Yolanda had moved to her side and was giving the waiter a narrow-eyed glare.
He glanced between both of them, then reiterated, “The entire staff is occupied with the match. I can try to arrange something afterward, but—”
“Quit wasting time,” Yolanda snapped with the authority of a woman who’d raised three children on a shoestring by herself. “Call someone to take her down to the pitch. Now.”
“Of course, Señora Vidal. Right away.”
Yolanda rolled her eyes as he busied himself on the internal phone system. “Everyone assumes the players’ girlfriends are all idiot lingerie models. They should know Rio would never bring a woman here unless she had a good brain in her head.”
Eva gaped at what she was pretty sure was Yolanda’s tacit approval of their relationship, and the waiter spoke before she could muster a response.
“Let me show you to the elevator. Someone will meet you on the other end.”
With a quick wave to Rio’s family, Eva followed the man down the corridor. He swiped his security pass and entered a code for stadium access, then nodded goodbye as the doors slid shut.
She unlocked her phone screen and scrolled through her contacts list as she rode the elevator down to the pitch. Should she call Roland and have him speak directly to someone from the national team? Or was she about to cause an international incident?
She checked the time and guessed at how long was left in the match. Around ten minutes, plus at least four for injury time. Maybe it didn’t seem like much to make a fuss over, but it only took a second for a muscle sprain to be aggravated into a tear. She had to say something to someone and save Rio from himself.
The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened, revealing a young, pretty blond woman with big blue eyes. She looked up from her phone to greet Eva, who knew immediately what her borderline patronizing smile signaled.
She wasn’t a member of the coaching staff. She was from the PR department.
“Hello, you must be Eva Torres?” She extended her hand. “Francisca Figueroa, one of the publicists for the national team. I understand you have a message you want to relay to the coaching staff? I’m afraid they’re all quite busy with the match, but I can—”
“I get it.” Eva sighed, exasperated. “Clearly no one wants to take me seriously.”
“That’s not the case at all,” Francisca soothed in a placatory tone. “The whole team appreciates your commitment to Rio and his welfare. It’s just that—”
“Do you ever feel like your colleagues don’t take you seriously because you’re a woman? Especially the training staff?”
Francisca blinked. “What?”
“Which did you love first, PR or soccer?”
“Soccer, but—”
“Have you ever noticed how most of the women working for elite-level soccer clubs are in the publicity, marketing, or HR departments? And even then, the directors of those departments are usually men. Is your boss a man or a woman?”
“I really don’t see how this—”
“Just answer the question.”
Francisca dropped the hand holding the phone to her side, her expression now totally devoid of its professional gloss. “He’s a man. And I should’ve gotten the job over him two years ago.” Her smile returned, only this time it was genuine. “What can I do to help?”
Minutes later they were greeted at the entrance to the tunnel by a man in a Chilean national-team tracksuit. His youth and politeness suggested he was a very junior member of the coaching staff, but Eva had reached the point where she would take what she could get.
“I’m Eva Torres, I work with Atlanta Skyline,” she introduced herself. “I’m not here to undermine anyone, but I did want to let someone know that there’s been concern at Skyline that Rio Vidal has been overtraining and may be more prone to injury than usual. I noticed he took quite a tough tackle there, and I wondered whether given this additional context—”
“I appreciate your raising this, but he had a full medical review before taking the field today and everything was clear.” His smirk suggested he was already on his way to becoming a self-important manager. “I can assure you we’re entirely capable of assessing our own players’ match readiness.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Forget being seen to undermine the national-team manager—was this whole escapade undermining Rio?
She’d reacted with her heart when she saw him shoved into the camera, and now her head was catching up.
Did Rio always do what was best for him? No, he didn’t. But he was an adult, capable of making his own choices. No matter how much she cared for him, or how convinced she was he would downplay any potential injury, she couldn’t tell him what to do and she certainly couldn’t meddle in his career.
She woke up to the situation like she’d startled from a dream. What the hell had she been thinking?
That she could save him. Protect him. Help him like she couldn’t help her mother.
“Glad to hear it, and of course I trust the judgment of your staff,” she replied, fighting to conceal the embarrassment, regret, and borderline hysteria raging behind her eyes. “I know inter-club communication sometimes breaks down when players move overseas, so thanks for taking the time to hear me out.”
The young man nodded, indicating the conclusion of their conversation, and hurried back to the sideline.
Eva met Francisca’s gaze reluctantly.
“That’s it?” the publicist demanded. “Do you know what I had to do to get you that conversation? You know he’s not going to pass on a word you said to—”
A raucous cheer echoed from the stadium, drowning out their conversation.
The ref had blown the final whistle. Chile were victorious. Even if the coaching assistant had listened she would’ve been too late.
Again.
