Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3)

by Caleigh Hernandez

  As expected, the night was a dog and pony show masked only slightly by the night’s main purpose of bringing in the charitable donations from those suffering from financial excess. Sasha was nothing short of predictable. Throughout the evening and during key moments of the event, she made our appearance together the most discussed off-topic story. Outbidding billionaire’s for a Caribbean cruise on a private superyacht and proceeding to inform those within a mile radius that the donation should be recorded as made by the both of us. Emphasizing, “That’s Sasha Stafford and Diego Santo,” as she clutched my arm, an unrequited affectionate gesture.

  After several hours of this massive facade, I am done. The alcohol here is fucking fabulous, but the quantity is lacking because I can’t afford to let my guard down with Sasha.

  That became obvious when a server appeared with a fresh glass of whiskey the moment I drained the one in my hand. When I lifted a quizzical eyebrow at the young woman, she blushed and with a nervous voice informed me, “Ms. Stafford asked us to be sure your glass was never empty, Santo F—” She dared a glance in Sasha’s direction and altered the way she addressed me. “Mr. Santo. Sir.” As it was only glass two of the night, I kindly accepted the drink with a wink and a tip. As she had skirted by me, I offered her another tip. “Make these with water and just enough Redbreast to give it color and I’ll pay—how many of you are serving the alcohol?” She’d answered six and I continued, “Let the rest of your team know about the mix, and I’ll pay each of you one hundred pounds. Plus,” I had pulled out my publicist’s business card, “you call this guy on Tuesday and we’ll work out a day for the six of you to watch a game in one of the suites. Think ya can handle it?” She had eagerly nodded before she practically skipped back to the rest of her team.

  Sasha is rambling on next to me. Never missing a beat to look at me as if she’s in love. If this weren’t my life she was fucking with, I’d say the woman was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. Instead, I just imagine three adamantium claws protruding from the knuckles on my hand and shredding the façade to pieces. I’d say I was on glass nine or ten and feeling the liquor even if it was mostly water. But my mind wanders off to memories of nights like this with Izzy.

  “Now, now, Edward. Diego, here, is perfectly happy with London United,” with my name rolling off her tongue, the involuntary rigidity is back in my spine and I’m shaken from my wandering thoughts. “Don’t you go around thinking you can steal my man from my clutches.”

  I choke on nothing but air. Gasping for breath at Sasha’s claim. It says more than an owner just protecting a player on her team. What she implied with that statement shouldn’t be shocking, but it is.

  “Son,” Edward claps his hand on my back, his term of endearment as much of a statement as a question of concern. “Miss, can you bring us a cup of water?” He must’ve flagged down a passing server. His attention back to me, “Are you okay, Diego?”

  One more hack and I’ve managed to catch my breath. Sasha is looking ever perturbed, the cause for my bout of choking not lost on her. Edward is clueless and emphatically focused on my well-being and ability to breathe.

  “Thanks, Mr. Jameson. I think I’m better now.” Before he could confirm, the young server I’d made the deal with returned with a glass of water and her own look of concern. “Really. I’m fine.” I hold my empty glass with a shake, “Must’ve gone down the wrong pipe.”

  “It’s Edward, Diego. No need for formalities.” A polished woman, maybe ten years older than Izzy, walks up at this moment and slips her hand past his elbow and hooks her arm around Edward’s. “Oh, Megan, my dear. I don’t think you’ve met Bean’s golden boy. Diego,” he turns to me, “this is my stunning wife, Megan. Megan, Diego. This is the young man Bean whisked away from the States to come play ball for him.” The couple shares a solemn look before Edward continues. “I actually had the pleasure of meeting his wi—” I see the embarrassment flood his cheeks as he’s realized his blunder.

  “Oh, yes, Edward. Izzy had been quite embarrassed that day. She had mumbled something about not coming off as very lady-like.” I spare him the concern over Izzy. Sure, it stings, but watching Sasha squirm with the mention of her name was worth it. “So, you’re a London United fan so long as we’re not playing your London City?” I tease to alleviate the last of his concern knitting his brows together. He shakes it off with a chuckle.

