She wasn’t hitting only Wayne. She brought her fist down into the faces of every one of those men in Saudi Arabia, every man she regretted sleeping with, every commanding officer who hadn’t taken her seriously, finally silencing their jeers and lowering their pointed fingers. He was her disappointment. Her dishonor. Her mistakes, her misdirection. Her catastrophic attempt to build her life after the army.
He was her failure, and she hit him as hard as she could.
A firm grip stopped her wrist mid-swing. Oz wrapped his arm around her chest and pulled her to her feet. She dived toward Wayne but Oz held her tightly, both hands locked on her waist.
“He’ll get away,” she protested.
“The police are coming.”
At his words she registered the sound of sirens. Wayne rolled over to his stomach so she couldn’t see the damage she’d done, but if the pain in her hands was any indication, it was bad, and she wasn’t sorry. She’d do it again to protect Oz. She’d do it to anyone, any time, to keep him safe.
After a few seconds Wayne got to his feet and staggered toward the edge of the lawn, where he was met by three patrol cars screeching to a halt. She sagged against Oz as uniformed cops took him into custody. Two others swept the property, and she recovered enough coherence to tell them about the sports bag and the kitchen knife behind the house. The commotion prompted neighbors in several houses to emerge onto their front steps or lean out open windows. It would be only a matter of time before the press showed up, too.
An unmarked car joined the others at the curb and Detective Hegarty stepped out, his expression businesslike. He peered at Wayne, now seated in the back of one of the police cars, and then crossed the lawn to where they stood.
“What happened to Seibert’s face?” he asked by way of greeting.
“I hit him,” Oz said quickly. “I lost my temper, and I hit him.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Oz, you’re a Muslim on a green card. Don’t be an idiot.” She turned to the detective. “I hit him, and if he wants to press charges, we’ll see if he can find a jury in the state of Georgia willing to convict a female combat veteran. Here, take a picture of my knuckles.”
She held out her hands, but before the detective could reply two officers appeared from behind the house. One of them angled the sports bag so they could see its contents.
“Another pig head,” he explained.
“Good. Hopefully there’s something on the bag that can tie it to the previous one, then we can get him on breaking and entering.” He thanked the two officers, then looked between her and Oz.
“I’m sorry to hear Seibert attacked you, Kate,” he said carefully. “But of course I’m glad your military training meant you could adequately act in self-defense.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
“We’ll take your statements, but from appearances this looks clear-cut. And tossing in the bail violation means Seibert will be behind bars until his trial. Citizens First is in total disarray, so with any luck this should be the end of your troubles, Mr. Terim.”
“I hope so,” he said quietly, looking at her with a significance she didn’t understand. She raised her brows in question but Detective Hegarty’s partner arrived. As they split up to give their statements she cast a glance at Oz over her shoulder, but his back was turned, his posture unreadable.
She thought of his assertion the first time they met. I’m a pacifist. She wondered whether this pacifist still wanted to traipse around Europe with a woman who’d just beaten a man’s face to a bloody mess.
This was the end, she concluded sadly as she followed Detective Hegarty around the corner to make her statement. She still had too much baggage from the army, from Saudi Arabia, from everything she’d said and done since the day she left Jasper almost ten years earlier. She couldn’t ask him to help her carry it, and she couldn’t fall into another situation where all the major decisions were made for her.
It was time to stand tall and sort out her life.
It was time to let Oz go.
* * * *
“And the knife?”
“She picked it up in the kitchen as soon as the beams went off. She must’ve dropped it when she caught Seibert behind the house, because I didn’t see it again. She definitely didn’t use it on him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Just making sure the details line up.” The detective scanned the page in his notebook from top to bottom, then flipped it shut. “That’s all I need. Call me if you remember anything else.”
“Will do.” Oz put the detective’s card in his back pocket and showed him out the front door, careful to stay out of sight of the photographers huddled at the curb. Kate was still with Detective Hegarty in the backyard so he moved into the kitchen, put the untouched hummus and crackers away, and took a seat at the island.
It had been only half an hour since the beams went off but it felt like half a day. He’d left his phone on the counter and it blinked frantically with missed calls and unread messages. He scrolled through, discovering that the incident at his house was blowing up the neighborhood block-watch group. More problematically, it seemed one of the members had leaked content to the press. Social media was full of speculation that he’d been targeted by everything from a suicide bomber to the Ku Klux Klan.
He got halfway through a panicked voicemail from Roland before deleting it and calling him. Roland answered on the first ring. Oz quickly talked him down and explained the situation. They hung up so Roland could brief the press team and start to mitigate the damage of the leaked messages.
He fired off reassuring messages to his family, all asleep given the time difference, then turned his phone facedown and gazed at the door to the backyard, wondering how much longer Detective Hegarty would keep Kate.
He couldn’t wait to see her. In principle he abhorred violence but seeing her pummel that guy sent a thrill shuddering through him. His uncle’s wife hadn’t even called when Erdem died. Kate was prepared to take a criminal assault charge to protect him.
