She glanced at the floor for a second, gathering strength for what she was about to do.
“I’ll resign,” she offered. “Or you can dismiss me. Whatever it’ll take for you to call Will Hart and convince him that I’ve admitted fault, the league is taking the appropriate action and Brendan Young’s name shouldn’t be anywhere near his story.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as though waiting for a blow. When it didn’t come she reopened them.
Randall peered at her through his thick lenses. They stared at each other in silence for a full minute, the only sound the distant tick of a grandfather clock.
“I have a better idea,” he pronounced finally. “I’ll call Will Hart and tell him if he publishes an article impugning a player or a corporate employee based on illegally acquired data, he’ll lose all access to CSL players, managers, matches, and league executives.”
She blinked. Will only wrote about soccer—that would end his career.
“That sounds good,” she said dumbly, waiting for the other end of the seesaw to hit the ground with a thud.
He inhaled, crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I have a son. Did you know that?”
She shook her head. “I met your daughter, but I didn’t know you had a son.”
“You should’ve. He’s twenty-nine, so he would’ve been your generation. Superstar midfielder in high school. Incredible technical vision, a real cog in the center, able to distribute balls and see opportunities three passes in advance. Won a full scholarship to UCLA and flunked out his freshman year.”
She winced. “Sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I was, trust me.” He smiled bitterly. “He ran out of spending money from his summer job early in the semester, so he started playing poker online. I guess he won a little at first—enough to make him spend hours every night trying to win more. He started sleeping through class, didn’t make it to practice, and threw away his future on a website. Of course, we didn’t find out about any of it until the bailiffs turned up.”
“Bailiffs?” she echoed.
He nodded. “He racked up a load of debt, and used his home address on all the paperwork.”
“What happened?”
“We bailed him out. More than once. It took time, but he learned. He pulled himself together, finished his degree, found a job. Gambling ruined his credit rating but not his whole life. It shouldn’t ruin yours, either.”
Her heart inched into her throat, but she stuffed down the hope welling with it. She didn’t dare believe this might all turn out okay.
“Maybe this is why I pushed the gambling thing so hard for the year-end report.” His smile turned reflective. “My son’s issues were years ago, but they still weigh heavily on my mind, especially when I see a player falling into that trap. I thought the key was to be hard and use punishment as a deterrent. In retrospect—and in fact, it was that piece you presented on Brendan Young that changed my mind—I think second chances can be worth a hell of a lot more.”
“I’ll phone Will Hart,” he concluded, and from the way he sat forward she knew this conversation was almost over. “And I won’t accept your resignation, but I will work with you to end this addiction. As a start, I can recommend a great therapist.”
She bit her lower lip, fighting to hold back the flood of tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. “Really? I can keep my job?”
“Only if you continue to excel as much as you have since you joined. Beyond that, I see no need to make this private matter public.”
“I will,” she promised, the words spilling out on a rush of breath. “And I’m going to kick this gambling thing, once and for all. I’m already halfway there.”
“Then I’ll help you along the second half of the journey.”
He stood, and so did she. She had a sudden urge to fling her arms around his ruddy neck, but her professionalism kicked in just in time. She extended her hand instead.
“Thank you,” she said more genuinely than ever before in her life.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you came to me. Honesty is always the right decision.”
She managed to hold it together until she said goodbye to Randall’s wife, got into her car and drove around the block. Then she parked along the curb and wept.
She didn’t cry for herself. Although she was grateful, her relief wasn’t selfish—not at all.
Instead, she cried for Brendan. For the man that cared so little for himself and so much for others. For the withdrawal, he’d already put into motion, and the isolation he thought he deserved. For the immense, larger-than-life legacy he would leave behind, and for the extraordinary story that was about to come to an end.
She felt limp and unsteady by the time her sobbing slowed. She’d saved him once tonight. Would he let her save him again?
She’d find out tomorrow. First, she had to do something else, something she should’ve done a long time ago.
She opened her purse and dug around for her tablet. She brought the screen to life and tapped to her email. She exhaled, then started typing.
Hi Daddy. Sorry to do this over email, but I don’t have my phone and this can’t wait another second. I have something to tell you.
Chapter 20
Brendan peered suspiciously at his teal uniform hanging neatly in the open-fronted locker. He glanced over his shoulders, surveying his teammates for any sign they knew something he didn’t. They were all absorbed in getting ready for the match—as he should be, apparently.
Memphis had been chosen as the venue for the league final before the season started, and as he looked around the dressing room in the brand-new stadium he could see why. The facilities were top-notch and the hospitality they’d received as a visiting team was unparalleled. His spare kit was folded on the bench beside a copy of the match program. On the floor beneath was his cleats, shin guards, flip-flops for the shower, a sponsor-branded towel and a bottle of a sports drink in his favorite flavor.
