Saving Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  Half the executives had already made their way out of the box and into the lower stands for a closer view, so no one noticed when she slipped into the hall. She detoured into the restroom and rooted in her bag for the Skyline jersey she’d brought. She pulled it on over her dress, briefly admiring the way the hem fanned out from the bottom before fluffing her hair and continuing down the hallway.

  The whistle blew while she was clomping down the cement steps of the lower stands, the wall of noise from the crowd nearly knocking her over. The score was still nil-nil. The ref added thirty minutes of extra time.

  The players from both teams staggered toward their respective managers and dropped onto the grass. A flurry of personnel rushed onto the field with the precision of Formula One pit crews, distributing bottles of electrolyte drinks, rewrapping limbs, and massaging tired muscles.

  She reached the first row and realized Brendan wasn’t with the rest of the team. He sat in front of the goal, long legs stretched in front of him, leaning back on his hands.

  She propped her hands on her hips. She assumed she’d be able to speak to him when he came near the tunnel. It never occurred to her that he’d remain out on the pitch by himself.

  With a heavy exhalation, she made her way along the front row, clambering around people’s knees, picking her steps between their splayed feet. Technically she had no right to access this part of the stadium—her VIP pass only let her into the executive level—but she had to make this work somehow. She wouldn’t let Brendan finish his career thinking his legacy was about to be trashed by a single news article, nor would she let him walk out of this stadium thinking no one loved him.

  She loved him. More than she ever thought possible. And she didn’t care what happened after today, as long as he knew.

  Finally, she made it around the curve of the stadium to the line of seats directly behind the goal. She stood in the aisle and leaned over the siding, her breath catching as she got close enough to see Brendan’s face. He sat motionlessly, head slightly turned to keep an eye on his teammates.

  Drawing a bolstering breath, she bent over as far as she could and called his name to get his attention.

  He didn’t notice.

  Frowning, she tried again. And again. And again, with no response. He seemed so close, yet he couldn’t hear her.

  Then she looked down the row of fans. At least ten of them were on their feet, also screaming his name.

  Dammit.

  She had to get closer. She grit her teeth and began sidling in between the fans and the siding, hoping one of them wouldn’t mind her standing in their space for the few, crucial seconds she needed.

  No such luck. She stopped in front of someone she thought was a nice-looking woman in a Skyline jersey, but she hadn’t even planted her hands on the siding when the fan in question spoke.

  “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “League business. I’ll be two seconds.” Erin flashed her VIP pass.

  “What kind of league business gives you the right to block my view?” the woman demanded.

  Deciding honey was better than vinegar, Erin whirled with an outstretched hand—which the woman ignored—and a big smile, which also had no effect. “Hi, so sorry to bother you, I’m the Director of—”

  “I don’t care who you are. I’m a season ticket holder in Atlanta, I paid a fortune for this seat and if you don’t move I’ll call security.”

  Erin dug her nails into her palm. If this woman had any idea of the stakes involved…

  “I just need to call a message to the goalkeeper. Less than a minute and I’ll be out of your way.” She tried to make her tone as sweet and polite as possible.

  The woman snorted. “Good luck with that. He just moved down the other end. They’re switching sides before the whistle.”

  Erin swore viciously under her breath as she turned just in time to see Brendan making his way toward the center line. She scrambled back through the tangle of feet and legs, but the referee blew the whistle to start the extra half-hour as she reached the aisle.

  Panic gripped her. She’d lost her chance—but she had to tell him. She had to.

  She should’ve told him long before tonight, she chided herself, tears welling hot and unstoppable. She shouldn’t have been such a self-centered princess, burying her head in her ambition and refusing to see what was right in front of her. Now he was out there, on his own, with no reason not to expect to walk off the pitch into a massive, shaming scandal when instead she wanted him to walk straight into her arms.

  She had to think of something. But what? Frantic, rock-bottom tears spilled over her cheeks as breath hitched in her lungs. She’d screwed this up and she was fresh out of ideas.

  “Ma’am?”

  She spun, coming face-to-face with a security guard.

  “May I see your ticket, please?”

  She passed him her VIP pass. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t be down here.”

  “I need to ask you to return to your ticketed area.”

  “Okay,” she acceded meekly. She took one last look at the pitch and the teal-uniformed man at the far end of it. Then she turned and made her way back up the concrete steps, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  * * * *

  “Up and in. Quick,” Brendan instructed his defenders, who obediently ran up the middle of the pitch as he took a couple of steps back for a goal kick. When he was satisfied with the way brick-red jerseys populated the pitch he booted the ball back to the center line.

  Skyline’s forwards pushed into Miami’s half and he checked the clock. Another couple of minutes until the end of added time. Every player on the field ran with heavy legs, desperation, and exhaustion combining to make shots sloppy and passes ill-timed. There was no artistry left, just dogged determination.

  Slower players made his job slightly easier, or they would if the mounting tension of this goalless match wasn’t sending his brain into a tailspin. If no one scored before the thirty minutes was up, the result would be decided by a penalty shootout. Whether they won or lost would be almost entirely in his hands.

