“Grim,” Brendan murmured as the bouncer reached them.
“Can I see some ID?”
He squinted at their driver’s licenses, then waved them through. “Good luck.”
Erin wrinkled her nose as they made their way toward the slot machines. “I didn’t think you were still allowed to smoke inside commercial premises.”
“We’re a long way from Vegas,” he observed mildly. “Do you want to waste some money on your one-armed bandits?”
She glanced at the beeping, blinking, colorful row of money eaters. There was a time when her mouth would be watering, her hands itching—hell, there was a time when she would’ve already lost ten dollars by now. On her worst weekend she’d taken the cheapest bus down to Atlantic City on Friday night, then the latest bus back up to Manhattan to avoid paying for a hotel room, slept three hours at her apartment before boarding another dawn bus to a casino. She spent eighty dollars on bus fares, fifteen dollars on food, and lost three and a half thousand dollars on slots.
At the time it felt unlucky. Now, having dragged the patient, accommodating man beside her into this shabby, depressing, smoke-filled room, she realized how totally unhinged she’d been.
She slipped her hand into Brendan’s and held it tight.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think we should go.”
He turned curious eyes on her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve been so committed to staying off the slot app and chiseling away at my debt. I don’t want to ruin all my good work. Not here, anyway.”
He slung his arm across her back and squeezed her against his side. “Let’s go.”
They walked hand in hand back to the car. Erin exhaled heavily as she slid into her seat, averting her eyes from the temptation of the entrance as Brendan started the engine.
“You okay?” he asked as he reversed out of the space.
“That was harder than I expected,” she admitted. “But, yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good. But also a shame. If ever there was a blackjack table where I had the chance to bring down the house, that was probably it. I doubt those decks were even full.”
“You can’t count cards,” she scoffed, then added uncertainly, “Can you?”
“I’d like to try.”
“Next time,” she promised, leaning back in her seat and resolving once and for all that next time would never, ever arrive.
* * * *
“Good, but if you lean over from the waist you’ll hurt your back. Better if you can drop down, like this.” In slow motion Brendan bent one leg and put his knee on the grass, scooping up the ball.
His two trainee goalkeepers nodded avidly, mimicking the motion.
“Got a great one,” the photographer murmured at Erin’s elbow, and quickly angled the camera display for her to see a perfect shot of the three of them on bended knees. Delighted, she stuck up her thumbs as he raised the camera again.
“Much better.” Brendan glanced to where Erin stood on the sideline and tapped his wrist. She checked the time on her phone, then flashed ten fingers to tell him how much longer they had before the match started.
“Pretty soon you’ll be facing off against each other, so there’s one last thing for us to review.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Intimidation tactics.”
Brendan’s two students—both men in their early twenties—exchanged wide-eyed glances.
He motioned for one of them to take his place in the net, then positioned the ball at his feet. “Ty, you’re first. I’m going to take a penalty, and you’re going to do your best to put me off. Ready?”
Ty nodded, separating his feet and raising his hands.
Brendan looked over his shoulder. “Erin, can you give us the cue?”
“Gladly.” She stuck her index fingers in her mouth and did her best approximation of a referee’s whistle.
Immediately she saw Brendan’s hesitation, deliberately delaying the lightning-quick instinct to shoot to give Ty time to react. Ty sneered and growled, cupping his hands with his knuckles facing his chest, and Brendan’s shot curled around him to hit the net.
“Dang.” Ty slammed his fist into his thigh but perked up when Brendan came forward to slap him on the back.
“First-class theatrics, but don’t forget to jump for the ball. Next time you might want to put your arms out, too. Your catch form is perfect, but in a penalty situation you want to cover as much of the goal as possible.”
“Got it.”
Ty moved out of the way to give his counterpart, Jamie, a try while Brendan reset the ball. He’d barely gotten it into position when Jamie extended his arms to the sides and planted his legs wide, his face a bug-eyed, tension-lined mask of toughness.
Brendan rubbed his chin, attempting to hide the endeared smile Erin could see clearly from where she stood. She replaced her fingers and whistled.
Brendan shot quicker this time, and to the right instead of the left. Jamie reacted instantly, throwing himself to the right, arm outstretched. He fisted his hand and Erin’s jaw fell open in astonishment as he punched the ball clear, saving the penalty.
“Yes!” Ty screamed from the sideline. Jamie picked himself up and brushed grass off the knees of his uniform, his expression shifting from shock to delight as the accomplishment registered.
“Wow,” Brendan remarked openly, hands on his hips. “Jamie, that was awesome.”
Jamie shrugged exaggeratedly. “All in a day’s work.”
The three goalkeepers—two in their respective teams’ uniforms, one in his Skyline training kit—exchanged a series of handshakes, thanks, and congratulations. Brendan put his gloved hands at waist height and the two boys piled their hands on top.
“Outstanding session today, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you both in action. Play fair, play well. Keepers on three.”
In unison they recited, “One, two, three, keepers!”
After a few high fives Jamie and Ty ran down the pitch to join their teammates. The photographer followed and Brendan turned his grin on Erin.