It was almost like the equipment manager expected him to play.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to shed the paranoia that had dogged him since he hung up with Will Hart last night. Although he was relaxed and confident about his decision, he hadn’t been looking forward to the inevitable confrontations with Roland, his parents, and whoever else had a minor stake in what remained of his career. He spent the evening with his phone in his peripheral vision, waiting for it to ring.
It didn’t. It didn’t ring the next morning, either, as he showered and dressed and packed. It remained silent when he dropped off Erin’s phone with her doorman, and except for a few pinging texts from well-wishing former teammates, it was quiet from the time he arrived at the airfield to the moment he switched it off for the flight.
Roland acted disconcertingly normal, too, and more than once Brendan had to stop himself from staring at his manager. Was it possible he didn’t know? Or was he focused on minimizing disruptions before the big match and saving his hostility for a postgame screaming session?
Neither option seemed likely. As the flight wore on, it occurred to Brendan that the story should be out by now—if it was going out.
But why wouldn’t it?
With that in mind, he sat down in front of his tidily arranged uniform and unlocked his phone. He dismissed another slew of messages from Erin without reading them and put his own name into a search engine for what must’ve been the hundredth time since they’d landed an hour earlier.
Nothing.
He shook his head in disbelief as he cut the screen and stuffed the phone into his duffel. He doubted Erin could’ve killed the story on her own—she didn’t have enough leverage with Will. But he couldn’t think of any favors she could’ve called in that wouldn’t have exposed her role in the whole thing, either.
Maybe he just wasn’t famous or interesting enough, and Will couldn’t sell the
story. Again, that seemed unlikely, especially on the day of the final. Maybe Roland had enough sway to get Will to hold off on publishing, but then by now surely he would’ve given Brendan some indication that he knew—he wasn’t exactly the type to keep his opinions under wraps.
He snapped his fingers, the answer arriving with clear dimensions. Will was delaying the story’s release until after the match. If Skyline won, the story would be even bigger. What better way to lead than with a photo of the disgraced goalkeeper hefting the league trophy? If they lost he’d get the same impact as if he’d sent out the story in the morning, so he must be taking his chances on a win.
Brendan exhaled and closed his eyes. His thoughts had been going in circles for hours and he wasn’t achieving anything except draining his mental energy. All he could do was focus on this final—the last professional match he’d ever play—and trust the rest of the pieces would fall into place exactly as they were meant to.
With his eyes still closed and his hands spread on his knees, he visualized packing up all the shit with Erin and Will and the article and dropping it into a cardboard box like the ones he’d filled last night. Mentally he taped it shut and shoved it in a corner, out of sight, unimportant.
He inhaled as he opened his eyes, letting the scene around him fill the rest of the space in his head. He owed his teammates his full attention, not to mention the fans that had traveled to Memphis. Everything else could wait. For the next couple of hours, he was the goalkeeper for Atlanta Skyline. No past, no future, just the guy protecting the net at one end of the field.
He watched his teammates for a few seconds. Right-back Kojo Agassa bobbed his head in time to the music pumping through his headphones. Winger Rio Vidal hung a Chilean flag and a wooden rosary on the hook, then touched the framed photo of his fiancée he’d propped up on the shelf. Left-back Oz Terim got dressed with one hand and held his e-reader with the other, looking engrossed as he thumbed the screen to turn the pages.
Every player he’d known had their own peculiar pre-match rituals. He touched the goal posts, left, right and center, firmly gripping each white bar. That was it, though. He’d never been superstitious. He supposed he was too aware of probabilities in all their minute details for there to be much mysticism left in his world.
Except for love. He’d barely given it much thought these last couple of years, certainly didn’t expect it to materialize anytime soon. Love snuck into his life through the gaps, edging in, coming closer and closer until he had no choice but to acknowledge it.
He smirked as he reached for his match-day top, embroidered with the date of the final below the Skyline logo. That he’d fallen in love with Erin Bailey, a woman immovably married to her career in the sport he was leaving, was definitely a cosmic joke.
He’d only loved once before now, a passion so enduring and deep-seated he doubted he’d ever get over it completely. Soccer. This game had been his refuge, his springboard, his wings, and finally his parachute. No matter how badly he’d screwed up, or how often, or who he hurt in the process, soccer didn’t yield. The rules remained, the dynamics persisted, and he could be all the good and usefulness and virtue on the pitch that he couldn’t when he took off his uniform.
He finished changing and stood, just in time for the assistant manager to appear in the doorway and give the team a two-minute warning. The atmosphere heightened as nervous rituals were executed more hastily, but he moved slowly to the door, tugging on his gloves as he went.
He caught sight of a tall, lanky figure making his way past the dressing room.
“Pavel,” he called, catching the goalkeeper by the elbow.
His teammate greeted him with a tight hug. “I wasn’t sure whether I should try to say hello to you before the match. I didn’t want to throw you off.”
“It’s good to see you. How are you?”
“Better every day. Cleared to sit with the rest of the walking wounded.”
“Good. Roland and I are just about on speaking terms, but we may have to bring you on.”