Francisca glanced at her phone and rushed away as she typed furiously on the screen. Alone and unsupervised, Eva lingered in the tunnel, not sure she could find her way back to the VIP box if she wanted to. Instead she wandered toward the entrance to the pitch, thankful the security guards were too occupied with getting the players off safely to care about a five-foot woman in flats and a tangerine sundress.
She’d never been to an international qualifying match before, let alone one in soccer-mad South America. The atmosphere was electric, the stands an undulating sea of red and blue as supporters waved and sang to celebrate their nation’s victory. On the pitch the players shook hands and swapped jerseys, and—judging by Rio’s bare torso gleaming under the lights—his was one of the first to be claimed by the opposing team.
She peered at him from the shadows of the tunnel. He looked so happy, he practically radiated delight. He grinned at the fans, gave them two thumbs up, and then raised his arms to applaud, expressing his gratitude for their support.
Something stirred in her heart as she watched him. Had she ever been as blissfully, sublimely happy as he was at this exact moment? Had she ever known such uncomplicated joy? Had she ever had his absolutely clear vision, known exactly who she was and where she was going and what on earth she was doing with her life?
No.
Actually, yes. She knew she wanted to be with Rio, no matter the consequences. She liked who she was when she was with him.
Actually, scratch that—she’d always been a pretty big fan of herself. She liked that he liked who she was, exactly as she was.
Actually, “like” no longer entered into it. She was falling in love with him.
The fact insisted on itself once more, clearly and simply, before submitting to being tucked away deep in her heart. She was falling in love with Rio Vidal. Of course she was.
The players began drifting into the tunnel. Too late to sneak away she stepped out from the wall, bracing herself for Rio’s reaction when he saw her. She hoped he wouldn’t guess she’d been down here acting out some subconscious, unfulfilled savior urge.
He called her name and rushed over, sweeping her off her feet in a spinning hug before setting her back down with a kiss. “What are you doing down here?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me later.” He didn’t even look at the equipment manager who handed him a fresh jersey, which he pulled on over his head. “They need me for the post-match interview.”
She nodded. “Then I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
“Come with me.” His smile seemed to banish every shadow in the concrete tunnel.
She wrinkled her nose. “Do you think that’s appropriate? Players’ girlfriends don’t usually—”
“I don’t care.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the edge of the pitch, where a press board with the sponsors’ logos had been set up in the sight-line of a television camera.
Her throat tightened and her eyes went wide as she stared out at the stands, barely able to see past the super bright lights illuminating the pitch. She felt like an ant under a microscope, hyperaware of all those eyes staring down from tens of thousands of seats. She squirmed just standing under their anonymous scrutiny. She couldn’t imagine being expected to deliver goals as well.
The gray-haired, suited channel correspondent raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Rio took his place in front of the board. Francisca appeared beside the reporter and indicated for Eva to stand off to the side, which she gratefully obeyed.
Rio answered a few questions about events during the match, his voice echoing through a loudspeaker in the stadium. Fans cheered whenever he mentioned Chile, their shouts escalating as he declared it was good to be home.
The reporter seemed to be wrapping up the interview, thanking Rio and commending him on his victory. Eva relaxed minutely, relieved she hadn’t had to face the camera.
Then Rio grabbed her and pulled her into the shot, pinning her to his side.
“One more thing,” he interrupted. “I want to introduce Eva Torres, who translates for me at Atlanta Skyline. I would be lost in America without her, and whatever success I’ve had in the Championship League is owed at least in part to her support.”
Her face was so hot she was sure it could burst into flames. She braced herself for a chorus of boos from all the adolescent girls who’d be ripping Rio’s posters off their walls tonight.
Instead the Chilean fans redoubled their applause, chanting Rio’s name as he waved at the crowd.
She’d never stood in the middle of a packed stadium before. The noise of the fans was immense, overwhelming, heady in its surround-sound intensity. No wonder Rio loved playing for his country. The cheering alone was downright addictive.
As much as she enjoyed her ten seconds in the spotlight, she exhaled her relief as they walked off the pitch and back into the privacy of the tunnel.
“I’ll let you get showered,” she told Rio, taking his hands and swinging them playfully. “I should go make sure your aunt isn’t scandalizing the waiter in the VIP box.”
“He should be more worried about how many bottles of liquor she’s snuck into her purse.”
“I’ll offer to carry it for her and see how loudly it clinks.”
She started to turn away and he tugged her back. “I meant everything I said just now. I don’t know what would happen to me at Skyline if you weren’t there.”
His gaze pinned her to the spot with such sincerity she had to look down. She traced the number nine on his chest and then pulled out of his grip, starting in the direction of the elevator.
“See you later, striker,” she called over her shoulder, just catching his cheeky, answering smile.
“Oh, God. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Eva increased the pressure on the ball of his foot, running her thumbs along the arch. “You’re sure I can’t undo whatever the physiotherapist did earlier?”
