Josh looked down at his hands and mumbled, “I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like going to practice.”
He glanced over. “Take those headphones off, please. I have something important to say.”
When they were in Josh’s lap, Sam continued. “You want to be part of this team, you have to come to practice, no matter what. Is that clear?”
He wanted to cringe at the parental tone of his voice, and would rather be barking out ways to improve a kid’s soccer skills than sternly admonishing bad teenage habits.
“My leg hurt today.”
Josh’s voice was low, and from the tone of it, Sam could tell the words probably hurt more.
“I told you if it got bad, you could sit on the bench.”
“But I’m afraid if I do, you’ll bench me for good!” Josh accused.
Sam knew from experience how difficult it was to admit pain, but he couldn’t let Josh use that as an excuse.
“The only way that will happen is if you stop showing up, and you stop trying on the field.”
He braked for a red light and turned his head. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to have an injury? To be afraid of the pain?”
“I’m not afraid,” Josh interrupted.
The light turned over to green and Sam continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“But that’s no reason to stop playing the game you love. Your doctor felt you were physically ready. Now you just have to work on being mentally ready, too.”
“I told you I’m not afraid.” He gave an exasperated huff and turned away, brooding.
Sam figured he was either trying to take it all in, or dreaming up more excuses. Lately, with his own injury, he was adept at doing the latter.
“I’m sorry for being a loser today.”
Sam shot Josh a hard glance, but he was still facing the window. “I don’t coach losers. If aspects of your playing are different because of the injury, identify it and I can help you,” he added. “As I stated, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like.”
“So if you’re all recovered, why did you quit the pros?”
Sam pulled up to the curb beside Mariella’s home. “I’m mostly recovered. I still do physical therapy, too,” he clarified, nudging Josh’s arm playfully. “And I didn’t quit. I just took some time off to coach you rotten bunch of blokes.”
“Thanks, Coach.” Josh smiled shyly. “For the ride, and for the advice.”
He draped his wrist over the steering wheel. “You’re welcome. Now, what are you going to tell your mom?”
“The truth,” Josh said without any hesitation.
“Great answer.” Sam nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
When Josh was safely inside, Sam drove downtown.
All the holiday decorations were up and the little town looked like it had been transported back to the time of Charles Dickens, without the snow. The streetlamps were wrapped with pine boughs and white lights. Each one of the “frosted” windows had a vintage holiday scene and he’d heard this was the first year all the stores were leased and open for business.
He was surprised to see so many people out and about on a weeknight. Couples arm in arm and families with kids browsing the shops, which were open late for holiday shopping. The old-fashioned carousel, smack dab in the middle of the square, was whirling slowly, lights twinkling merrily. With his window rolled down, he could hear the carnival-like strains of Christmas music and he smiled.
In general, he was pleased with his temporary home. Bay Point was charming and had more restaurants than he’d expected, though it could use a few more pubs. The people were friendly, sometimes overly so, but they seemed to mean him no harm. The beautiful beaches and temperate weather made him forget to be homesick for London and the career he’d left behind.
As he steered his SUV around the back of the building, he wondered if he would run into his landlord, Henry Wexler, the owner of Relics and Rarities. Short and squat, Wexler’s rounded belly was always the first to show around a corner, and it swung like a pendulum whenever he moved.
He was shocked to learn his mother already knew the man. They’d met at an antiques show in London, and had kept in touch over the years. She utilized Wexler’s extensive contacts to add to her collection of English porcelain, and from what his mother told him, he was always glad to assist. It made him wonder if the apartment vacancy hadn’t been prearranged.
Sam shook his head again, as he did after he’d ended that particular call with his mother. Just when he thought he knew everything about the woman who had borne him, he realized he didn’t know anything at all. Except that she would love the tea set he’d sent to her.
He grabbed his duffel bag and climbed the stairs to his place. Compared to his tiny apartment in Bay Point, his flat on Farnborough Close, Brent, a borough of London, was a palace. Still, it suited him. Though he had plenty of money, he preferred to live in comfort, not over-the-top glitz.
He just hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision to come over to the States and take this job in the first place.
His publicist told Sam that coaching in the United States was a great way to build his name on this side of the pond. Soccer was rapidly growing in popularity here, with professional teams sprouting up in several major cities. The sport, called football everywhere else except the US, had a worldwide appreciative fan base that bordered on mania.
His mother tried to guilt him out of it, by claiming he could heal up in London just as well as he could in California. He knew she would have been perfectly happy if he’d stayed in England, feeling sorry for himself.
Sam never claimed to be a self-aware kind of guy. He fully admitted to himself on a daily basis that he didn’t know what he wanted, except to get away.
Brent, the town where he was born, was home to the legendary Wembley Stadium, the home of English football, and a place dear to his heart. He’d played on its famous pitch too many times to count. But his pride, his ego, not even the hordes of admiring females, could persuade him to stay.
