Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  She stood up and walked back to the kitchen. She would have that glass of wine after all.

  She was reaching for the glass when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen.

  Tony.

  Her heart leapt into her throat and her breaths came fast and hot. Was Rio okay? Did he want to talk to her? Was everything about to be restored to the way it was or ruined forever?

  She snatched up the phone. “Hi, Tony.”

  “Can you come to the hospital? I’m here with Ross and Rio.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to interpret his uncharacteristically serious tone. “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re struggling to explain the situation to Rio, and it’s important that he understands. It’s not good news.”

  She swallowed hard. “Does he want me to be there?”

  Tony paused. “He needs you to be here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She never felt less safe behind the wheel than she did on the drive to the hospital. Her hands shook and her lungs clenched, and she used all of her energy to focus on the road ahead. Whenever her thoughts veered in Rio’s direction she reined them in without mercy.

  There was no point in speculating before she had all the details.

  There was no point in breaking up with him in her mind before he’d said the words.

  And if he said the words…

  She shook off that line of thinking as she parked, then followed Tony’s instructions to find the right room. She knocked lightly before opening the door.

  The mere sight of Rio took her breath away. He’d changed into a white undershirt, training shorts and Skyline flip flops, and even semi-reclined on a hospital bed with his knee wrapped in athletic bandages, he was the most exquisite man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  Which is why the darkening of his expression as she entered the room hurt more than she could imagine.

  Ross and Tony greeted her with palpable sympathy. If his averted gaze was anything to go by, she guessed they had a hard time convincing Rio to let her come.

  Well, he could get over it. She had a job to do.

  Thankfully the doctor arrived within moments, saving them all the awkwardness of sitting in silence while they waited. She swept into the room with a manila folder, from which she plucked several printouts of what looked like a scan.

  “Are you the interpreter?” she asked, not impolitely.

  Eva nodded.

  “Great. Let’s not waste any more time.”

  The doctor clipped one of the scans onto a light box and launched into a lengthy explanation of the results of Rio’s MRI. Eva concentrated intensely, trying to memorize everything the doctor said while simultaneously figuring out how to translate such technical medical terminology. Some of the words were unfamiliar to her in English—how would she find a Spanish equivalent?

  But this was what she did, and she did it better than anyone. The doctor finished and put the printout back in the folder.

  “Did you get all of that?”

  “I did.” She turned to Rio, taking a minute to finalize exactly what she was going to say.

  He watched her intently. She took a bracing breath.

  “You’ve torn a ligament in your knee. The tear is severe, and requires surgery to fix, which she recommends scheduling immediately. It’ll be at least three months before you can play again.”

  He stared at her blankly for so long she began to wonder whether she’d mistranslated something. The room was a tense tableau, no one daring to move, waiting for his reaction.

  When he finally spoke his voice was hollow with disbelief. “Three months? Is she sure?”

  “She is.”

  “Surgery,” he echoed, his gaze drifting to his lap. “I’ve never had surgery before. I’ve never even been in a hospital overnight.”

  She wanted so badly to comfort him that she ached with the urge to take him in her arms. Instead she kept things professional, asking, “Do you have any questions for the doctor?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  She relayed this to the doctor, Tony and Ross, who dutifully filed out of the room. She hesitated in the doorway while the two Skyline staffers took seats in the waiting area down the hall. She’d heard what he said, but his shell-shocked expression worried her. She didn’t think his own company was really what he needed right now.

  She shut the door, staying inside the room. She’d already defied his wishes once today, how much worse could it get?

  He looked up at her sharply. “I said I wanted to be alone. Jesus Christ, Eva, when are you going to quit interfering and learn to respect what other people want?”

  Okay, so it could get worse.

  Too late to turn back now.

  She gave in to her instincts and moved to his side. She put one hand on his arm, which he snatched out of her reach, and ran the fingers of the other hand through his hair, her thumb smoothing his temple.

  He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t flinch from her touch either.

  “Go on, say it,” he grumbled. “You were right. I needed to be taken off.”

  “Is that what you think I care about? Being right?”

  He shrugged, toying with the tape holding the bandage on his leg.

  She sighed as she perched on the edge of the bed beside him. “I won’t apologize for telling Roland you were injured, but I take no happiness from making the right call. I’d rather be wrong a million times than see you in pain.”

  He still refused to look at her. “Did the doctor say when she can do the surgery?”

  “She can do it tomorrow if you feel ready. If not, it can wait a few days.”

  “I just want it done.”

  “I’ll tell her.” She dropped her hand from his hair to his wrist. This time he didn’t pull away. “Do you want me to phone your mom, tell her what’s happening?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll call her in a minute. Soon the press will get the story and then everyone will know.”

  “Being injured is nothing to be ashamed of. Almost every player will—”

  “For all your apparent soccer expertise, you clearly have no idea what a long recovery period can do to a player’s career,” he snapped, jerking out of her grasp. He finally raised his gaze to hers, his eyes shimmering with anger.

