Crossing Hearts
Page 3
This morning had already shown him his learning curve at Skyline was going to be a lot steeper than he expected. Maybe he was equally deluded about Eva, and his assumption that a sophisticated woman like her could be attracted to an uneducated footballer like him was just as misguided.
“I can’t help you much while you’re on the pitch,” she was explaining when he tuned back in. “During matches I’ll sit behind Roland and call out to you when he asks me to, but for the most part you’re on your own. Let’s see how you manage today, and from there we’ll figure out which words and phrases you need to learn first.”
“Perfect,” he lied, and then jogged out to join his teammates in the center of the pitch. How on earth was he going to make this work without Eva to help him communicate?
As soon as they were all gathered and shivering in the early-March chill, Roland launched into a long explanation of something, occasionally punctuated by equally incomprehensible hand gestures. Rio concentrated harder than he had during a single lesson in school, but only came away with “pass” and “ball.”
The group began to spread out and Nico waved Rio over. “How much of that did you get?”
“Nothing,” he admitted.
Nico’s grin was so free of judgment that it soothed Rio’s bruised ego. “Roland’s nickname is the Philosopher, because sometimes he uses way too many words to express simple plans. We’re going to run an assisting exercise. Deon will stay by the goal, and the idea is to negotiate the ball past the defenders and cross to him for an assist. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Central midfielder Laurent Perrin was up first. Rio watched carefully as the tall Frenchman barged through the four defenders only to lose control of the ball on the other side. Roland stopped him, pointed here and there as he spoke, and then signaled for him to try again.
Again Laurent lost control, and again Roland made a series of gestures. Bewilderment was written all over Laurent’s face until Deon shouted something from his position outside the box. Comprehension lit up the midfielder’s expression and he started the exercise once more, this time completing his cross and assisting the goal.
“Communication,” Nico muttered to Rio as Roland turned their way. “Deon and Roland both told Laurent to communicate through the assist, to listen for Deon’s instructions and keep an eye on his position.”
“Rio,” Roland called from his place on the sideline. The manager pointed to the pitch.
His turn.
Rio felt the rapt attention of his teammates as he made his way out to the starting point. If this exercise was really all about communication, he was screwed.
He took his position behind the ball and looked up at the two nearest defenders, poised for him to begin. One was a five-foot-eleven Swede he’d played an international against a couple of years ago, who made up for in speed and creativity what he lacked in sheer size. The other was a Togolese player barely out of his teens, whose stacked physique belied his impressive agility. Behind them were the two Brazilian center backs, both over six feet tall, both sizing him up with hardened expressions.
On the other hand, he considered with a smirk, if this exercise was about getting the ball into the net, he’d be just fine.
He ran up to the ball and feinted right, sending the two men in front curving in that direction while he raced left. They quickly recovered and pivoted in his direction as the two Brazilians—Paulo and Guedes—charged forward. Behind them Deon had darted right, then left, trying to position himself to receive the ball.
Rio stopped. He looked past the four big men to the empty space beside Deon. There was no way he could dribble through all four men, but that didn’t matter. There were other ways to get the ball in the goal.
He drew back his right foot and booted the ball high over the defenders’ heads. Its long descent gave Deon plenty of time to get under it, and he shot it squarely into the net.
Rio smiled at his handiwork. It wasn’t the most elegant solution, but it worked. He’d barely taken five steps from where he’d started.
For a split second no one made a sound. The defenders stared helplessly over their shoulders. Roland’s eyes were wide with excitement. And Brian—standing on the sideline with the other second-team players—had dropped his jaw so far Rio hoped none of his teeth fell out.
Deon broke the silence with vigorous applause, and the rest of the team joined in, whistling and cheering their approval.
Roland jogged onto the pitch and slapped him on the back, buzzing his exuberance. Rio couldn’t understand a word he said, but he didn’t need to. Soccer was a language all its own, and he was fluent.
* * * *
“Hey, Eva, can you come through to the locker room? Roland wants to talk to Rio.”
Sure thing.” She shoved her phone in her purse and followed Ross, Skyline’s British trainer, down the hall.
“Why Roland always insists on having these conversations immediately after training, I don’t know.” Ross shook his head. “Half the time the guys are so exhausted they don’t absorb a word he says.”
She shrugged. “You know how he is. Why do something in five minutes’ time when you can do it now?”
“And why say it in ten words when you can say it in fifty.” Ross sighed as he held open the door to the locker room, allowing Eva to precede him inside. The echoing din of chatter and the distinctive post-training smell hit her instantly, but she adjusted quickly. Roland’s impatience meant she’d had plenty of locker-room interpretation sessions over the last couple of years, so she was immune to the sights and sounds of twenty-odd men in various states of undress. The players were so used to her presence they’d abandoned all efforts at modesty, and by this point she doubted there was anything she could see that would shock her.