He slung open the refrigerator and grabbed a light beer, cringing as he popped the cap off. The sound always brought him back to the day when his injury happened.
They were up a point and he’d been defending the team’s hold on the ball. So intense was his focus, he didn’t notice when another midfielder from the opposing team came after him at top speed and tried to steal it from him, until it was too late.
The crack of bone against bone.
The pop that filled his ears, and the instantaneous, gut-wrenching pain that faded his consciousness.
Emergency surgery was performed. Afterward, he awoke and learned he’d torn the anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, on his left knee and bought himself an instant vacation. His career had come to a grinding halt and all his opponent got was a red penalty card. That they’d also won the game was the final, bruising blow.
Tears sprang to his eyes at the memory. He blamed it on sudden grogginess as vigorously as he pondered what would become of his fame.
All eyes had been watching Sam on the field that day. As soon as he hit the green pitch, knee twisted crazily to the side, the crowd began to root for him to get up.
To the average fan, soccer was something to watch and while away the hours of a day. To fantasize about being in the same cleats as a favorite pro player, dodging your opponent, trying to make the almighty goal, all the way to the bank.
But to him, soccer was his entire life and was for a long time. He’d been kicking that ball since he was six years old; had been playing professionally for ten. Now, at thirty-two, he may have to make other choices. Decisions he didn’t even want to think about.
Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.
“Go, Sammy! Get back in the game,” he muttered to himself, but not even close to the vehemence of his so-called fans that day. Back in Brent, he’d never wo
ndered if they really cared about him, or if they cared about the game more.
He took a slug of beer and voted the latter. He was entertainment, a fantasy figure, and nothing more.
Sam finished off the beer, rinsed the bottle out and threw it in the recycling bin. He’d dismissed an earlier call from his mother. Now, as he did his nightly regimen of crunches on the floor, he debated calling her back.
Though he loved his mother, she was a bit overbearing. His dad, who loved watching him play professional soccer, died ten years ago. He knew she was lonely since his passing, but that didn’t give her the right to try to run his life from afar.
One reason he’d taken the coaching gig was to prove he could teach soccer to someone else. So far, he seemed to be doing okay, and was actually enjoying it. Expectations were high, from the kids to the athletic director to the parents, but he kept his attitude positive. What mattered most was that he was still involved in the game that he loved so much. This little side gig gave him an opportunity to explore a second career, if he decided not to return to professional soccer.
Or if his injury decided it for him.
Sam felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he slid it on.
“You’re up late. Did you get my gift?”
“Yes. I loved it.”
“Excellent. Henry helped me pick it out. Otherwise, I probably would have chosen something tacky.”
“Yes, Henry does have great taste. You, on the other hand, often do not. I was pleasantly surprised.”
Sam grinned. “I can always count on you to be forthright, Mother. Anyway, what’s up?”
“When are you coming back home?”
He knew, by the tone of her voice, that she had settled back into her favorite floral easy chair, and expected a prompt answer. The one she wanted to hear. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give it to her.
“I’m not sure when or if I’ll be back,” he hedged. “I’m here until March at least.”
She sighed heavily. “Are you at least coming home for Christmas? I want you to help me decorate.”
During the holidays especially, his mother was more needy, and anxious to spend as much time with him as she could. The only reason she probably didn’t follow him from country to country during the soccer season, which in Europe was most of the year, was because it would be too taxing for her.
Buying antiques was expensive therapy, but at least it kept her out of his hair.
“Probably not, Mum. I’ll probably stay in Bay Point for Christmas,” he replied, refusing to confirm his whereabouts so far in advance. “At least the paparazzi aren’t following my every move here.”
“That’s all part of being a star,” his mother urged.
“Sometimes I think you like it more than I do,” he grumbled.
“What mother in the free world doesn’t want her child to be popular?” she harped with a disgusted snort.
He rolled up into a sitting position. “I don’t know. Fame sometimes feels fake to me.”
“Why should it? You’ve earned every flash, every bit of ink, real and virtual.”
“I never wanted it,” he insisted, steadying his elbow on his good knee.
“That’s what makes it so perfect,” she reasoned, and then paused for a long moment. “Haven’t I given you everything you’ve ever wanted?”
He heard her sniffling back tears. Though he didn’t know if they were genuine or for show, his voice softened.
“Yes, of course you have, Mum.”
“Then why not give me something I want. Come back home to Brent where you belong. You can go back to playing soccer. Or you can just relax until you figure out what you want to do.”
“I don’t know. I’m not ready to decide yet.”
“Are they even paying you?”
He rolled his eyes at the question.
“We worked out an arrangement.”
“How much?” she demanded.
He held the phone away from his ear, thumb poised over the end call button.
“Don’t make me be rude, Mother.”
His mother had provided everything necessary for a child to survive: food, clothing, shelter. His father, an investment banker, worked a lot of hours to afford the expensive roof over their heads, and the jewels on his wife’s fingers. She’d loved him and been his rock when his father was too busy with his business affairs.