  “You won’t lose your spot on the first team,” she assured him, trying to keep her tone soothing as she eased off the bed to stand. “This is going to be a bigger problem for Roland than for you. You’re by far his best midfielder.”

  “Today I am. Tomorrow, it could be anyone.”

  “Like who, Brian?” She shook her head. “He’ll never be as good as you.”

  “Three months is a long time.”

  “He’s already had years.”

  “Roland could make a transfer, or recall a loan.”

  “He won’t. He wants you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” she insisted. “Why else would he—”

  “Stop,” he shouted, making her jump. He held up his palm. “Just stop. I can’t take any more of your deluded optimism, okay? This is reality.”

  She stiffened. “My what?”

  He threw up his hands. “This is the problem with you, Eva. For someone who claims she never had big dreams, you can’t seem to step out of your fantasy world and put your feet on the ground. Guess what? Injuries don’t always heal. Careers can’t always be salvaged. And mothers don’t always come back, no matter how many good grades you get or deportations you stop or how often you go to Mass and pray to your silent stone Virgin. Your mom is dead—her story is over. The story of my career is over. Now our story is over too.”

  The air rushed from her lungs like she’d fallen backward off a swing. Tears welled in her eyes but she blinked them back, straightening her spine as she dug up the strength to respond.

  “You don’
t really feel that way.”

  “There you go again, refusing to see the truth,” he muttered, but his gaze had dropped.

  “What you said to me this morning—what I said to you at half-time—what was that?”

  “A mistake.”

  She placed a steadying hand on the edge of the bed. He didn’t mean it. He was frustrated and hurting and angry. He’d come around. Everything would be as it was.

  Or she should cut her losses and leave now.

  “Don’t say something you’ll regret,” she warned him, battling to keep her voice from breaking.

  His eyes found hers, dark and hard. “I already did. This morning.”

  She whirled away from him, unable to bear any more cruelty from the man who’d shown her more sincerity and affection than any other. Three hours ago she wouldn’t have believed he was capable of such malice. Now she wondered if she’d ever really known him at all.

  She balled her fists at her sides. It would be easy to storm out, blame him, and write him off. It would be easy to go home, drink wine, and draw a thick black line through this whole episode. It would be easy to tell herself she could stop loving him, she would get over him, she never loved him anyway.

  It would be so easy.

  And it would be a lie.

  She forced herself to turn around and face him, lifting her chin until their gazes locked. She breathed deeply, calming herself. Bracing herself.

  This is going to hurt.

  “I love you, Rio.” The words were strong and confident, her voice unwavering. “I didn’t make a mistake when I said that, and I don’t regret it.”

  He sighed exasperatedly. “Again, you won’t face up to the reality that—”

  “This is my reality. My love for you is as real as the earth I’m standing on. I’d fight for it if I had to, but I won’t fight you.” She unclenched her hands and straightened her shoulders. “If this is over, then tell me it is. I’ll leave. We won’t see each other again.”

  She didn’t dare breathe in the silence that followed. His expression was inscrutable, eyes narrowed with an emotion she didn’t recognize. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The ticking second hand on the wall clock behind him seemed to boom every time it twitched around its circle.

  “I love you,” she repeated, disappointment beginning to overtake hope. “But I won’t wait forever.”

  Every molecule in her body screamed at her to go to him, to embrace him, to kiss him until he understood she meant every word. This could be her last chance. This could be their end.

  But she’d made herself clear. He had to decide whether to take the hand she offered, or leave her like all the rest.

  “Go,” he said finally, his eyes black and cold.

  She lifted her chin, turned her back on the first and only man she’d ever loved and walked out the door.

  “Rio? Bzzzbzzzbzzz, Rio. Bzzzbzzz.”

  There was an urgency to his need to be awake, to open his eyes, but he struggled. His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, his arms even heavier, but someone was speaking very close to his face and shaking his shoulder and it seemed very important that he pry open these stuck-fast eyelids as soon as possible.

  “What? What’s the problem?” he slurred, finally opening one eye and then the other.

  A woman he didn’t recognize leaned over him, smiling and speaking quickly in a language he didn’t understand.

  “Bzzzbzzzbzzz bzzz bzzz bzzzbzzz. Bzzzbzzzbzzz?”

  He shook his head, panic swelling his in chest. Where was he? What was going on? Where was Eva?

  “Rio, bzzzbzzz?”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” he replied, more alert now, taking in his surroundings. Bright lights, gray walls, speckled linoleum floor. Tubes—bedding. He was in a hospital.

  Of course, his knee. The surgery. The anesthesia. He flopped back on the pillow, breathing more easily as the pieces came together.

  “How did it go? Is everything okay? When can I play again?”

  The woman—a nurse, probably—frowned. Had she asked him a question? He hadn’t answered it.

  “It’s okay,” he managed in English. “Eva? Eva Torres.” He pointed toward himself, hoping the woman understood she needed to get his interpreter before he could answer anything too complicated.