He loved her. Improbable, impractical, but the clearest truth he’d ever known. He had to tell her. He would tell her, although the idea scared him to death. You couldn’t un-speak something like this, couldn’t take it back, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He needed her to know. What she chose to do afterward, well, that was up to her.
Car doors slammed outside, followed by the sounds of engines starting up and receding. He heard the front door open and close, and the beep of the alarm being set. Then Kate walked into the kitchen, her face drawn with stress and exhaustion.
“The police are gone. There are still a few photographers outside but they seem to be drifting off, too.”
He stood, motioning her into his arms. “Come here.”
She obeyed, her slim form fitting into his embrace like their bodies had been designed to slot together. He closed his eyes as he pressed his cheek against the top of her head. The woman he held was so brave, so tough, and then by turns so soft and vulnerable. He wanted to be the man she always leaned on. The one she let in. The one she kept close.
Her breathing hitched. He looked down and realized she was crying. Silent, forcefully stifled sobs.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, sweeping his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away her tears. “You heard the detective. It’s all over now.”
She stepped away from him, wrapping her arms around herself as she nodded to the island. “Let’s sit.”
He resumed his seat, and when he met Kate’s gaze again her eyes were dry and shuttered, her face set in a determined expression.
He arched a brow. “What?”
“I can’t move to Spain,” she said flatly.
He raised his palm to stop her. “First, we’re not making any decisions tonight. Not that we were in a position to do so anyway, but especially not now. Second—and we can go into all
of this later—I’ve thought a lot about how we could make this work, not just for you, but for your family. You did say you took Spanish in school, and if we had enough notice we could get you into a language class before we go. There are quite a few British players at the club, too, so you wouldn’t be totally isolated among the plus-ones. We’d make a schedule to fly your family out and for you to fly home to see them, so there’s never any uncertainty. Maybe Dallas could even spend—”
“Oz.” She silenced him with a firm voice. “I’m not moving to Spain. I’m moving home to Jasper.”
He blinked, not sure he’d understood. “Why? Since when?”
“It’s something I have to do,” she replied testily, then briefly closed her eyes. When she spoke again her tone had softened. “I was so ready to leave the military. I was tired of being told where to live, where to go and how to get there. I was excited to take control of my life, but when I got to Saudi I realized I was still taking orders. I was told how to dress, where to be at what time—the only things that changed were who did the telling and the numbers in my bank account.”
“I would never tell you what to do. All I meant was—”
She shook her head. “I can’t go from one uniform to another, from Sergeant Mitchell to a pro athlete’s girlfriend. I have to stand on my own two feet. Figure out who I am and what I really want.”
Uneasy comprehension cooled his blood. “What are you saying?”
“I want you to know this has nothing to do with you. This is all my problem, my issue. I have to work it out before I can be a good partner to anyone.”
His chest tightened. He’d used versions of the same break-up line so many times, and now it came back to rip out his heart when it was at its most vulnerable.
He flattened his palm on the granite, fighting to keep his composure. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
“No,” she said, her expression hard and unmovable. He swallowed hard, absorbing the blow like any good defender would. His job on the pitch was to take the hits and stay on his feet. He focused on doing the same now, righting his tilting thoughts, rooting himself in the moment no matter how much it hurt.
“I’m sorry about…what we did,” she continued, a betraying waver in the words. “I know you waited a long time. I didn’t know I would feel this way or I never would have—”
“Made love to me?” he demanded, anger readily pouring in to replace sorrow. “Let me make that commitment to you knowing full well you couldn’t promise to return it? You should be sorry. That’s a hell of a cynical way to treat someone who cares about you.”
“I know,” she agreed, and too late he understood that she wanted him to hate her. She wanted him to kick her out, his fury letting her off the hook.
“You can’t stand to be loved, can you?” he realized aloud.
Her attention sharpened but she said nothing.
“This finding-yourself line is bullshit and you know it,” he spat, growing more agitated by the second. “I know exactly who you are. You’re a coward. You’re terrified that I chose you because you’re smart and strong and sexy, which means there’s no other you to discover. She’s been here all the time. And if I love you, it makes it awfully hard for you not to love yourself. You’d have to let go of all your failures and look forward, and that’s unfamiliar territory. Am I right?”
Her silent, unwavering glare told him he was, as clearly as if she’d said the words out loud.
“I’m leaving,” she said tightly, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Of course you are.” He pushed off the stool so hard it rocked on its legs, then he followed her to the front door. “Keep running, Kate. You ran to the military, then you ran away from it, and now you’re running from me. Maybe you’re the exception—maybe you can run forever. But if you ask me, you’re going to catch up with yourself eventually, and then you’ll have to face who you are—who you’ve always been. I could’ve been at your side, but if you’d rather go it alone, I won’t stop you.”