  “I was a good sport when I was around Bean, but as one of the owners of London City, you’d never catch me in that dreadful red. But had it not been for that old blowhard, I’d have never considered a football club as a sound investment. Bean, was fanatical about the sport. He was obsessed with the greats, with making greats. What started as a hobby for the both of us, became his life’s work.” With the conversation steering towards football, Mrs. Jameson, Megan, stole Sasha’s attention complimenting her on her dress. Edward nods to his wife and continues regaling me with stories of his adventures and misadventures with the late William Stafford.

  I’d say that it was the highlight of the evening if only for the moments I was able to remember the father-like figure, and one of my biggest supporters, without immediately thinking of his daughter and the mess she’s dragged me into. Edward carried on about the near riots their rivalry started in any of the many pubs across the United Kingdom. Those moments were lost when conversation steered towards kids. Sadly, Edward and his first wife were never able to have kids. His second wife didn’t want any. “Probably something we should have discussed before we tied the knot,” he’d said with a shrug. But Bean and Esme gladly shared the joys of having a child with him when Sasha came along.

  Our silent pauses got longer as the topics of conversation got heavier and I found myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

  Edward leans into me and confesses, “I was sorry to hear about you and your wife, Diego. Not that I have the history to demonstrate any sense on the subject, but I’d have wagered a lot of money you and that tiny bundle of amazing were destined for forever.”

  “You and me both, sir,” I toss back what’s left of the glass of water as if it was the numbing elixir I wish it was. When my eyes are level with his, I recognize a look of understanding on Edward’s face that says he has a solid idea of what I’ve found myself in at the hands of Sasha. He slips his hand into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and just as quickly it emerges with a business card pinched between two of his fingers.

  “When you’re tired of wearing that awful red, give me a call, Diego.” Edward’s gaze awkwardly eyeballs the card in his outstretched hand. As I grab it, I realize he’s scrawled a message on it. Taking it from his hand, I quickly, and with any luck, imperceptibly read the handwritten note: I think I can help.

  I can see that Sasha’s watching the exchange, so I school my initial response, smoothing out my furrowed eyebrows and relaxing the muscles in my lips before she can recognize the addled expression. Masking my confusion and what you might call shock brought on by the notion that Edward was aware that I was in a situation that necessitated his help. I was thankful when another of the serving staff came by with my drink. The six of them were certainly earning the proffered rewards. Especially when I catch the sly smile Sasha aims at the young man that just handed me my beverage. “Edward,” I slip the card into my inner pocket and deliver the rest of my response with as much conviction and jest as I could muster, “I wouldn’t hold your breath. I’m partial to red. I’ve been told it brings out the copper in my eyes.” I hold the smile in place while I crumble a little inside knowing Izzy was the only person to have said anything about the color red and my eyes.

  Megan popped back to Edward’s side and they excused themselves. We exchanged some farewell pleasantries and I watched the two of them work their way through the masses still hobnobbing over drinks and tales of their financial conquests. I’m probably over-generalizing the group, but with the depa
rture of the evening’s distraction, Sasha has saddled back up to my side and I’m ready for the night to be over.

  I decide then and there that it is. I have a mid-morning practice, albeit optional, that I’d like to make it to. I drain the last of my watered down Redbreast and unceremoniously shake off Sasha at the same time. “Sasha, dear,” I drawl in distaste. “The witching hour is nigh and I have practice in the morning.”

  My formalities don’t go unnoticed with her. “Cut the crap, Diego. Practice is optional and you don’t have to be there.”

  “Well, boss lady,” I hiss, “I’ve made a commitment to my team and teammates, so I will be there. I’ve done my deed for the night, played the part as your arm candy, and even kept my mouth shut as you let the paps and media weave our non-existent relationship into football’s fairy tale. Now,” I saw placing my empty glass on the nearest surface, “we can leave together or I can get a cab. Either way, it’s happening as soon as I finish one more glass.” I don’t really need the liquor, but I want to make sure the servers get what I’ve promised.

