She wore that pinched expression that usually preceded one of her lectures about his slow progress and lack of effort. His knee throbbed beneath the kitchen table. Overwhelmed by defeat, he crossed his arms on the wooden surface and lowered his face into them.
He heard Chelsea’s sigh of irritation and ignored it. The week since he’d woken up in the hospital had been the worst of his life.
Although the doctor anticipated good results from the operation, she kept him in overnight for observation. The following morning he was in the middle of exchanging texts with Nico, arranging a time for the Uruguayan to pick him up, when Roland arrived with Chelsea in tow.
“You can’t go back to Hector’s house—too many stairs,” she translated, and although he couldn’t understand Roland’s words specifically, he could tell the manager’s tone brooked no argument. “The guest cottage at Roland’s house is single-story, so he’s arranged for your stuff to be moved there. For the next couple of weeks he wants to oversee your recovery personally.”
“He wants to make sure I’m following the rules,” Rio filled in.
“Can you blame him?” she asked.
He couldn’t, and in the end Roland had no need to worry. Rio felt like the doctor had removed his spirit while she was fixing his knee. He was constantly tired, listless, cowed by his pain and immobility. He complied docilely with Chelsea’s lessons, the doctor’s instructions, and the exercises guided by the physiotherapist who came to the one-bedroom cottage twice a day. He didn’t always agree with all of them, but he didn’t care enough to argue.
He didn’t care about anything except Eva.
He felt her loss more keenly than the ache in his knee or the uncertainty of his career. He missed her so much it surprised and bewildered him, and he couldn’t summon any of the anger with which he’d sent her away to mitigate it. Even worse, he had no idea how to fix the situation—and doubted he could, no matter what he tried.
Sitting at the table with his head in his arms was exactly where he deserved to be, he decided, pressing his forehead lower. His recklessness had finally caught up with him, just like everyone told him it would. He refused to listen, and now he had no career, no Eva, no future. He was useless and unloved, and probably always would be.
He heard Chelsea get up from the table, round the breakfast bar and turn on the kettle. She was probably going to make more of that herbal tea she was always drinking, some sharp-smelling concoction of ginger and lemon. She must get through a gallon of that stuff a day. And then she’d be running off to the bathroom all afternoon, leaving him waiting.
God, she was so annoying.
A five-rap knock sounded on the front door. Roland. The last person he wanted to see.
Rio dragged up his head as he heard the manager’s footsteps, but he was too slow—Roland’s expression showed that he’d seen his star winger’s defeated posture.
“Bzzzbzzz bzzz.” Chelsea spoke to Roland tartly from her place by the sink. Rio dropped his head again. Let her complain about him—it made no difference.
A chair scratched against the floor, and then Roland’s hand was on his shoulder, the Swede’s voice rumbling incomprehensibly at his side.
Chelsea’s pause before she offered her translation was unusual, and when she finally spoke Rio understood why. “He came by to tell you Skyline’s made a deal for a new defensive midfielder to join in the midseason transfer window. He’s Argentinian. Doesn’t speak much English.”
Slowly Rio raised his head. “And?”
Roland spoke again, and Chelsea explained, “Eva Torres has agreed to serve as his translator. She was just here, at the house, to finalize the terms. She asked about you.”
Rio locked eyes with his manager. Roland said nothing more—he didn’t need to. His face told the story, and Rio read the ending loud and clear.
Eva wasn’t going anywhere—her future was at Skyline. But if he wanted to be part of it, he had to pull himself together and make it happen.
Hope surged in his chest, radiating energy through his body like he hadn’t felt since he’d woken up in the recovery room. She didn’t hate him. She hadn’t forgotten him. Maybe he still had a chance.
If he lost the ball, he did everything he could to get it back—and nine times out of ten he succeeded. Why was he giving up on something far more important than any pass he’d ever intercepted, any goal he’d ever scored?
He was Rio Vidal, Goddammit—the bastard of Antofagasta who grew up into el Príncipe de Chile. It didn’t matter whether his first season at Skyline turned out to be his last, or whether the rest of his career petered out on the bench of a second-tier Chilean side. He loved Eva more than he knew he had the capacity to love anything. If she was through with him, fine—but he wouldn’t let her go without a fight. Not him. Not Rio fucking Vidal.
Roland squeezed his shoulder, then stood and walked back out the front door. Chelsea resumed her seat across the table, wrapping two hands around a mug of tea.
“Where were we?” she asked in Spanish. “Food vocabulary, I think. Do you want to review the lesson from yesterday, or try the past tense again?”
He shook his head. “Actually, I have another idea.”
Chapter 18
“And instead of appreciated, I’d use honored. It’s more polite.”
Nico nodded, amending the printed copy of a speech he’d asked Eva to review.
“That’s it. A couple of tweaks and you’re good to go.” She sat back in her chair, regarding the Uruguayan across the table. They sat in the Regal Terrace, King Stadium’s VIP restaurant and viewing suite, which was shuttered and empty on this Thursday afternoon.
“Great. Thanks for your help.”