“That was great,” she told him emphatically as she stepped closer, instinctively reaching for his hands before remembering where they were—and who was watching—and stopping herself just in time.
“Good photos?” Brendan stripped off his gloves and tossed them on the grass beside the ball.
“Well, yes, but I mean you and the guys. That was great,” she repeated. “You were so patient and clear in the way you explained things, but not patronizing, and you gave them a lot of really useful, technical advice.”
He lifted a shoulder, plucking up a bottle of water and taking a long drink. “Young Legends is about making sports inclusive, not easy or low-quality. Those guys may not be facing off against Pelé or Maradona anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean they don’t take their matches seriously or shouldn’t be equipped to play to their full potential.”
“Exactly. Oh my God, Brendan, exactly.” She pressed her palms to her heart. “I know this is the soapbox I always climb onto, but this has so many parallels to the women’s game. There’s so much complacency around women’s soccer, it’s like a day-one acceptance that none of the players will ever earn as much or play as well as the men so let’s be happy with what we’ve got and not waste resources on making it better.”
His smile changed, became inward, like he was thinking something he didn’t plan on saying aloud. “You’ll change that.”
“I hope so.”
“You will,” he echoed firmly, leaning down to gather up the pieces of equipment they’d used in the training session. “I need to stow this stuff and get changed. It’s almost time for the whistle.”
While Brendan changed she found a seat on the front row of the metal bleachers, relishing the crisp, early-autumn air beneath a clear blue sky. She recognized Brenda
n’s parents at the opposite end but didn’t have time to walk over and introduce herself before he reappeared in jeans and a brick-red Skyline polo. He offered a few pregame remarks—thanking the parents, the Young Legends staff, and the principal of the high school whose field they were about to play on—then handed over to the referees and joined the two coaches on the sideline.
As the match got underway Erin realized that Brendan’s brother, Liam, was up front as striker for one of the teams. Though one of the older players on the pitch he was also one of the most capable, scoring two neat goals in the first half hour, following each one with a careening, arms-outstretched celebration that put a smile on the face of every spectator, whether the point went to their team or not.
The watching crowd was enthusiastic and she joined them in cheering every attempt on goal, every clean tackle, every counterattacking sprint down the field. Brendan paced up and down the sideline, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing to illustrate the instructions and advice he called out to each of the two goalkeepers. She smiled fondly at his furrowed brow, the sincerity of his shouted encouragement, his firm applause even when the keepers fumbled or made mistakes. His passion showed in every movement, and she wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of all that bone-deep commitment, that intense devotion, that palpable, unwavering love.
She blinked away sudden, silly tears from the edges of her eyes. No point in speculating—she would never know. She’d drawn the line in the sand between them and he’d faithfully stayed on his side. She couldn’t start blurring it now.
At halftime she made her way to Brendan’s parents. Marie insisted too forcefully that she remembered Erin from their college days, which made Erin think Brendan had jogged their memories, but she smiled graciously and complimented Liam’s performance and Marie’s sequined Young Legends sweatshirt.
Erin was about to return to her seat when Marie invited her to dinner. She balked. For the sake of appearances the plan was for her to spend the night at a hotel, then meet Brendan at the airport for the flight from Lincoln to Atlanta. She wasn’t sure whether a CSL executive ostensibly supervising event coverage should accept a dinner invitation from a player’s mother, or whether declining would draw more attention given they did have a public, former-college-buddies friendship.
Thankfully Brendan appeared just as her indecisive silence was about to become awkward. Marie reiterated her invitation in a tone that dared Brendan to contradict her, and he shrugged in dutiful agreement.
“Sure, if Erin doesn’t have other plans. Should I invite Leo, too?” He indicated the photographer, who was taking artsy-looking shots of water bottles lined up on a bleacher.
Genius, Erin thought with relief, as Brendan’s quick thinking gave the situation a professional angle. “I think he said he wanted to drive back to Des Moines tonight, but I’ll ask him. I’m free either way.”
“Then we’ll see you at the house,” Marie decreed. Erin thanked her and moved to take her seat for the second half, exchanging a coded glance with Brendan as they split in separate directions. This whole trip had brought their private affiliation dangerously close to their public pretense. They had to be careful not to push it over the edge.
Erin pulled out her phone as the second half kicked off and scrolled unseeingly through her work emails, her mind churning. What would she do if this really were just professional—if she actually had followed a player to his hometown to show his rehabilitation for the ethics section of the year-end report?
She opened the latest email from Prinisha, scanned it, and hit Reply. She began the message with an answer to the question Prinisha had asked, then continued, Superb weekend in the Midwest. I’ll relay fully on Monday, but the meetings in Topeka couldn’t have gone better and we’re getting great content in Lincoln. Brendan’s mother has even invited me to dinner tonight, so if you never hear from me again, it’s because I got drunk on wholesomeness, bought a minivan, and married a farmer.
