But he also loved it. Loved that she could know him so well, understand him more accurately than anyone else on the planet. Loved that she cared. Loved every damn inch of her.
He wanted to tell her exactly that, but that wasn’t part of their arrangement. Instead he said pointedly, “Fuck you, Erin.”
“I knew it.” She folded her arms smugly and sat back. “Don’t hate the striker for reading the keeper. We all have tells.”
He braced himself for the confession no one had heard before now. “My parents were pretty harsh when the story broke. At first I couldn’t understand why—gambling’s not that big a deal, in the grand scheme of things. It’s not like I cheated, or doped, or had an affair. Eventually I realized it wasn’t about me, and that nothing had been about me for a very long time.”
She pressed in closer. “What do you mean?”
“It’s my fault,” he began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
“Don’t take responsibility before you’ve said anything.”
He reframed what he wanted to say, tried again. “Aidan had a late dyslexia diagnosis and always struggled academically. Liam has Down syndrome and needed a lot of attention and advocacy from day one. I am—I was—the easy, low-maintenance, nothing-to-worry-about middle child. Until I started having these racing, obsessive thoughts. Like my brain was a fan with a broken off button, spinning faster and faster and faster.”
He glanced down at her wide-open, attentive expression before returning his focus to the horizon. “I still get them. When a player walks up to take a penalty, my brain churns so fast I can’t even distinguish one thought from the next. I see everything, or what feels like everything—every possible angle, every strategic choice, every penalty they’ve taken before this one and what that means for the one they’re about to take.”
“That’s incredible,” she remarked. “And somehow not surprising.”
He shrugged. “Now I can control it, to some extent. The stats help. Gives me something to focus on when my mind starts to spiral. But when I was a teenager I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t sleep, felt panicky all the time, and eventually I told my mom. She launched straight into campaign mode, running me around to specialists, searching for a diagnosis. She was used to fighting corners for my brothers and couldn’t wait to do the same for me.” He blew out a breath. “It was too much. I wasn’t used to that level of attention and I couldn’t handle it, so I lied to get her off my back and totally withdrew, happy to let my brothers be the focus of the family.”
“How is becoming a superstar professional athlete evading your parents’ focus?”
“All part of being the easy child,” he explained. “They didn’t have to fund my education because I got a scholarship. They didn’t have to worry about my getting a job or helping me with rent because I signed a big contract. They didn’t have to worry about anything at all, because I had this perfect, successful life thousands of miles away.”
“I get it,” she said slowly. “You were the photo they could point to with pride while they dealt with the bigger problems in front of them.”
“On point again, Bailey. When the gambling thing came out, I became one of those problems. We’d been so distant for so long, I think resentment came more easily than support.”
She didn’t respond. His statement hung heavily between them, yet he felt lighter.
“You have to come back here,” Erin said finally, her voice thick with resignation. “You have to move home and bridge this gap. You only get one family, and it’s time for you to find your place in your own.”
He nodded. “It’s been a long time coming.”
She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to worry about you, all alone out here, by yourself.”
His heart staggered at the notion of her giving him a second thought after they parted, but he said, “No, you won’t. You’ll work, and go out for drinks, and date other men, and forget all about me.”
She shifted at his side, twisting to snuggle closer, pressing her forehead against his collarbone. He moved his other hand to hold one of hers, closing his eyes as he drank in the weight and warmth of her.
“What if I don’t?” she whispered.
He gritted his teeth against what felt like his heart tearing loose and careening around his chest, one second buoyed by hope, the next free-falling with despair.
He could tell her right now. He could say he was falling for her, ask her to commit to something—anything—and attempt to tie her up in the strings they’d promised this affair wouldn’t have. She might go for it. Clearly she was in a moment of weakness, daring to admit she may actually care about him a tiny bit. Maybe she’d agree to testing the emotional waters between them, and throwing out their strictly sex terms. Maybe she’d even let him call her his girlfriend.
But what would be the point? He’d pack up and leave Atlanta, and she’d come to her senses the first night she spent alone in her apartment. They might drag things out for a while—desperation on his part, obligation on hers—but eventually it would end. They’d separate guiltily, regretfully, and more painfully than if they never really got together at all.
She deserved better. He owed her better. He couldn’t let her race toward a stoplight he knew was about to turn red.
“No strings, remember?” Each word felt like swallowing broken glass, but he forced them out anyway. “There’s no future for us. You have a hell of career already, and it’s only going to get bigger and better. As for me, I want…” You. I want you. Nothing more, nothing less. “…I want this, out here. Quiet. Stability. No more attention.”
She nodded against his shoulder, and then she straightened, running her fingers through her hair, shifting in her seat, flashing him her wide, confident smile. Her shaky intake of breath betrayed her, though. He couldn’t see the tears in her eyes but he knew they were there.
He cleared his throat, shoving aside a swell of pain at her distress. “Getting cold?”
