Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  Was he embarrassed? Not exactly. His youth was a matter of public record—anyone could look up his biography on the Internet and learn the circumstances in which his life began.

  He wasn’t ashamed of his background, but maybe he hadn’t been ready to own it yet, either. He hated players who wore their impoverished childhoods like a badge of honor, and he didn’t want pity or praise. He wanted to be judged on where he was today, not how he’d gotten there or where he’d started.

  But now, as they passed a wheelless car propped up on cinder blocks, he realized he wanted Eva to truly know him. All of him.

  He stopped as he realized he’d subconsciously led her to the cemetery gate, two timber poles vaguely marking out the entrance to the headstone-dotted field on the edge of the village.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “My dad is buried here. The man I thought was my dad, I mean.”

  She smoothed her thumb over his knuckles. “Do you want to go in?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know where his grave is. My mom never brought us to visit. This is why we’re here.” He indicated a vacant patch of land beside the gates, where a row of metal cans for burning trash lined the rocky, rutted ground.

  He led her onto it, shifting a large stone with his toe. “This is where I learned to play soccer.”

  He watched her look around, taking in the rusted, jagged-edged cans littering the periphery, the ripped tire tossed haphazardly in one corner, the pieces of broken pipes jammed into the ground to demarcate the goals.

  He wondered what she was thinking. Was she imagining the boy running barefoot, ignoring the cuts on the soles of his feet as he shot for goal? Did she pity him, mentally clucking her tongue at how little he’d been born into? Was she changing her mind, reconsidering their whole relationship, questioning whether she could ever build something long-term with someone from somewhere like here?

  After a moment she slipped her arm around his waist and leaned into his side. When she spoke her voice was hushed and thoughtful.

  “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  They were talking about more than this patch of dirt, or his aunt’s house, or the village. He slid his arm across her shoulders and held her tightly, looking at the dusty earth, the field dotted with headstones, the stars in the clear black sky overhead.

  The revelation hit him like a free kick to his chest.

  He loved her.

  “Rio! Hey, it’s Rio Vidal!”

  They turned to see two brothers—if the resemblance and height difference was any indication—jogging over to greet them.

  “I know you, you’re Rio Vidal,” the taller one confirmed. His declaration seemed to have set off a secret kid alarm system, as within seconds they were joined by another four boys and girls of varying ages and sizes.

  One of the boys produced a grubby, semi-deflated soccer ball. “Will you play with us?”

  “Why don’t you guys play on that nice pitch I built for you?” He gestured toward the fenced-in sports field all the way on the other side of the village. He’d paid for its construction five years ago, maintained the salary of a groundskeeper, and annually donated a fresh batch of boots and balls.

  “The groundskeeper locks the gates at eight o’clock,” a barefoot boy explained.

  “Come on, just a few minutes?” the ball-bearer whined.

  He looked at Eva. She nodded encouragingly.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “Let’s play keep-up. Highest number of touches wins.”

  Over the next hour he showed off his ball skills, bouncing the ball from his feet to his knees to his head and back again, daring the kids to take it off him as he kicked it around the lot, and heading it as many times in a row as he could. The kids took turns demonstrating their own tricks, and soon the encounter developed into a game of four-a-side with Eva ably leading the girls’ team. His knee protested the activity in thin-soled sneakers on an uneven surface, but he ignored it, relishing the chance to play under the same weak lamplight that had overseen almost every game of his childhood.

  The girls were up two-one when his mother appeared on the edge of the lot, having wandered down the road looking for him and evidently unfazed by the crowd of children gathered around him.

  “Time to come in, Rio,” she called. “Your tea is getting cold.”

  Chapter 15

  “GOOAALLL!”

  Eva joined the other forty-five thousand fans in the stadium as she leapt to her feet, punching the air. The huge screen over the pitch showed Rio raise his fists in celebration, then pull on the front of his shirt to kiss the national-team badge. The noise in the stadium tripled as the crowd cheered for the goal that raised the score to three-nil.

  She sank bank into the massive leather armchair that served as her seat to the international qualifier. She’d had a frisson of excitement when she’d followed Rio’s mother—who insisted that she call her by her first name, Yolanda—his aunt, brother, brother’s girlfriend, and assorted cousins into the VIP box bearing a sign that said La Familia Vidal on the door. She’d never even set foot in any of Skyline’s private suites, and the plush seating, endless supply of food and drinks, and stunning view were instantly novel.

  As the match wore on, however, she became uncomfortable with her distance from Rio. She was used to watching him from the dugout, within shouting distance, and certainly close enough to make eye contact. Now she might as well be at home on the couch for all the support she could give him.

  As much as the setting wasn’t ideal, nothing could’ve made her miss this chance to see him play for his country. At Skyline he was a midfielder, but as he lined up to sing the national anthem alongside his teammates his jersey number was nine.

  Striker.

  His performance did that number proud. He was a head shorter than every other player on the pitch, but his skills were a cut above.