Rio sank lower into the hot tub, closing his eyes as she worked her fingers along the soles of his feet.
“Even if you do, it’d be worth it.”
“I’m not sure about that. How much are these things worth?”
He opened his eyes and grinned, gesturing down the length of his body. “Ten million for the whole thing, according to the insurance company.”
She arched a brow. “Chilean pesos?”
“United States dollars.”
“Way out of my price range.” She shoved his feet off her lap and sat back, sloshing some of the soapy water over the side of the tub.
“I told you, they’re insured. Keep going.” He propped his foot on her thigh.
“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, you break it, you buy it?” But she drew his foot against the smooth, slick surface of her stomach and worked her knuckles into the muscles of his calves, the undersides of her breasts brushing his toes as she leaned forward.
He groaned in sheer ecstasy. Two goals to win for his country and the woman of his dreams massaging his legs. Could life get any better?
His eyes lit up with an idea. “Let’s order room service.”
“Again? You eat more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I’m a man with a healthy appetite, that’s all.”
“And a healthy ego,” she teased.
He smiled a response, but her words reminded him of the nagging concern he’d planned to discuss with her before their libidos took over.
“Anyway,” he began, trying to keep his tone light. “We’ve gotten a lot of attention in the last couple of days. How are you feeling about it?”
She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “Fine, I guess.”
He waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he leaned forward and brushed his finger beneath her chin, encouraging her to meet his gaze. “Really?”
She flashed him a hesitant smile. “I think so. I was never the type to fantasize about having a rich and famous boyfriend. It takes some getting used to.”
“What did you fantasize about?”
“I don’t know.”
He straightened where he sat and reached for her, guiding her through the warm water to lean back against his chest. “Everyone has dreams when they’re young.” He combed his fingers through the damp ends of her hair. “What were yours?”
“Even as a teenager I was practical to a fault. My wildest ambition was to work in professional soccer and travel internationally. And look, here I am.”
“What about law school? Do you still want to do that?”
She sighed. “I don’t think so. The more I think about it, the more I realize it was a stupid, childish fantasy. When I was a kid I used to think, if I can get an A on this essay, then God will bring my mom back. I just have to do the right things to please Him and He’ll give me what I want. Except whenever I achieved something and she didn’t return, I had to find something else. The A-plus essay didn’t work, so I had to make the honor roll. That didn’t work, so I had to win an academic award—or all of the academic awards. The targets got higher and bigger until I didn’t consciously realize they were targets anymore. Being a lawyer was the last one—if I could study super hard and spend all this time and money to become a powerful immigration lawyer, doing loads of good for people, she’ll come back.”
She shook her head. “Except now I know she won’t, no matter what I do.”
He frowned at the uncharacteristic ambivalence in her words. “But you love the drop-in center and the work you do there.”
“I used to,” she agreed. “They’re coping just fine without me, though, and it’s going to be hard to celebrate the success stories without thinking about my own sad ending. I think it might be time for me to take a step back and let someone else take the reins.”
This definitely wasn’t the woman he knew. He paused as he considered his response, trying to get his words exactly right before he spoke them.
“You didn’t fail your mom, Eva. There was nothing you could’ve d
one to bring her back.”
She splashed him with the sharpness of her turn, her eyes wide and surprised. Then she resumed her relaxed posture with a heavy exhalation.
“I did fail her, Rio. I should’ve hired a private investigator earlier, when I was in high school.”
“You know that’s a ridiculous thing to say,” he replied gently. “You told me you worked at a frozen yogurt shop in high school. You never could’ve paid the fees.”
“I could’ve tried. Maybe I could’ve made a deal,” she countered glumly.
“What kinds of deals do you think border-crossing PIs make with adolescent girls?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I could’ve found an honest one.”
“Everything you could’ve done, you did,” he told her firmly.
She said nothing. He shifted slightly beneath her.
“You weren’t at Mass last week, but I went. I stopped by the drop-in center, too.”
“Good for you,” she muttered.
“Virginia was there. Remember her? From Honduras, her son was facing deportation?”
She nodded. “We met her together. Your first Sunday.”
“She had good news that she wanted to tell you in person. Her son’s deportation order was lifted.”
“Then she should thank her lawyer. I didn’t—”
“But she wanted to thank you. Maybe the lawyer is the one who booted it into the net, but she couldn’t have done that if you hadn’t crossed her the ball in the first place.”
She rolled her eyes at him over her shoulder. “What’s your point? That I’m the midfielder of legal advice?”
“Everyone has their part to play, that’s all. Don’t leave the pitch because you’ve decided you don’t want to wear the number-nine jersey.”
“Maybe I would be happier in the midfield.” She raised her arms in a lazy stretch, giving him a clear line of sight to her breasts. He couldn’t help himself—he cupped their supple heft, his thumbs teasing her nipples.
She purred her delight and he was instantly hard, his erection jutting against the small of her back.
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