  The nurse nodded and moved out of his line of vision. He could hear other people in the vicinity but took advantage of the nurse’s brief absence to close his eyes again, giving himself over to the grogginess pinning him to the bed.

  Eva would be here soon, with her warm smile and soft hands. She’d explain everything. In the meantime he’d just have a little rest.

  “Rio, bzzzbzzz.”

  Reluctantly he opened his eyes.

  A blond woman who looked familiar gave him a big smile. “Hi, Rio. The surgery’s finished. They’re going to take you to your room in a minute. How are you feeling?” she asked in Spanish.

  “Chelsea?” The name came from some deeply buried place in his subconscious. “What are you doing here? Where’s Eva? Is she all right? Is she sick?”

  He’d pushed himself up on his elbows in his anxiety, and for the first time he realized his left leg was bandaged from thigh to mid-calf, immobilized in a brace and elevated on a foam block.

  At least it didn’t hurt. Yet.

  Chelsea bit her lower lip, then offered an artificial smile. “You said you didn’t want to work with Eva any more, remember? So Tony arranged for me to be with you today.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, his thoughts coming clearer with each second, although he still felt half-drunk. “Why would I fire my own polola? I love her, not to mention her Spanish is much better than yours. No offense,” he added quickly, his mouth running faster than his brain.

  “It’s fine,” she replied primly, although clearly it wasn’t. “But you did fire her. Yesterday. After the match against Providence.”

  “Was that yesterday?” He dug through his memory like it was an overfull toy box, discarding most of what he found, setting a few snapshots aside for closer examination.

  The hollow thwack as he kicked over the plastic bucket on the sideline. He couldn’t believe he’d done that. So childish and embarrassing. He hoped it hadn’t gone viral.

  Three o’clock this morning, alone in his house—Hector’s house—scrambling eggs in the kitchen before his pre-surgery fasting period kicked in. Scrolling through his phone as he poked disinterestedly at his food, his stomach twisting with regret. Wanting to call Eva, deciding against it, unable to convince himself he deserved her forgiveness even if she offered it.

  Yesterday, again—probably twenty-four hours ago. The shame burning through him when she translated the doctor’s diagnosis. The overwhelming sense of unworthiness, the automatic instinct to push her away as fast and hard as possible. The horrible things he’d said, the lies he’d told. The door closing behind her.

  He collapsed back on the bed, gripping his head in his hands. Holy God, what had he done?

  The nurse leaned in again. “Rio? Bzzzbzzz bzzz?”

  “She wants to know if you’re in pain,” Chelsea explained. “They can give you drugs if you are.”

  Oh, he was in pain—he was in agony. And there was no drug in existence to fix it.

  He had to get her back—could he get her back? Should he get her back? Or had he proven once and for all that he didn’t deserve her?

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he moaned into his palms. He’d screwed up. He’d lost her. He’d had his shot at a World Cup penalty and he’d hit the bar. Now he had no choice but to own his failure and try to move on.

  Except he didn’t want to move on. He wanted Eva, more than anything in the world.

  He shifted his hips and pain shot through his leg, so hot and sudden he gripped the raised sides of the bed as he clenched his teeth.

  The nurse’s expression sharpened, and she spoke to Chelsea in a prompting buzz.


  “They want to move you into your room now,” Chelsea explained. “Do you want more pain medication first?”

  He nodded fervently. “Yes. Definitely.”

  Chelsea said something to the nurse, who fiddled with the IV pole above him. Within seconds his body relaxed, but while his thoughts moved more slowly they were no less intense.

  A minute later—or maybe ten, he wasn’t quite sure—a couple of orderlies wheeled him out of the operating theatre and down the corridor. Chelsea walked briskly alongside and he closed his eyes, unnerved by the multi-colored blur of unfamiliar walls.

  He tried to take his brain to all the calming places he visited to gather his nerves before corner kicks or at half-time. He envisioned the sea in Antofagasta, the aquamarine water, the light sand, the tall buildings along the coastline. He thought about the springy, bright-green grass on the pitch in the stadium in Santiago, the smart red and blue of his national-team uniform. He heard the punchy thwack of his boot hitting the ball, the resonant swish of the net as he found his target.

  He exhaled in exasperation, opening his eyes as the orderlies turned a corner. Who did he think he was fooling? This visualization crap wasn’t going to work right now. It might never work again.

  Because none of those images could overpower the one that had soothed him the most, and now ripped his heart in two: Eva smiling at him from the sideline, happiness lighting up her face.

  He pressed his forearm against his eyes, blocking out the light, the pain in his leg, the wreck he’d made of his life

  “What did you do yesterday?” Chelsea asked in English.

  “I will going store,” he replied distractedly, glancing at the clock over her shoulder.

  “I went to the store,” she corrected. “Past tense. Try another activity. What did you do yesterday?”

  Weary, he used the one English phrase he’d perfected. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do,” she prompted. “What did you do yesterday?”

  “I eated the food.”

  “You ate. And can we find a better word than food? More specific?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Rio,” she chided exasperatedly, reverting to Spanish. “We just did food words yesterday.”