She punched the code into the alarm panel, her finger shaking but her shoulders stiff.
“Goodbye, Oz.” Her voice was icy and unyielding. He set his jaw, waiting for her to see sense, waiting for the moment when she realized she was making the mistake of her life.
Instead she slammed the door behind her. After a few seconds he heard her car start, then the brakes squealing as she spun backward out of the driveway.
She was gone.
He pressed his back against the door, rage and regret and stomach-twisting despair warring within him.
He shouted the filthiest word he knew from his three languages. It rang back at him, echoing around his impeccable, empty house.
Chapter 22
Oz stuck out his hand. “Ready?”
Dallas beamed up at him, a cherubic version of her mother. “Ready.”
She held his hand and together they filed out of the tunnel with the rest of the Skyline lineup. Most of the players were escorted by their own children, or nieces or nephews or cousins.
Oz was pretty sure he was the only one who’d brought his ex-girlfriend’s niece to the Family Day match against San Diego FC at King Stadium.
But he’d suggested it on the trip back from Boston and he wasn’t in the business of breaking a six-year-old’s heart, no matter how thoroughly her aunt had crushed his.
He hadn’t spoken to Kate in the weeks since she’d shut the door on his fantasies of their future together. He’d bounced between disbelief, despair, and bizarre optimism on a daily, sometimes even hourly, basis. She’ll come back, he’d insisted to himself in the pitch-black hours when his heartbeat was the only sound in the four walls of his house. She’ll realize she’s made a mistake—not about whether or not to move to Spain, but whether or not to be with him. After all, he was the one who loved the very person she claimed she was looking for. She just needed this, er, trial separation to understand that she was who she was, that she was worthy of respect and affection, and that he was exactly the right man to give her the stability and support she craved.
Hours became days, became weeks. He’d pushed himself harder and harder in training, enduring physical knocks to numb the emotional ones, excelling on the pitch to counteract the disappointments off it. Yet Kate’s absence loomed ever larger, growing more painful as it seemed more and more permanent.
The morning of the Family Day match had dawned bright and clear. Atlanta was in the throes of an unusual cool front, and the early-September afternoon suggested autumn was well and truly on its way. A refreshing breeze whispered down the tunnel as the players lined up beside their escorts and Dallas clung trustingly to his hand. The audience warmly applauded the appearance of the children and the players.
He swept his gaze across the home fans in the low-row seats, then his vision snagged.
Kate sat in the third row, her smile subdued, eyes concealed by dark sunglasses.
He registered her presence with all the force of a slap across the face. To some extent he figured she’d be here, came close to expecting it, but equally wouldn’t have been surprised if she sent her mother and Emily and left her ticket unused.
He wrenched his gaze away and stared straight ahead, trying to keep his expression impassive. Did this mean something? Probably not. Definitely not. If she had something to say she would’ve called him.
He slipped into his professional focus like putting on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. For the next two hours he would think only about the match. Mentally he closed a steel door in front of his swirling emotions, pushing them into a remote corner of his brain until the clanging cacophony barely registered as a distant echo.
When Dallas dropped his hand and skipped off the pitch with the rest of the children, she was just another kid. When he scanned the crowd again it was just an anonymous blur of faces.
He took his pos
ition on the left side as the announcer on the Jumbotron boomed through the two teams’ rosters. Blocking out everything—the noise, the movement, the sun warming the back of his neck—he cupped his hands in front of him, closed his eyes, lowered his face and recited from the Qur’an.
When he finished he pressed his palms over his face, then dropped them and opened his eyes.
Game time.
Over the next hour and a half Oz played some of the best soccer of his life. His speed was unmatched, he saw angles and opportunities with mathematical precision, and San Diego’s tricky, clever wingers couldn’t get around him. At halftime Atlanta was one-nil up and Roland mentioned his performance in his dressing-room speech, encouraging Skyline’s forwards to take advantage of their excellent coverage at the back.
Oz clung to his mental focus as they began the second half, knowing full well who was in the stands and not daring to let his thoughts drift anywhere near her. The whistle blew and he shot into motion again, following the midfield’s more aggressive push into San Diego’s half, then accelerating at intervals to track back as San Diego counterattacked.
San Diego had a series of near misses as twenty-one men clustered around Skyline’s goal. Paulo blocked a dangerous chance and San Diego’s right-back caught it on the rebound, toeing a quick, sharp shot at the keeper. Oz read its trajectory before he could even register the ball was in the air. He leapt into its path and headed it out of the way, noticing Rio just in time to spin it in his teammate’s direction.
The Chilean winger controlled the ball out of the air with characteristic artistry, slowing it from his chest to his knees to his toes. Then he was off, dribbling past two San Diego players with barely a glance at either one of them.
Oz tore after him, fully aware that the two of them vied for fastest on the team—and that Deon’s size and power made him slow, so he was unlikely to reach their opponent’s goal in time to create anything from Rio’s run.
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