  I storm off towards the serving station and am met with five of the six saviors of the night. I slip each of them the agreed upon amount and garner a promise to get the remaining reward to the absent one of them. “Now, be sure to call my publicist on Tuesday. I’m going to call him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there.” I turn to walk away and then turn back, remembering my excuse for making my way over here. “Thanks for your help tonight. And if you can pour me one last glass, I’ll be on my way. No ice.” When the young woman I’d made the deal with reaches for the water I shake it off. I toss back the shot and begrudgingly make my way back to Sasha.

  “So?” I ask her. I’m not in the mood for mincing words.

  When she doesn’t answer, I pivot and make my way to the exit. She’s at my side before I’ve made it to the coat check. Grabbing our coats, I’m met with a nasty glare when I attempt to hand Sasha hers. Oh for fuck’s sake. I do the obligatory task of helping her into her coat, leaving my own draped over my arm. There were fewer flashes as we were leaving but Sasha made every attempt to cozy up to me like we just had a magical night, answering questions about the evening as if we were one, and sharing that ‘we’d’ won the silent auction for a Caribbean cruise on a private yacht.

  Once we were settled into Sasha’s limousine, I made my way to the farthest end and poured myself another drink. Sasha instructs the driver to take us somewhere other than my hotel. “Sorry, Liam, please take me to the Orcutt.” He cuts Sasha a look in the rear view mirror before nodding back at me. I don’t miss the huff from Sasha, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

  I barely mustered up a few grunts and sounds of affirmation while she made small talk on our return trip to my place. I popped out of the limo before Liam could open the door. Exiting on the driver’s side of the car, I slipped him a couple of notes and walked off without another word to Sasha.

  Having made my way up to my suite, I kick my shoes off and toss both coat and jacket on the back of a dining chair. Grabbing my phone from my pants pocket, I shoot Izzy a text message.

  The night was hell without you.

  Love you so much, so much.

  Too aggravated to head to bed, I opt for a round on the bag in the en suite gym. Not bothering with changing I discard the bow tie and the white button up shirt and lightly tape up my hands. Pressing play on the iPod, I get to pounding as Slipknot’s “Wait and Bleed” fills the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: She Will Be Loved

  March 2007 – Izzy

  Eight weeks ago, a picture of my husband with another woman destroyed me.

  Three weeks ago, Diego was on his way to a meeting with said woman: Sasha Stafford. Diego agreed to come home after the meeting. I got a text instead.

  Trust. Me.

  Two weeks ago, I finally saw him. I watched Diego leave our home with his bags packed.

  This morning, on the cover of every rag and magazine in the London area, is a picture of Sasha and Diego on the red carpet of one of the city’s largest annual charity events. Their pictures from the red carpet along with pictures of them schmoozing and dancing were everywhere, showing up on every television ‘In Celebrity News’ with a variation of the headline that delivered the nail in my heart:

  London football royalty, Sasha Stafford and London United Superstar Midfielder, Diego Santo taking it off the pitch.

  Last night, I disconnected from the outside world. Kept the television off, stayed away from the computer, and powered off my phone after I talked with Diego. He had said he’d message me when the night was over, but I didn’t have the nerves to brave messages and notifications from anyone else just to wait for his message or call. I know it’s the morning after, but I still haven’t bothered checking. I know there’s one waiting for me, but the mob in front of the house and the stack of rags Alfred brought in at the crack of dawn are more than what I want to be handling. I know his message is there when I can brave the barrage of shocked messages from well-meaning friends and the litany of requests for interviews from misguided media outlets.

  After I’ve made my way through the rags…yes, I know I’m a glutton for punishment—there was a small box wrapped in brown paper, no label, no note, no nothing. “Alfred, do we know where this box came from?”

