University of Nebraska, living at home, working part-time in his dad’s car dealership.

  Erin could afford to get distracted by parties and dating. He couldn’t. So he refused to acknowledge her blatant crush on him and was slightly relieved when her interest seemed to wane.

  Sure, he noticed how hot she looked the few times they were together at parties, and he noticed that she looked sexy even when she was just slumming around campus in a hoodie. Of course he noticed her on the pitch—it was impossible not to. But that’s all he did—noticed her—until he graduated and their lives diverged.

  He thought about her sometimes, especially during that first couple of lonely years in Liverpool. He kept tabs on her pro career, clicked through her photos on social media, even put a bet on her a couple of times. But he thought of her in the same mildly wondering way he thought about all of his former classmates—not like she was the one who got away.

  That proved it, then. Pavel said he’d know when he met her. He’d met and reconnected with Erin multiple times in more than ten years and he’d never had a lightning bolt of certainty. Not even close.

  An electric shock, maybe. A tiny zap of awareness. An unshakeable pull to know her, to be beside her. But that didn’t mean—

  “Brendan?”

  “Sorry. Got caught up in something for a second.”

  His teammate stared at him, then broke into a broad grin. “You’ve met her already. You know who she is. You were thinking about her.”

  Brendan shook his head emphatically. “No. Definitely not. I was thinking about someone else.”

  “Sure,” Pavel replied, making no effort to hide his skepticism. “Anyway, try to make time for that part of your life. You don’t want to be alone forever.”

  Brendan winced inwardly at Pavel’s last two words. “Point taken. So, you’ve been watching the games?”

  “Here and there, when I can concentrate long enough. How are things in the dressing room?”

  “Same. Have you heard about this crazy shit with Oz?”

  Pavel nodded. “This hate crime stuff. Insane. How’s he doing?”

  “Surprisingly well. But then, that’s Oz.”

  “The iceman,” Pavel agreed. “And Kojo? The Brazilians? All good?”

  “All good,” Brendan confirmed. “Anxious to hear how you are, though. I imagine my phone will be full of inquiring texts this evening.”

  “I guess I should probably start allowing more visitors. It’s only recently that I can count on being well enough to sit up and talk for a couple of hours. Early on, there were days when I was so exhausted I couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “Don’t rush into seeing people before you’re ready. The guys will understand.”

  Pavel nodded thoughtfully, then his attention sharpened. “Guess which one of our teammates hasn’t been in touch at all? No well wishes after the accident, no texts to ask how I’m doing—nothing.”

  “I’m surprised there’s anyone who would do that. Guedes, maybe? And only because he doesn’t speak English and I could see him accidentally sending Portuglish texts with lots of emojis to the wrong number.”

  Pavel laughed, shaking his head. “No, even Guedes managed to send his version of a get-well note. Brian, on the other hand, hasn’t said a word.”

  Brendan frowned at Pavel’s revelation about the American winger, Brian Scholtz. Brian was having a tough season. He’d deservedly lost his first-team spot to Rio, his contract expired at the end of the year, and there hadn’t been any rumors of other clubs keen to sign him. Roland was the type of manager who cared about dressing-room harmony, so snubbing a seriously injured goalkeeper wasn’t the most strategic route to a new contract.

  “Maybe he lost your number,” he offered.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do you want me to speak to him?”

  “No,” Pavel replied so insistently that Brendan’s gaze shot up. “Don’t have anything to do with him if you can help it.”

  Brendan arched a brow, inviting his teammate to elaborate.

  Pavel looked away, then back, his expression stiff. “Look, I know firsthand that goalkeepers are weird. We’re part of a team, but we’re apart from our teammates most of the time. We train separately, and we stand at one end of the pitch while they run all over it. I know we all have our idiosyncrasies, the quirks we use to channel our energy and make us successful.”

  “Like your drum kit.”

  “Like your notebooks.”

  Brendan froze, his hands knotted together in his lap.

  Pavel leaned forward and patted his knee. “Don’t worry, I had no i
dea what they meant until everything came out. Even then it took me a while to put the pieces together. I doubt anyone else even notices them.”

  “They’re just stats. I like working the odds. It’s relaxing. Helps me focus. Doesn’t mean I’m actually betting on anything.”

  Pavel held up his hands. “It’s none of my business. You know my position on the gambling thing. You were stupid to do it, but putting you on the bench for the rest of the season was overkill.”

  “Roland’s been looking for an excuse to sideline me since he joined.”

  “And you gave him one,” Pavel reminded him. “Don’t give him another.”

  Panic flared in Brendan’s chest. Pavel couldn’t possibly know what he was doing with Erin—could he? His Czech counterpart could read any striker in the league, so maybe it wasn’t a leap to think he could read his teammate’s guilty conscience, too.

  He feigned innocence, praying Pavel bought it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Brian. I’m pretty sure he’s up to something, and it isn’t something good.”

  Relief softened his spine. “Like what?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I’m ninety percent sure he’s betting on the Championship League. He never really got over Rio taking his spot, and when Rio came back from injury and was still light-years better than him, I think Brian gave up. Suddenly he stopped complaining when we had to watch footage of upcoming opponents and took a serious interest, even though he was unlikely to get off the bench. He started asking me questions, too, about other matches—did I think so-and-so was likely to score against whoever, and what did I think of the keeper at wherever FC. I didn’t give it much thought at first, figuring he thought I had a broad view of the game as a goalkeeper, but after a while I realized he was asking far more about other teams’ fixtures than our own. Then he bought a new car. Not a particularly smart thing to do when you’re about to be out of contract.”