He hated when she treated him as if he was still a teenager, and recalled when he’d made the mistake of telling her how much he was earning as a bagger at the local grocery store. She’d gone up to the shopkeeper and demanded he give her son a raise, and the man ended up firing him.
She huffed out a breath in a way that made him even angrier. “It can’t be nearly as much as you could make playing pro soccer.”
Sam got up and paced the living room. He knew he’d reached a point in the conversation that would make it a struggle to keep his voice calm.
“Of course it’s not, but I don’t need any more money. What I need is—”
Mariella.
Her name popped into his head, when normally he would have told his mother he needed to be left alone.
Before she could argue with him further, he told her he was tired and hung up.
Afterward, Sam cleaned his apartment. He was the only man he knew who cleaned for relaxation. It didn’t hold a candle to great sex, but that wasn’t an option right now.
For most of his dating years, he’d been with women who had not been worth the effort or the risk to be a better man.
Too often, he would drown his sorrows in the arms of a woman he didn’t really want, at least for more than a night. A woman he knew he would never, and couldn’t ever, love for a lifetime.
When he was in his early twenties, he’d started to care deeply for a woman. It ended the day she sold the story about their relationship to the London gossip magazines. Her betrayal hurt him to the core, and now he was very wary of trusting any woman, especially when there was an instant attraction.
He didn’t know when he realized he needed the love of a woman who could see past his so-called fame, into the person he was inside. Maybe it was when he was laid up in a hospital bed for a month, when the steady stream of visitors dried up, and so did his coverage in the newspapers. He’d had plenty of time to think, to review what had occurred in his life up until then, and he learned he was still very much a secret to himself.
For so long, he’d been focused on life “outward”—success, money and prestige. There was still so much about him he needed to discover, and he didn’t want to go at it alone.
He retreated to his bedroom and separated his dirty clothes into piles by color. His apartment did not have a washer and dryer. There was a laundromat close by that had pick-up and drop-off service; all he had to do was place the call. He dreaded doing his own laundry, so he appreciated the amenity.
Around eleven, he hopped into the shower. Despite the fact that he’d been out of Mariella’s presence for several hours, he couldn’t shake the longing he felt for her. It was as if she were right in front of him, and he grabbed his penis, imagining her watching him as he stroked and stroked.
He saw her naked before him, the hot water coursing between her breasts and sliding down both of their bodies. Her eyes trained on his fist moving faster and faster as he watched her hands stroke between her spread legs.
It wasn’t long until he was limp, energy spent, panting with his forehead against tile. Mariella evaporated in his mind as the water ran cool down his back, ending his fantasy.
Later in bed the sheets were cold, scratchy and unwelcoming. Sam thought how nice it would be to have Mariella beside him, wrapped in his arms. Then he counted the months he had remaining in Bay Point.
With a sad sigh, he decided his fantasies were safer for both of them, plumped his pillow and fell asleep.
/> Chapter 4
Sam blew his whistle hard. He threw his hands up high into the air as if it could rid him of the intense frustration he was feeling.
“C’mon, guys! What’s the matter with you?” His players stopped in their tracks. None of them was where he’d instructed them to be on the field.
“Huddle up,” he shouted.
When they all assembled in front of him, he dropped his whistle against his team polo shirt and gave them his sternest look.
“Have you guys forgotten? Tomorrow is our first game!”
The Titans were playing against the Bulldogs. In the past, the Bulldogs had been one of the worst teams in the district. Sam knew better than to trust they would fare the same this season. Underdog teams had nowhere to go but up.
Dante scoffed, and puffed out his chest. “We beat them last year, and the year before, with our hands tied behind our backs.”
Sam crossed his arms against Dante’s know-it-all attitude. Even though he was one of his best players, he wasn’t going to allow Dante to circumvent his authority.
“Don’t count the Bulldogs out yet. I went and watched a scrimmage match a couple of days ago, and they’ve got a couple of new juniors who are blazing down the field.” He waved his clipboard in the air. “A lot more than I can say for most of you today.”
Some of the boys grumbled aloud in response. Others stabbed at the dirt with the toes of their cleats, actions that also rankled his nerves. Most, however, appeared to be listening to him.
Sam stuck his clipboard under his arm and slammed his fist down onto his open palm. His words may have been harsh, but he wasn’t about to sugarcoat the facts.
“Winning doesn’t happen with a click of a button. It requires constant diligent improvement on the part of each member of this team so we can all perform at the highest level at all times.”
He wiped the sweat from his palms on his black shorts. “Let’s try that formation again,” he barked, clapping his hands together to get their attention. “And put some life in it.”
Josh stepped forward out of the pack, uniform shirt sticking to his chest. “We can do it, Coach.” He glanced back at his teammates. “Right, guys?”
Winning Her Holiday Love Page 6