She sent the email and stuffed her phone back in her purse. She could already hear Prinisha joking with the rest of the team on Monday morning, imagining their urban-chic boss scraping mud off her designer heels. She would hide this in plain sight. No one would suspect a thing.
Chapter 16
Erin groaned as Marie plopped an enormous scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of the slice of homemade pecan pie she’d just set in front of her. “I’ll have to buy a second seat on the airplane after this.”
“With a figure like yours you can afford to eat dessert.” Marie shot her a wink made saucier by the three glasses of wine she’d had since Erin arrived late that afternoon. Erin had to bite her lower lip to stifle a giggle, and across the table Brendan’s eyes flashed with a look that said he agreed with his mother’s complimentary remarks on her body.
She lowered her gaze to the table as heat rushed into her cheeks. Although he’d remained responsibly sober, she’d joined Marie in draining more than one bottle of wine, and with each sip it got harder to make sure any attention she gave Brendan was strictly impersonal.
The close quarters of the packed house hadn’t helped. Brendan’s childhood home was a two-bedroom split-level in which the semi-basement rec room had been sliced in half to raise the bedroom count to four. With his parents, Liam, Liam’s girlfriend, his older brother Aidan, Aidan’s wife and two kids, and a random aunt stuffed into the open-plan kitchen and sitting room, the ground floor seemed full to bursting. She found herself physically close to Brendan more often than not, and at times the temptation to brush her palm over his thigh or press her fingertips to the small of his back was almost unbearable.
If he fought the same urges, he gave no sign. In fact he’d hardly said five words the whole evening, despite being the guest of honor. He responded politely and affably to anything he was asked, then withdrew into quiet observation—a role his family seemed happy to let him occupy, having no trouble filling his silence with jokes, jibes and good-natured arguments.
She peered at him over her rapidly melting ice cream, remembering his similarly aloof manner when their families shared a table on that long-ago day in college. She couldn’t say it was uncharacteristic—he wasn’t exactly Mr. Party Animal at the best of times—but amongst his family he seemed to extract himself more than usual.
She let her gaze rise above his head, where family photos clogged the half-wall separating the kitchen from the family room. Teenage Aidan in a high-school football uniform. Liam in a cap and gown. Liam playing basketball. Aidan on the altar with his bride. Liam and his dad in hunting camo. Aidan and Brendan as children with baby Liam propped between them. And on one end a photo she remembered from when it happened—Brendan signing his first professional contract, the famous club’s logo looming over his nervous smile, an even more famous manager standing behind him with his hands on Brendan’s shoulders.
An awkward pause in the conversation around the table alerted her that someone had spoken to her and she hadn’t been listening. She found Liam’s gaze two seats down from Brendan, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Sorry, I was so high in pie heaven I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“I asked when the Championship League will be launching programs for athletes with intellectual disabilities?”
She smiled, but Liam pinned her to the spot, his sharp expression demanding a legitimate answer.
“Not next year, or probably the year after, if you want the truth,” she told him, stowing her spoon and folding her hands on the table. “Trying to get them to properly fund the empowerment programs they already have—not to mention the whole women’s side of the sport—is an uphill battle. But I’m working on it.”
“Disappointing,” Liam remarked, then arched a brow. “When you do convince them that people with intellectual disabilities deserve to play, I suppose I’ll agree to be the face of the game. If you beg.”
She blinked, only realizing
he was joking as chuckles rippled around the table.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she assured him, picking up her spoon.
Marie prompted Liam to tell everyone—presumably not for the first time—about the hilarious photo shoot he’d endured when a local retailer asked him to appear in their new signage. Liam launched into the funny but clearly rehearsed tale, and her attention drifted back to the man across from her.
Where do you go? she asked Brendan silently, watching him carefully portion his pie with the edge of the spoon, tilting melty ice cream into the crevices.
No, scratch that—she knew where he went, maybe better than anyone. Into his stats. Into the looping, spiraling tunnel of numbers and facts and probabilities that he transformed into neat lines and columns, and then into absurd sums of money.
The question was why, not where. His family was as embarrassing as anyone else’s—his mom a little too loud, his dad a little too right-wing, Aidan not as smart as he thought he was—but by all appearances he’d grown up in a stable, comfortable household with parents who loved him and were proud of him.
Or were they? She scanned the wall of photos again, making a quick mental tally. Pictures of Liam dominated by far, with Aidan a relatively distant second. She could count the pictures of Brendan on one hand.
Maybe they weren’t proud of him, she realized with a jolt. Maybe the gambling scandal had rocked this Catholic family to its core. Maybe his mother had tearfully plucked photos off that wall and packed them away.
Or maybe they just thought he should get a real job.
She bit the inside of her lower lip, halting its sudden, unbidden trembling. Every time she returned to her parents’ big house in New Jersey she crossed the threshold feeling like a triumphant emperor back from the wars. They’d supported every decision she’d ever made and held on tight for even the sharpest twists in her life’s journey. Although the thought of them finding out about her gambling occasionally kept her awake at night, deep in her heart she knew they’d love her just as hard as they always had, backing her through the worst times and the best.
Saving Hearts Page 22