  Even greater than his skill was his passion. Rio was by nature a dedicated player, but she’d never seen him play with such soul, such ferocity, such palpable devotion that in moments it nearly brought her to tears. He hurled himself after the ball, sprang up every time a Venezuelan player tackled him to the ground, and took the sorts of audacious shots that could only come from a man playing more with his heart than his head.

  He was a joy to behold. With every evaded challenge and ballsy steal she marveled at how much she’d discovered about this man in only a few short days—and how much more infatuated she became with every layer she uncovered.

  She’d been less surprised by the facts she’d already more or less known—that he was ridiculously famous, that what he described as the village where he grew up was more accurately called a slum, and that he’d given back more to his community than he would readily admit—than by her own reaction. She already knew, intellectually, that Rio was kind and humble and generous. Seeing him in action was something else entirely.

  On Wednesday, she accompanied him on a visit to the children’s ward of a public hospital in Antofagasta. After dragging behind Hector, watching him smile insincerely in a dozen cancer wards and foster agencies and soccer academies for underprivileged kids she’d been wary of what felt like a classically choreographed PR stunt. She didn’t say anything to Rio beforehand, but prayed the outing didn’t undermine her impression of his good nature.

  She shouldn’t have worried. From the minute they arrived at the hospital and she realized there wasn’t a camera or publicity professional in sight, she knew things were different.

  The nurses greeted Rio warmly, and he asked each of them personal questions that bore testament to the frequency of his visits. When the all-female staff eyed her with emotions ranging from curiosity to suspicion, he introduced her as his polola, and explained that she was his voice in English-speaking America.

  Whatever nervousness she’d had about the visit—she had zero rapport with children—was quickly dispelled by Rio’s eas
y charm with patients and parents alike. Some people he’d already met, and others were delighted by his unexpected appearance.

  “We’d heard rumors that he likes to pop into the ward, but I’d never actually seen him,” a mother mentioned to her as they watched Rio play peek-a-boo with her toddler. “I guess he really is as nice as everyone says.”

  “I think so,” Eva replied, her heart clenching as she watched Rio gently push the toddler’s pacifier back into his mouth.

  Apart from the many selfies and cell phone pictures taken by staff and parents there was no public record of his visit. Astonished by his total disinterest in leveraging the opportunity for publicity, as they climbed back into the chauffeured SUV she asked, “Don’t you think you should tweet something to tell your fans what you got up to today? Remember, the Skyline PR manager said you need to have more of a personal presence on social media, not just retweet things posted by your sponsors.”

  He shrugged absentmindedly, scrolling through his e-mails on his phone. “You know how I feel about that stuff. It’s not really anyone’s business but mine, is it?”

  That attitude pervaded the entire trip. His phone rang constantly as his agent’s PA called to pass on requests for TV interviews and magazine shoots, but he turned them all down. His standard response was a joking line about being home on a social visit, not a professional one, but for all intents and purposes it was true.

  They spent Wednesday afternoon in a housewares store where he failed to convince his mother to let him buy her a high-end espresso machine and sighed in exasperation as he plopped a cheap filter coffeemaker on the counter and handed over his credit card. Wednesday night they toured the new apartment Julio and his girlfriend had recently moved into before taking the couple out for dinner at a nearby steakhouse. Thursday morning they piled into the private jet down to Santiago accompanied by his extended family, and Thursday night the two of them ate dinner alone in their hotel room, naked, both famished after an afternoon spent pushing the limits of the in-room hot tub.

  Friday morning she pressed a good-luck kiss to his lips as he left to join the team to prepare for that evening’s match. Now here she was, physically separated from him for the first time in almost a week—and what a week it had been.

  The rest of Rio’s family had resumed their seats after his goal, but she wandered closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, peering at the action below. Down on the pitch Venezuela were consolidating their efforts to halt Chile’s advance, although at three-nil they probably should’ve focused more on attacking. Instead their style had become bullying and aggressive, almost as if they’d decided that if they were going to lose, they were going to take out as many of Chile’s players as they could.

  Rio had the ball, and two of the opposition’s defenders were in such a hurry to tackle him they nearly collided with each other. He nipped between the two of them in a way that made her think of Moses sauntering through the two halves of the parted sea, full of confidence and utterly without fear.

  A second later he was tackled, and the late challenge sent him rolling across the pitch. The culprit threw up his hands, insinuating Rio had dived, and a cluster of players from both sides gathered around the ref to argue.

  The referee waved his hand to dismiss the incident and play resumed, but tensions were so high she could practically feel them all the way up in the box.

  Venezuela took possession and for a few minutes the action centered in Chile’s half. Eva was checking the time on the scoreboard—seventy minutes—when a collective intake of breath from Rio’s family summoned her attention to the pitch.

  Rio had stolen the ball and was powering toward Venezuela’s goal, his lightning-quick speed carrying him away from the bulk of the players. Immediately a defender sprinted after him, driving him toward the edge of the pitch and away from his teammates. Rio glanced over his shoulder to see who could receive a pass, and in that the split second the defender stuck out two hands and shoved him in the back.

  Rio fell head over feet, slamming into the row of pitch-side photographers and catching his knee on the edge of the wooden barrier in front of them.