  A small smile graces his face when he answers, “I was instructed by Mr. Santo to have that ready for you with your morning coffee.”

  For a brief moment, the drama that we’ve found ourselves in the middle of disappears as I carefully drag my finger under the seam of paper and releasing the tape holding it in place. Before I can open it any further, the temporary bubble I escaped in was burst by the sound of the paps shouting questions at Mazzy as she made her way into the house through the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Frizzy.” She rustles her hand through my hair, drawing attention to the use of the abhorred nickname. “Thanks, Alfred.” He’s placed a cup of chai tea on the bedside table near where she’s perched herself on my bed. “Ooh, a package. I wonder what it could be,” her mock curiosity draws a glare of suspicion from me. “What?” she asks incredulously. “I’m just wondering what it could be.”

  When I roll my eyes, she chuckles. “You do realize that I’m not buying what you’re selling.” Not giving her a moment to deny, I finish tearing into the package. To my surprise, it’s got an eye mask similar to the one I sometimes sleep in and a note:

  Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth. —Marcus Aurelius

  Your mind knows the facts. Your heart knows the truths.♥ Diego

  “What the fuck?” I can hear the irritation in my voice. “He’s quoting fucking Roman emperors?”

  I’m ready to smack Mazz when she chuckles again.

  “Time to go, Frizzy. Get up, get up.” Her sing-songy voice is quickly becoming my least favorite thing about today.

  Mazzy insisted that she knew best what the situation required of my apparel. Pretty sure, I rolled my eyes as she rummaged through my drawers and closet. I took to the shower when she refused to even acknowledge a single one of my inquiries. It’s painfully frustrating when your own peeps can keep secrets from you.

  Getting ready took no time at all, as Mazzy had an outfit picked out and waiting for me. I was relieved to discover it was a simple sweater dress paired with black leggings and my white jeweled Chucks. As excited as I am for my surprise, I have forgotten neither the mob outside my front door nor the plethora of rags decorated with images of my husband and Sasha sitting on my kitchen table. I can feel the weight of sadness pulling on my heart.

  Once we’re in the car with Alfred at the wheel, Mazzy hands me the eye mask that was in the box from this morning. “Seriously?” She just nods and I let out a groan of frustration. “I swear I’m going to
choke you if you laugh again, Ms. Robinson.”

  “You fucking bitch,” she snaps back with a laugh. “I should have Alfred turn this car around and let you fend for yourself against the mob at your door.” At least, I know she’s not completely impervious to everything I’m saying. Of course, I wasn’t playing fair by jumping right into it with her family name.

  “Desperate times, desperate measures,” I quip back. I yank the mask from her hands and secure it in place over my eyes.

  “We’re ready, Alfred,” Mazzy informs him. “Okay, Izzy…it should be about fifteen minutes or so. Just enough time,” I hear her rustling with something, “to listen to a special message.”

  A few clicks later, the car is filled with a buzzing like from a live mic. “Mi bella preciosa,” Diego’s voice replaces the buzz. “The surprise you’re headed to was meant to be an anniversary present; however, circumstances being what they are, I think it works better now. For obvious reasons, I cannot be there with you, but know that no matter what, it’s you and me against the world. Enjoy. I love you so much, so much.”

  Within seconds of Diego’s voice fading from the speakers, Alfred slowed the car to a stop. I thought Mazzy was insane insisting I put on waterproof mascara, but now I’m grateful. Hearing Diego’s sad and guilt laced voice breaks my heart. Him not being able to be with me squeezes the air from lungs.

  “Izzy,” Mazzy’s got her kid gloves on. She no doubt caught the sniffles that accompanied the hidden tears soaking into the mask. “I can’t promise that this will be the last of your tears, but I can guarantee that you’ll have a smile to go with them.” She grabs me by the hand and pulls me from the car. I heard her whisper a thank you to Alfred and something about later, but I couldn’t make it out.