“I didn’t contribute much. Your English is almost perfect.” She crossed her arms. “You didn’t really need me to look this over, did you?”
He shrugged, shuffling the piece of paper back into a manila folder. “It’s nice of this Latin American association to give me an award. I want to make sure I thank them appropriately.”
“You don’t need me,” she confirmed. “But I appreciate what you’re trying to do.”
He sighed and leaned back. “Rio’s going through a rough time, but he’ll get through it. I thought I could help ensure you’re still around when he does.”
Her smile tightened. Nico was trying to be nice, so she didn’t want to offend him, but for Christ’s sake, she was sick and tired of talking about Rio to everyone and anyone who wasn’t him.
It had been a week and a half since they’d parted at the hospital, and while she’d had radio silence from the man himself, she couldn’t seem to get through more than five words without his name arising in conversation.
First there was the awkward discussion with Roland, in which she thought she conducted herself with flawless professionalism. Roland’s response, however, was to mutter obscenities under his breath and assure her she still had a job at Skyline. They were expecting an Argentinian transfer during the midseason window and he was happy to float her on the payroll until the new player arrived. She informed him that wasn’t necessary, she had plenty of freelance jobs lined up and she was sorry she’d overstepped her professional boundaries, but he insisted.
She’d thanked him, then glanced around his home office as she gathered the courage to ask her next question. “How is Rio?”
“Physically he’s improving every day,” he answered without hesitation. “Psychologically he has a long road to travel. I think he’ll get there, though. And I’m hopeful he come through this a better, more mature player.”
She absorbed the manager’s words, and he seemed to interpret her pause another way.
“Do you want me to tell him anything?”
She shook her head. “He knows where to find me.”
“Rio’s misguided stubbornness has already lost me my midfield powerhouse for three months,” he explained. “I’m not about to lose you, too.”
Th
en Olivia had taken her out for cocktails on Monday evening, and the conversation immediately focused on the med student’s good-natured but unhelpful efforts to cheer her up.
“He’s an idiot,” Olivia asserted. “He’ll never find another woman like you.”
“Probably not,” Eva agreed. “So he’ll go back to dating lingerie models.”
To her credit, Olivia only gaped for a second before recovering. “Then I hope they’re all a foot taller than him in heels. Cheers.” She raised her glass for a toast.
“Cheers.” Eva brought in her glass for a clink, but her smile was forced, knowing full well Rio couldn’t care less.
Last night she’d had the least likely expression of sympathy of all. She’d hesitated before answering the call from a number with a Chilean country code, and when she recognized Rio’s mother’s voice she considered pretending the line was bad and hanging up.
Instead she listened politely as Yolanda thanked her for ensuring Rio got the medical attention he needed.
“I hope we’ll have the chance to welcome you to Antofagasta again,” Yolanda concluded.
“I hope so too,” she replied, admiring Yolanda’s deft acknowledgement that Eva did the right thing without too obviously throwing her son under the bus.
That sentiment seemed to be the predominant one. Ross, Tony, and now Nico had found opportunities to assure her she’d done right by Rio and that eventually he’d do right by her, too.
It was nice of them all to say so, and if she’d needed reassurance she would’ve been grateful.
But she didn’t. She knew she was right and Rio was wrong, if it had to be broken down that way.
Being right didn’t ease her pain. It didn’t dampen the resonant silence of her phone when he didn’t call. It didn’t warm the empty half of the bed. It didn’t close the wound of having opened her heart to someone like she’d never done before, only to have that most vulnerable part of herself balled up and tossed aside like yesterday’s newspaper.
She didn’t care about being right. She wanted to be loved.
And she didn’t want to have any more discussions about Rio, she decided exasperatedly, refocusing her attention on Nico.
“Your speech is perfect,” she told him. “And my job is safe, but thank you for thinking of me.”
He flattened his palms on the table. “The midseason transfer window is on its way. Should I tell Rio he needs to move quickly or he’s going to lose you to another player?”
“You don’t need to tell him anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“He had surgery on his knee, not his fingers. I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of dialing my number if he wants to.”
Sadness tinged Nico’s answering smile. “I wish it were that simple. An injury like his is tough to swallow, not just for a player like Rio—for all of us. Three months is a big chunk of the season, and sometimes it takes longer to get back to full fitness. Some players never recover from a gap like this. They can’t regain their speed, their hunger, their focus. Rio’s in a dark place. It can be hard to see the light.”
She arched a brow. “If you want me to feel sorry for him—”
“I don’t.” He raised placatory palms. “Just don’t give up on him. That’s all.”
Eva mulled over Nico’s words as she made her way through the labyrinthine stadium complex to her car.
Logically she knew Rio had spoken out of anger the last time she’d seen him. He was frustrated and hurting and absorbing terrible news—fine. She got it. And if he’d called her a day or two later she would’ve brushed off his apologies and chalked the whole thing up to stress.
But he didn’t call her a day or two later. Or five days later. Or a week later. Nearly two weeks on she hadn’t heard a word. With every hour that passed her detachment hardened while her hope faded.