Until Rio grinned at her from across the room, wearing nothing but black compression shorts and a telltale bulge.
It turned out the phrase “to stop dead in her tracks” was based on a real phenomenon, because for several seconds she totally lost the power of forward motion. Ross was three feet ahead of her by the time she recovered control of her legs, and it took all of her remaining strength to keep her chin from hitting the floor.
Photos on the Internet were one thing, but seeing Rio’s bare body in three glorious dimensions was quite another. The wrought-iron arms, the countable six-pack, the ledges of muscle over his hips…
Roland waved her over. She gritted her teeth, pasted on what she hoped was a detached smile, and looked anywhere but below Rio’s neck.
The manager launched into one of his characteristically long-winded summaries of the training session. Eva translated for Rio whenever Roland took a breath, so she didn’t have to remember and relay everything at once.
“According to the computers,” Roland continued, and Eva worked to capture the manager’s nuances as he explained the data that resulted from the session and how he wanted Rio to respond to it.
Hector would’ve already interrupted Roland several times to argue or object, but Rio just nodded.
“Do you understand?” she asked in one of Roland’s pauses.
“Perfectly,” Rio replied. “Keep going.”
She did, but after another few minutes of interpreting Roland’s intricate ideas she felt Rio’s gaze intensify. She chanced a look at him and realized he was staring at her, not with the attentiveness of someone absorbing information, but with the thinly restrained anticipation of a thirsty man watching someone pour a cold glass of water.
She faltered, momentarily tuning Roland out. Rio smiled and she knew he was being deliberate. He could’ve pulled on a shirt for this meeting, not to mention a pair of shorts. Or he could’ve stayed in his training gear and not gotten undressed at all. Regardless of his wardrobe choice—or lack thereof—she was damn sure he didn’t have to stand so close to her, close enough to tell that he hadn’t shaved that morning, to count the beads of sweat still clinging between his eyes.
The stereotype is that most Chilean men are super old-school and unreconstructed, her friend wrote, which can be good or bad. Watch out for piropos, supposedly harmless, flirtatious compliments that can feel an awful lot like sexual harassment. On the other hand, you might get a gentlemanly caballero, who will hold the door and refill your glass and charm you off your feet!
Eva narrowed her eyes at Rio, trying to read between the lines of his confident posture and keen expression. For all her skill with language, the strings of old, unanswered calls and text-message disagreements clogging up her SIM card bore testament to her profound inability to understand the difference between what men said and what they meant. She always seemed to be on the wrong side of whether sex was for fun or implied commitment, and had spent so long nursing devastation after being left that she’d more or less given up entirely. She had other things to focus on: her career, her goals, a future still very much taking shape.
Last month she celebrated her thirtieth birthday party at a favorite downtown dive bar. At some point during the evening she’d looked around her crowd of friends and realized she was the only single one left. Rather than face the realization head-on, she ordered another double tequila and promptly hit on a college student playing pool.
She woke up to her second day of thirty-hood in a bed in a fraternity house, her head pounding, a twenty-one-year-old asleep by her side, her designer bra missing in action.
In the taxi home she promised herself this would be “The Year She Got Serious About Men.” No more casual hook-ups. No more second dates with guys who were hot but unemployed. No more acting like she had unlimited tomorrows and endless time to find “The One”, and no more assuming he’d fall into her lap. She was getting too old, too lonely, and too tired of living her romantic life entirely on the surface—physical fulfillment but never emotional or intellectual.
This was the year all of that would change. Her eyes were on the horizon, not three feet ahead of her, and she was determined not to waste any more time.
This situation with Rio should’ve been simple. All signs shouted at her to steer clear. He was too young, too famous, too smooth, and as her client he was off-limits anyway.
So why couldn’t she look at him without wondering how he’d feel on top of her?
“Did you catch all that?”
She nodded automatically to Roland, mentally chiding herself for losing her train of thought. She translated as much as she could for Rio, whose grin stretched even wider.
“You didn’t get half of that last part, did you?” he teased.
“I’m sorry, do you want me to ask him to repeat himself?”
He shook his head. “I absorbed as much as I’m going to today. Tell him thanks, and I’ll try to pick up on his suggestions tomorrow.”
She passed on Rio’s message to Roland, who had already half-turned to deliver a similar analysis to one of the other players. As the manager strode across the locker room Rio crossed his arms over his chest.
Don’t look at his arms, don’t look at his arms—oh God, free ticket to the gun show and the weapons are locked and loaded…
“I’m thinking of buying a car this afternoon. Want to come?”
She blinked. “Well, I can if you need me to. Which I guess you do.”
He frowned, his rock-solid self-assurance cracking for barely a second. “Oh. Yeah. But I meant, you know, I’d like you to come.” His lopsided grin returned, stronger than ever. “It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know much about cars, but if you need help negotiating I’m happy to—”
“Vidal, are you buying a car? What are you going to get?” Nico approached on her left with one towel wrapped around his waist and another draped across his neck.