  “Come on, ref, fucking book him! Violent conduct!” Eva screamed at the glass, only realizing after the words had left her mouth that she’d spoken in Spanish, not English. She cast a sideways glance toward Rio’s mother but if she’d heard, she made no acknowledgement. She was also busy hurling vulgar language at the referee.

  There was no replay on the big screen in the stadium, but as Rio gingerly extricated himself from the mass of toppled camera equipment the TV in the VIP box—which was tuned to a network simulcast of the match—showed a slow-motion repeat of the incident.

  The foul was as blatant as any she’d ever seen, and one of the most malicious. Yet on the pitch below the defender had his arms up to declare his innocence, and the referee gestured for Rio to rejoin the action.

  “No fucking way,” Julio shouted, punching the arm of a chair in disgust. “He could’ve broken Rio’s neck.”

  “I hope they have some kind of performance review system for referees,” his girlfriend, Martina, remarked hotly. “Because that was clearly an error.”

  Eva quirked a smile at Martina. “I think that’s the most polite response to a bad call I’ve ever heard.”

  “Fire that halfwit scumbag!” Rosario demanded, proving Eva’s point.

  Never one to enter into protracted arguments with the referee, Rio waved to the fans, who cheered vigorously as he re-entered the pitch. He broke into a jog to catch up with his teammates and it was clear he was favoring his left leg.

  Eva checked the time. Fifteen minutes to the whistle.

  “He needs to come off,” she murmured to no one in particular.

  “What did you say?” his mother asked, moving to her side.

  “They’re up three-nil with only fifteen minutes on the clock. Venezuela have to score four goals to win—it’ll never happen. The game is as good as won, Rio should be subbed out and checked for injury.”

  Yolanda squinted at the pitch. “You’re right. He’s limping.”

  “He needs to come off,” she repeated, panic rising in her throat. The VIP box began to feel more like a prison than a privilege.

  Why was he still playing? Didn’t anyone else notice that he couldn’t move properly? Was she the only one who cared?

  She tried to calm herself down, certain the manager would pull him off. A minute went by, then another, then another, and he was still the central target for the rest of the team’s passes. His pace had visibly slowed and his limp seemed to be worsening.

  She wondered if Roland knew the Chilean national coach, or if they’d ever spoken. Maybe he wasn’t aware that Rio was under medical caution from Skyline. Who was she kidding, of course Rio would never disclose that unless he had no choice.

  She owed it to Roland to try to intervene.

  No—she owed it to Rio.

  He’d taken better care of her over the last two weeks than, well, any other man in her life, ever. He was there for her when she got the news of her mother’s death and persisted in his efforts to support her no matter how often or how hard she pushed him away.

  Now it was her turn to take care of him.

  She rushed over to the waiter who’d been pouring their drinks for the last hour and a half. “I need to speak to the manager. Can you get me a line to one of the coaching staff on the sideline, please?”

  To his credit, he concealed his are-you-crazy expression within a second of its appearance. “I don’t think that’s possible, señorita. They’re all busy with the match.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not just la polola, okay? I work for Atlanta Skyline as the personal liaison between Roland Carlsson and Rio Vidal. I have vital information to communicate to the manager—or someone on the coaching staff, at least—regarding Rio’s physical condition.”

  Recognition dawned in the man’s eyes. “Ah, yes, I sa
w the article in the paper. You’re his translator, I believe?”

  “The article?” she echoed, bewildered.

  He held up a finger to ask her to wait, then rummaged in the fanned spread of newspapers and magazines on a low table near the bar. He picked up one of the Chilean national dailies, flipped to a back page and handed it over.

  Her jaw dropped halfway to the floor.

  In the center of the page was a classic paparazzi photograph of Rio walking through the airport, head ducked, holding the hand of the woman by his side. She’d seen images like it a million times—there were usually at least three airport-crossing celeb photos on the sidebar of the Internet tabloid she surfed daily.

  But this was the first time she’d been in one of them.

  “What a score!” the headline announced. “He moves as fast with the ladies as he does on the pitch—Rio Vidal brings his American girlfriend home to Chile after just three months in the United States.”

  The opening paragraph speculated about whether his activities between the sheets would tire him out for the match against Venezuela, and she slammed down the paper as her mind reeled.

  Of course she knew when she agreed to go public that there would be press coverage as word of their relationship would get around. Clearly she’d been naïve, because she hadn’t considered that it would happen this fast. They’d only confirmed their commitment on Sunday, and less than a week later there was a photo of her looking disheveled and wide-eyed in a tabloid with national circulation.

  She put a steadying hand on the bar as the waiter watched her expectantly. She couldn’t deal with this right now—she had to get Rio off the pitch. Then she could quietly freak out.

  “I am his translator,” she agreed slowly. “And part of my job involves representing the wishes of his manager. Roland Carlsson had concerns about Rio’s fitness and now he appears to have picked up a potential injury. It’s critical that I speak to a member of the national-team staff in case they aren’t aware of the preexisting concern.”