“Yeah.” She fidgeted and fumbled, and then a cell-phone screen briefly illuminated the darkness. “It’s late.”
“I’ll take you to the hotel.”
He folded the blanket while she slipped her feet back into her shoes. They walked to the car in silence, and he studiously avoided looking at her as he stowed the blanket in the back and then followed her into the cab.
He shut the door, then allowed himself a brief glance at her upturned face.
“Thanks for showing me your house,” she said softly, her lips barely curved in a smile.
“Anytime,” he promised, and started the engine.
Chapter 17
Erin threaded her fingers on the table. “Anything else?”
Her gaze paused on each one of the men sitting around the boardroom table. Brian Scholtz, eyes fixed resolutely on his lap. Brian’s lawyer, glancing sideways at his phone, probably already thinking about his next client. Brian’s agent, whose face had faded from bright-red fury to mottled resignation. Randall Morenski, trying to cover his palpable delight with an exaggerated frown. And Roland Carlsson, his expression still as closed and unreadable as it had been the moment he sat down.
One by one the men shook their heads. She glanced at the clock. They would finish five minutes early. Evidently her PA had slightly overestimated how long it took to end a young player’s career.
“In that case I’ll call the meeting to a close. Our legal department will send countersigned copies of the disciplinary documents.”
“Fine.” The lawyer was on his feet, phone in his hand. Brian rose slowly, then followed him to the door, bracketed by his manager at his heels. None of the three of them said goodbye, disappearing in silence into the hall.
As soon as they were gone Randall turned to her, his eyes so round and eager she bet he was salivating. “Outstanding work, Erin. The depth of that investiga
tion was incredible. There was absolutely nothing he could say to refute your evidence. It was all there—testimonies from players he’d asked for information, emailed offers to include them on bets, actual written evidence of his attempts to fix matches. You’ve made a great bust. My only question is how did you know to look at Skyline to begin with?”
She felt Roland’s keen stare. No wonder Brendan didn’t get along with him. His professionalism couldn’t be faulted, but sometimes his demeanor was downright icy.
“An anonymous tip,” she replied. “Then Brian’s name came up immediately as I began interviewing the players. He’d solicited almost everyone on the team, either to partner with him in betting on the league or to try to influence results. As far as I can tell, though, everyone brushed him off or ignored him.”
“Including Brendan Young?” It was Roland’s first question in the two hours they’d been in the boardroom.
She turned an unblinking gaze on him. “He never approached Brendan Young.”
“So Young didn’t have the opportunity to say no,” Randall mused, giving voice to what she suspected Roland was also thinking. “Are we still confident he’s the right profile for the rehabilitation angle?”
“One hundred percent,” she replied. “I’m sure he’s here by now. I’ll ask Sheila to send him in.”
She reached for the phone in the center of the table, but Roland raised a stalling palm.
“Do you need me for this? Technically I’m not sure it was necessary for me to be here for Brian’s meeting—his contract expires at the end of this season and he’s been aware for months that we won’t be renewing it. Brendan will also retire in a couple of weeks, so I don’t know that my input is particularly valuable.”
She paused. Roland was right—there was no need for him to join this next meeting. But he’d been nasty to Brendan all season. This was her chance to waste his time, and she intended to take it.
“I’d like you to stay. You might have something to add. Maybe some positive commentary on Brendan’s contribution to the team in the latter part of the season?”
Roland’s lips thinned but he said nothing. She picked up the phone and asked the receptionist to bring Brendan to the boardroom.
After a couple of minutes the door opened again, and Sheila’s diminutive figure appeared even more so with Brendan towering at her back. In navy trousers and a crisp button-down he presented exactly the right combination of respectfully professional yet not submissive or intimidated, and she had to work hard to keep a grin off her face.
Sheila showed him to a seat and slipped out, and as he sat he looked between her and Roland.
“Was Brian Scholtz just here? I think I saw him leaving.”
There was a hint of distress in his voice that Erin hoped the others didn’t pick up on. They’d adopted a strict, don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy with regard to the investigation, so although Brendan presumably knew the culprit from the beginning he had no idea how far down the line she’d gotten—or that one of his teammates had just been fired for an ethics violation.
“Unfortunately, Brian is going to feature in the same section of the report that you will. I think we can disclose the outcome to Brendan, can’t we? It’ll be public later today.” She directed her question to Randall.
The CFO nodded. “The terms are confidential, but I suspect the fact is already making the rounds through the sport.”
“Brian has admitted to betting on the league and attempted match-fixing,” she explained. “He’s received a one-year ban from the Championship League.”
She didn’t think Brendan’s surprise was genuine as he said, “Wow. Okay,” but it was convincing.