“I don’t know yet. I thought I’d have a look, maybe test drive some options.”
“Awesome, I know the best place. My guy will take care of you, no problem. I’ve bought, like, five cars from him.”
She’d always gotten along well with the intelligent, multilingual Uruguayan, and when he shot her a subtle wink she knew he thought he was doing her a favor by relieving her of car-shopping duty.
And he was. Wasn’t he?
“I’ll leave you boys to it. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rio.”
Rio glanced between her and Nico. “Wait, tomorrow? Are you sure you don’t want to come with us this afternoon? Or maybe afterward, we—”
“Don’t let him spend his whole salary,” she joked to Nico, who crossed his heart with his index finger.
She turned her back to her client and took calm, measured steps out of the locker room. Finally she’d regained the upper hand in this situation. Now she had to hang onto it for dear life.
Chapter 4
“Hold on two seconds, I’ll just go get him.”
“Take your time, Miss Torres. Only an idiot wouldn’t wait for a woman looking as beautiful as you do tonight.” The driver smiled at her through the open window, then cut the engine on the sleek, luxury sedan.
He’s paid to be flattering, she reminded herself as she made her way across the flagstones to Rio’s front door, yet the memory of the driver’s approving smile as he’d picked her up from her condo put an extra spring in her step. Skyline had used the same charter car company for years and this particular driver had taken her to and from at least a dozen team-related events.
He’d never been quite so complimentary about her appearance before, though, and not in a creepy way. He seemed sincere, maybe even impressed.
They’ve probably introduced a compliment quota system. Tell the passenger she looks nice at least twice or your pay will be docked.
Then again, she considered as she caught sight of her reflection in one of the tall glass windows bordering the door, she did look pretty damn hot. She’d splurged on a blowout and a manicure, justifying them as special new-client, new-season expenses. She’d also finally found time to take a clearance-rack cocktail dress to the seamstress for alterations, and its newly bespoke fit accentuated all the right places. Her boobs looked bigger, her waist looked narrower, and her unapologetic Latina booty was wrapped up tight in a brand-new, racecar-red thong.
Not that it mattered. This was the third time she’d attended the pre-opening match dinner at Roland’s house, and not because she was an invited guest. It was work, plain and simple. If Skyline didn’t have a player requiring her translation services she’d be on the couch with pizza delivery and the home improvement channel.
She rang the bell, rolling her eyes at Hector’s customized chime of a popular R&B bassline. What an asshole.
Within seconds Rio flung open the door, and her breath caught at the sight of him in a slim-fitting, tailored black suit. He grinned and opened the door wider, revealing a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table in the entryway.
“Chilean red,” he explained, and she shivered deliciously at the way he rolled the “r.” “Can I pour for you?”
She shook her head. “We have to go. Dinner is served promptly at eight, and it’s sit-down. No room to be fashionably late, I’m afraid. Anyway, should you be drinking the night before a match?”
“I thought I’d make an exception.” His expression was only mildly disappointed as he shut the door and followed her to the car.
He hadn’t put up much of a fight—did that mean he expected her to decline? Or did he not really care one way or the other? Maybe he was just a flirt. Maybe he’d finally gotten the message that she wasn’t interested.
Because she definitely wasn’t.
Right?
No, she scolded herself as he held open the car door. He was as out of bounds as it got.
No matter how good he looked—so, so good—or how nice he smelled as he slid into the seat beside her—like fresh sea air on a breezy morning—there could be nothing between them as long as Skyline paid her to be his translator.
Although if she quit…
The driver pulled away from the big house and Rio turned to her. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she replied primly, ignoring her traitorous heart turning cartwheels in her chest.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he offered.
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding one.”
“Is that a proposal?”
“Absolutely not.”
He sat back in his seat with a playful smile. “Eva Torres, woman of many mysteries. What would you be doing tonight if you weren’t in this car with me? Hitting the town with your boyfriend? Is he a big guy? Should I be worried?”
“I’d be doing what I do whenever I’m not working. Sleeping and studying.”
“Studying for another degree, or for fun?”
“Neither, really.” She hesitated. She hated telling people about her plans, in case they didn’t work out. “It’s for admission to law school.”
He whistled, impressed. “You want to be a lawyer? Interpreting for footballers must be worse than I thought.”
“I love my job,” she told him earnestly. “I spent years working to get it and I’m not in a hurry to leave. The law school idea is more of a side interest. Something I’m still considering.”
“Fair enough. What kind of lawyer would you become?”
“Immigration,” she replied shortly. “This is Roland’s house, just here.”
The brief drive came to a well-timed end as the car pulled up in front of Roland’s sprawling house. He’d upgraded last year when Skyline reached the league semifinal, and Eva was interested to see how he’d put to use the additional million dollars the papers reported he’d spent.