  Penalty shootouts were about mental grit, not skill, and the odds always favored the player taking the shot. Saving a penalty required a combination of luck, instinct, and a hell of a pair of cojones.

  He was tired, too. Two hours of intense concentration, spiking adrenaline and maximum physical output had taken a toll. As the clock ticked his grip on his thoughts got looser and looser. Already the box he’d shoved his distractions into had slid out of its mental corner, and the tape holding it together was threatening to break open.

  At the other end of the pitch, Rio crossed a ball that Deon headed at the goal. The crowd gasped as it arced toward the top of the net, but Miami’s keeper got his fingertips on it just enough to push it back into play.

  Brendan swore under his breath. He’d briefly overlapped with Miami’s American keeper in Spain, and the guy was good. With only a minute left Atlanta were unlikely to get another chance. Unless something extraordinary happened, whether the league trophy traveled to Miami or Atlanta tomorrow was on his shoulders.

  The implication of that missed shot exploded in his mind like a firework, and the box in his brain burst wide open. He almost staggered under the rush of anxieties that flooded his mind like a tidal wave.

  Maybe the article was out by now. He glanced up at the stands, suddenly reading criticism and disgust in every set of eyes. He’d disgraced himself, his family, his place in this game. In minutes he wouldn’t be a professional athlete anymore. He’d be unemployed, unimportant, insignificant. A has-been, and an ill-reputed one at that. Not remembered for the trophies with his name on them, but as the man in the middle of a scandal that broke the day of the league final—maybe the day he lost the league final for his team.

  He pressed his hands against the sides of his head as if he
could force his reeling mind to still. His breaths came quicker, shallower. He couldn’t face the penalty shootout. He couldn’t let everyone down again.

  The referee blew the whistle on a nil-nil scoreboard and he bent over at the waist, fighting a wave of nausea. He couldn’t do this.

  He dragged himself upright and made his way to the sideline. Both teams already had their penalty orders determined, and there would be no formal break before the shootout began. A couple of minutes for hydration and then he’d have to face Miami’s players one-on-one.

  Roland approached as he chugged an electrolyte drink. The Swede seemed to have aged ten years in the last two hours, but as he reached Brendan he smiled.

  “I won’t bother giving you a pep talk. Just know I’m glad you’re here.”

  Brendan shook his head in objection but Roland didn’t notice, slapping him on the shoulder before moving to speak to the players who’d be shooting for Skyline. Brendan lowered the half-empty drink bottle, suddenly feeling sick again, and searched the row of injured players’ seats for Pavel. The Czech keeper shot him two thumbs up and a big grin, but it only heightened his anxiety as he realized there was absolutely no way out. He couldn’t fake an injury and get Pavel to run on from the stands. There was no one left but him.

  “Brendan!”

  For the most part, he’d learned to ignore fans yelling his name—they did it all match long—but the female voice ringing over the din caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder, and the plastic bottle dropped from his hand.

  Erin leaned over the siding of the front row, a raging fire-haired beacon in the twisting shadows of his mind. She grinned and waved him over, ignoring the furious man whose view she blocked.

  He took only a couple of steps closer and didn’t shout back, wary of the rules, not wanting anyone to misinterpret their exchange as any kind of coaching or inappropriate communication.

  “It’s not coming out,” she called out, her coded language suggesting she knew the rules, too. “Dead in the water. Randall, of all people.”

  “You told him?” he shouted before he could think better of it. Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, unsure whether to be delighted that she’d managed to kill the story or sorry that she must’ve lost her job in the process.

  “I’ll tell you later, but everything’s good. Good,” she emphasized, grinning even wider.

  “Okay. Well, I have to go,” he told her dumbly, not sure what else to say.

  “Wait,” Her tone was urgent, and her smile dropped. “One more thing.”

  He turned his hands palm-up.

  She inhaled, lower lip darting briefly between her teeth. “I love you.”

  He blinked. Squinted. Shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

  Her expression moved from determined to annoyed. “Yes, I do. I just said it, didn’t I? I love you, Brendan. I love you, and we’re going to make this work.”

  He just stared at her, unable to process what she was saying. Did she love him? Really?

  Her face fell, the confidence dissipating, and he realized that she must think he didn’t feel the same. Urgency swelled hot in his chest, and the words ran out of his mouth before he registered them.

  “I love you too.”

  Even as it trembled with emotion, her smile was the cooling salve his feverish brain needed. The cyclone in his head calmed to a gentle spring breeze. He inhaled all the way to the bottom of his lungs.

  “Fuck’s sake, lady, do you know how much I paid for these seats?” The beefy, red-faced man behind her appeared to be on the verge of a heart attack.

  “Later,” Erin called, edging away toward the aisle.

  He raised his hand in farewell. “Later,” he echoed, too quietly for her to hear.

  “Let’s go, number one.” The referee was at his elbow. Brendan looked past him to see that Miami’s keeper had taken his place between the posts. Atlanta would shoot first.

  His whole body felt loose and relaxed as he took his place along the sideline. Never mind the logistics or the complexities that awaited them. Erin loved him. She loved him. The most vibrant, ferocious, lethally sexy woman he’d ever known had chosen him, having never chosen another.