Brendan meant it as a joke, but Pavel’s tone was serious as he replied, “No. This is your day. You’re going to be great.”
Instinctively Brendan drafted a quip to brush off his teammate’s compliment, but then he changed his mind. “Thank you,” he said instead. Simply and earnestly.
“Good luck, my friend.” Pavel hugged him once more before moving down the tunnel. The final call must have gone out in the dressing room because the rest of the first team trickled past him. He joined their momentum and took his place in the line. Oz was their captain, so he stood at the front. In ascending order of number, Brendan was right behind him.
He trailed his gloved finger down the number printed on his shorts. One.
Each player took the hand of their child escort and walked out onto the pitch, accompanied by the booming voice of the announcer listing their names. Then they lined up side by side while the two captains exchanged pennants and shook hands with the referees. When Oz returned to his position, a country-music star emerged from the tunnel to sing the national anthem.
He pressed his hand to his heart and let his gaze drift over the crowd. He peered up toward the VIP section, trying to remember the row numbers on the tickets he gave his father and brother. He couldn’t recall, and he couldn’t see them.
They were here. They’d sent him a selfie when they arrived at the stadium, both decked out in shirts with his name, Liam sporting gigantic novelty sunglasses he must’ve bought from a street vendor. He’d also gotten a text from his mom, full of kissing smiley faces and heart emojis, and a photo from Aidan of his nephews giving thumbs-up in their Skyline shirts. He wasn’t unloved. His family cared, even if they didn’t always know how to show each other.
He tilted his gaze higher, to the executive boxes. The mental cardboard box into which he’d shoved all his emotional shit popped open and a flashing memory of Erin’s fiery hair and dazzling smile peeked out.
She was up there, somewhere, watching him. Probably hating him for taking the fall on the article, but probably quietly grateful, too.
He smiled. The loneliness nipping at the edges of his awareness dissolved. Twenty thousand spectators in the stands, but she was the only one who mattered.
He would play for her. Make her proud. Show her how much he could love something since he’d never be able to tell her how much he loved her.
The song concluded and the audience clapped. He shook hands down the line of his opponents, then made his way to the net that would be his to guard for the next forty-five minutes.
Left, right, center. He clasped each bar, stilling his mind, opening his perception, straightening his spine.
Then he turned to face the last match of his career.
* * * *
Erin sucked in a breath through her teeth, smothering a profanity as Brendan caught the ball and fell on it, saving Miami’s shot on Skyline’s goal.
“Young’s turned out to be a hell of a keeper,” the league chairman remarked at her elbow. “Too bad he never got much of a run while he was in Atlanta.”
She hummed noncommittally, darting a glance at Randall. Her boss was deep in conversation with one of the directors, but she reminded herself that even if he’d heard, he would’ve given no sign. His discretion throughout the day had been impeccable, and she had to admit she’d underestimated him. Beneath that socially awkward exterior was a solid man.
Skyline charged a counterattack into Miami’s half, and she walked away, trading the luxurious viewing terrace for the mostly deserted tables at the back of the executive box. She accepted a glass of champagne from the bartender and sipped it slowly, gathering herself, making a plan.
She’d spent most of last night talking to her parents, beginning with the painful process of helping them figure out how to use Skype since she didn’t have her phone. Once that was up and running they did a lo
t of listening, followed by effusive expressions of love and support. She welled up remembering their earnest insistence that they were proud of her no matter what, and that they’d do whatever she wanted as she moved forward.
She hung up feeling lighter than she had in years. For the first time in months, she fell asleep as soon as she slipped into bed. No tossing and turning thinking about debt, no icy dread in her stomach keeping her awake.
The next morning started early, but started well, with the doorman buzzing to let her know “her friend” had dropped off her phone. She raced to the lobby half-dressed, hoping to catch him, knowing she wouldn’t. She wasn’t even fast enough to see the Aston Martin turning the corner. But she had her phone, and she grinned when she noted he’d returned it fully charged.
Even now the flurry of texts she’d sent him was unviewed and unanswered, and her call log was just a long column repeating his number. That was okay, though. She hadn’t expected him to respond—in fact, she suspected he didn’t intend to speak to her ever again.
“We’ll see about that,” she whispered into her champagne glass.
She had to rethink her plan slightly now the match looked sure to go into extra time. With only five minutes left the score was goalless, though both teams had given spectacular performances. The forwards drove hard and took creative chances, but the defenders were obstinate and impenetrable. In Skyline’s half, Brendan had single-handedly saved at least three potentially fatal on-target shots.
Her breath caught as she thought of him, alone between the posts. Whenever the action raced into Miami’s half her gaze snared on Atlanta’s goal and the man guarding it. The sentry on whom ten other men relied. Alert. Focused. Isolated.
She gulped the rest of her champagne, shaking off her melancholy. He wouldn’t be alone anymore. Not if she had anything to do with it.
She glanced at the match clock. Four minutes left. Time to make her move.
Saving Hearts Page 26