After all, why should he be different from the rest of the long list of people who’d left her? He was richer, more famous, and better looking than any other man she’d dated. Why on earth had she ever thought he’d be the one to break the mold and stay committed?
Because he told me he loved me. And I believed him.
She sighed as she unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat. She’d gotten over plenty of hurt in her life. In time—a long time—she’d get over Rio, too.
She’d just put the key in the ignition when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, saw Father Diego’s number, and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Eva, are you busy?”
“No, why?”
“Come to the church. There’s something I want you to see.”
He hung up, and she stared at the phone for a few seconds before shoving it back into her purse. Father Diego had never been a man of many words, but it was unusual for him to sound so excited. Whatever it was he wanted to show her, it couldn’t be too bad.
She speculated wildly on the drive to the church. Had an infant been abandoned in the nave? Had the trailer’s leaky roof been fixed overnight? Had the water in the baptismal font turned into wine?
The answer stared at her from the church steps as she pulled into the parking lot, and she muttered a few deeply unholy phrases as she parked and got out of her car.
Rio.
He sat on the third step from the bottom, his left leg in a brace, a pair of crutches at his side. Father Diego sat on the step above him, rising in greeting as Eva approached.
“There you are,” the priest said warmly, but her attention was focused on Rio. He was clearly surprised to see her, and she tried to smooth the shock out of her own expression as she finally turned to Father Diego.
“Look what Señor Vidal has given us.” He showed her a check.
Her jaw dropped. She’d never seen so many zeroes in her life.
“Holy—” She clamped her hand over her mouth, catching herself just in time.
“It’s for the drop-in center,” Father Diego explained, grinning widely. “He was so impressed with the good work you do here, he’s given us enough funding to add additional sessions and start a legal aid fund. And look,” he unfolded a set of what looked like architectural drawings. “He’s hired a firm to replace the trailer with a real, brick-and-mortar auxiliary building.”
She couldn’t speak. She glanced between the check, the priest’s smile, and Rio’s stony silence and back again, a bewildering triangle of conflicting emotions.
“Isn’t this great?” the priest prompted, then put an understanding hand on her shoulder. “I know, it’s a huge surprise.”
“Yes. It is,” she agreed.
“Father!” One of the ubiquitous church ladies appeared in the doorway, her face bright with excitement. “Phone call for you—it’s the diocese!”
“Probably returning my call about the donation. Excuse me.” He jogged up the steps and disappeared into the church, leaving the two of them staring at each other.
Eva cycled through her emotional options like items on a menu. Joy, relief, gratitude, indignation, anger—no, indignation would do just fine.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “Did you think this would impress me? Buy back my favor?”
His brown eyes widened hopefully, and she cursed her betraying heart for skipping a beat. “Did it work?”
“Of course it didn’t,” she insisted, clutching tightly to her anger. “I don’t hear from you for ten days, and now you’re trying to anonymously fund the drop-in center. I’m lost. Explain.”
He held up placating palms. “It was supposed to be anonymous. I didn’t know Father Diego called you until you pulled up.” She looked at him—really looked at him. He was a mess. Shadows ringed his eyes, he wore a button-down shirt over training shorts, and he was at least two days overdue for a shave.
Despite everything he’d done—and hadn’t done—her heart ached for him. She flopped down on the step beside him.
“What’s going on, Rio?”
Any trace of humor disappeared and he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’ve had to move out of Hector’s house and into Roland’s guest cottage, because it has no stairs and he wants to personally oversee my recovery. I can’t play, I can’t train, I can’t even walk. And Chelsea is so Goddamn annoying.”
Don’t smile. It’s not funny.
Eva bit her lower lip. “Why is she annoying?”
“She comes out with all these weird facts about Chile that she reads on the Internet, and she’s started reading Chilean newspapers online and trying to talk to me about politics.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t even know who the president was until I met her when we won the South American Cup.”
She opened her mouth to offer polite encouragement, but he raised a hand to stop her.
“I know, it’s my own fault. I’ve created this whole, miserable situation myself. I deserve it. Trust me, I know.”
“Rio,” she murmured, giving into the urge to touch him as she rested her hand on his wrist. “You don’t, not at all.”
“Of course I do.” He propped his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry, Eva. I hate myself for what I said to you. I was scared and ashamed and I wanted to push you away so you wouldn’t see me fail. I don’t expect you to forgive me—I don’t deserve it. But you deserve everything you’ve ever wanted, and the money and the new building for the drop-in center are my way of trying to give you just a fraction of what you deserve. They don’t obligate you to anything, and if you tell me you never want to see me again I’ll respect that. But I hope I’ll have at least made you happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
She stared at him, eyes wide, struggling to process his words.
Then she inched closer and slid her arm across his lower back.
He turned to her in surprise, and she squeezed his wrist where she held it.
“You deserve more than forgiveness, more than joy. You deserve to be loved for the remarkable, good-hearted man you are. And as it turns out, today’s your lucky day. Because I love who you were, who you are, and who you’ll become.”
Crossing Hearts Page 23