“It’s an ugly situation, but thankfully one we don’t face in our discussion with you this morning.” She smiled. “On the contrary, we’d like to use this meeting to finalize the content for our year-end report, in which we’ll be highlighting your exemplary conduct following your suspension earlier this year. Your story will be a counterpoint to Brian’s—an illustration of the way players can bounce back from ethics infractions to be productive, community-oriented role models.”
She sensed him bristle slightly at ‘ethics infractions’, but his expression stayed even. “I’m happy to be included. I especially appreciate you taking the time to come out to Nebraska and see firsthand the work I’ve done with the Young Legends programs.”
“It was my pleasure,” she insisted, letting the tiniest bit of subtext creep into her tone. Brendan’s eyes glistened, and she pressed her thighs together beneath the table.
“Let me tell you where I’m at in all of this,” Randall began, steepling his hands. “Brendan, you’ll remember the last meeting between the two of us wasn’t a good one.”
Brendan shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Being honest, I had doubts about the wisdom of letting you get away with a short-term suspension instead of a ban. I worried about the precedent it set. But I’m happy to sit here today and say my concerns were unfounded.”
Randall leaned forward slightly. “I’ve had several conversations with Erin over the last couple of months about how we should represent your story from the league’s perspective. She said early on that it should be a narrative of redemption, and I admit I was skeptical. Now, having read the comments the PR team has taken from people affiliated with the two branches of Young Legends and seen the photos from the event last week, I’m confident we’re taking the right angle. I intend to commend you personally in the section on compliance in the CFO’s report.”
Erin balled her fists in her lap as Brendan thanked Randall graciously. A swelling sense of triumph made her shaky and restless and unstoppable, like she could stand up from this table and effortlessly run a half-marathon in her heels and pencil skirt.
She’d done it. She’d saved Brendan’s reputation. He would leave the sport remembered as the hero he was.
“We have the draft content for you to review. I trust you’ll be happy with it, but let me know if there are any minor changes and we’ll see what we can do.” She selected the relevant pages from the stack she’d brought and passed copies around the table.
As they perused the columns of text and photographs, she turned to Roland. “I just realized we don’t have any commentary from you. Is there anything you’d like to have on the record? It would be great to get your quote as his manager, and hopefully as the manager of the league champions if Saturday goes your way.”
She intended to put Roland on the spot and force him to praise the player he’d been at odds with since they’d met. Instead Roland continued to read the page in his hands, and when he finally looked up his expression was thoughtful.
“I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t know about Brendan’s activities outside the club. Not in this level of detail, anyway.”
He pivoted to face his goalkeeper. “I’m sorry not to have offered you more support this season. I should’ve stayed closer to your transition back into the team, and I especially regret that I never got involved with the great work you were doing in your free time.”
Brendan stared at his manager, eyes wide with incredulity. After several awkward, silent seconds, he seemed to blink back to the present.
“It’s fine,” he said softly.
Roland extended his hand. Brendan shook it. As both men turned back to face her and Randall, she got the distinct impression something significant just changed between them.
“Let me think about what I can add to this. I’ll email some comments in the next day or two,” Roland promised.
“That’s fine,” she confirmed. “Brendan, any changes you’d like to make?”
He shook his head, leveling his gaze on hers. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
She kept her smile steady despite the fluttering in her chest. She loved him, she was proud of him, but she’d get over it. He’d said as much him
self, on the porch of his crumbling house in Nebraska. In another couple of weeks they’d be apart, and this would be over.
At least now she could move on knowing she did her best for him in the final hours of his career.
“I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss,” she concluded. “Thank you. And best of luck for Saturday.”
All four of them rose and exchanged departing pleasantries. Brendan shook her hand politely, and she tried to give him a look that promised she’d be doing much less polite things to him later that evening. His answering smile assured her he got the message.
She and Randall handed Brendan and Roland over to the receptionist to be shown out. She moved to return to her office, but Randall said her name to stop her, holding up his copy of the draft page for the year-end report.
“This is exactly what I wanted,” he told her. “Given you were able to manage this in just a couple of months, I look forward to seeing what you’ll do with a whole season devoted to raising the profile of the women’s game next year.”
She offered him a confident smile which showed none of the emotion roiling beneath the surface. Delight at his praise. Thrill at his commitment to her women’s-game program. Nauseating, heavy sadness that Brendan wouldn’t be there to see it.
“Watch this space.” She ducked her head in farewell and walked to her office on unsteady legs.
Chapter 18
“Well.” Erin pushed up onto her forearms and peered down at him with a smile. “That was different.”
Still reeling from an abrupt, explosive climax, Brendan didn’t bother trying to form a coherent sentence. He put his arm across Erin’s shoulders and tugged her onto his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin.
He closed his eyes. His jeans bunched above his shoes, uncomfortably pulling his ankles together. The floor was hard against the back of his head, and the carpet he’d expensively imported from the UK for his basement pub made his bare ass itch. But as Erin sighed contentedly into his neck, he wouldn’t have moved for all the money in the world.
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