  He couldn’t stop his smile as he watched Oz step up to position the ball for the first shot. He made a silent promise to his teammates, to his parents, to the woman he loved. We’re going to win.

  Oz regarded the keeper with the same cool, dispassionate expression that made him one of the most difficult reads in the league. He took a step back, leveled his gaze on his opponent, and delivered a precise, clinical shot straight into the back of the net.

  The crowd roared, but Oz’s celebration was muted as he high-fived his teammates. Each team got five chances before they went to sudden death. The win was still a long way off.

  His turn. He took his place between the posts and locked eyes with Miami’s striker. He’d never missed a penalty, but Brendan supposed there was a first time for everything. He widened his stance and spread his arms.

  The striker shot left, and he dove left, but not far enough. The ball sailed an inch past his fingers and he heard it slam into the net as he landed hard on the grass.

  He pulled himself up and brushed off his gloves as he traded places with Miami’s keeper. No point feeling defeated. Still four chances left.

  Deon took the second penalty for Skyline, and he made quick work of it, barely taking a second to get into position before he sent a hard shot into the upper right-hand corner. Miami’s keeper didn’t even have time to dive and walked out of the box less than a minute after he walked in.

  Brendan resumed his position, drumming his heels into the grass as he studied the winger placing the ball at his feet. This guy had nerves of steel. No amount of intimidation would work, only skill and speed. He narrowed his eyes as the winger shot, and although he picked the right side, the ball curved around him and into the net, unreachable and unstoppable.

  He kept his head high as he walked back to the sideline. Two-two and Miami had used their best penalty takers. All was far from lost.

  Laurent Perrin, Skyline’s number ten, stepped up for his turn. The French playmaker radiated confidence as he set the ball and stepped behind it. Miami’s keeper braced his legs apart and Laurent took his shot.

  The ball hit the top post, then bounced over the goal and onto the grass behind it.

  A chorus of profanities rippled amongst the Skyline supporters, but Brendan fought to keep his expression neutral as Laurent turned, devastation plain on his face.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he told his teammate as they passed each other, gripping Laurent’s shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

  I’ve got this, he reiterated to himself, believing every word. He stared across the box at the Miami defender readying for his shot. He was fifty-fifty when it came to penalties, and Brendan had everything to lose.

  The defender took his run-up. It wasn’t quite an open book, but it was readable. Brendan jumped the instant the ball left his foot, and just managed to get his fingers on the high shot to push it even higher, sending it over the bar.

  The defender swore profusely where he stood and Brendan eagerly vacated the goal, not wanting to give his teammates too much time to celebrate. The score was still even at two-two. Saving one didn’t mean he could save another.

  He ignored the slaps on his back as Rio stepped up to take Skyline’s fourth penalty.

  “Not the Panenka,” Brendan urged under his breath. Rio was famous for using the ballsy, soft-touch technique to scoot a goal past the keeper and win the South American Cup for Chile. It worked then, but it was too predictable to work now. Brendan prayed Rio realized that.

  The little Chilean took his run-up in three slow, easy strides, which totally concealed the powerful shot he sent into the net. The keeper had stayed in the center, expecting the Pane
nka, and the ball fired way out of his reach into a back corner. Rio fell on his knees in celebration, crossing himself and raising his fist to the sky.

  Brendan gathered himself as he made his way back to the goal. Rio’s score meant the pressure was all on him. If he saved this, they won. If not, each team took another turn.

  He barely knew the midfielder stepping up for Miami. The twenty-two-year-old from Arizona had made his debut this year, fresh out of a college program and bursting with untapped potential. He was fast but he was young. And this was a big moment.

  Brendan studied the tension in his shoulders, the placement of his feet, the line of his gaze as he looked up from setting the ball. His mind whirred like a well-oiled motor, analyzing probabilities, reviewing every fact he knew about this kid, recalling each move he’d made in the two hours preceding this moment.

  The answer revealed itself with crisp, clear angles as the kid took his run-up. He thought he was being clever, thought he was better than he was, or thought he could make up in bravery what he lacked in experience. Unfortunately, he thought wrong.

  He’s going for a Panenka.

  Brendan remained still as the ball chipped into the air, straight down the line toward the goal. Time slowed, or his mind sped—either way, in the less-than-a-second of that ball’s trajectory he saw it all.

  His mother grumbling over the sink as she scrubbed out the grass stains in his jeans after a lunchtime spent kicking a soccer ball on the playground.

  His feet pounding up the stairs to take the call from the coach at Notre Dame, Liam hanging on his arm as he muttered a one-word acceptance into the phone.

  The scratch of the pen when he signed his first professional contract, and the aftershave of the world-famous manager who’d flown him and his parents all the way to Liverpool.

  His first game in England, the heaving crowd, the unrelenting rain.

  His last game in Spain, applauding the fans before taking a final walk down the tunnel.

  Atlanta. Roland. Pavel. The sideline seat digging into his tailbone, week in and week out. Hours spent alone in his pub. Stacks of notebooks piling up along the bar. The day the data breach broke, Roland’s fury, and his mother’s tears.