Defending Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  “I love you, Oz. I don’t need to figure out who I am, because I know, and I’ve always known. What I didn’t know, and what scared me, was how much better I was with you than without you. I’ll move to Spain. I’ll move to Sweden. I’ll move to Antarctica if that’s what it takes to be with you.”

  He tightened his hands around her upper arms. “I’m not moving to Spain. I turned them down.”

  Surprise lifted her brows. “Why? What about your plan?”

  “Fuck my plan,” he insisted harshly. “You’re my plan now. Sure, I would’ve earned a bit more in Spain, maybe gotten to play a couple of big teams. But I’m happy here. I’m happy at Skyline, and I’m never happier than when I’m with you. I love you, Kate, and I want you to be happy, too. I’ll do whatever you need to get you there.”

  “You already did. Those three words. That’s all I want.”

  He grinned. “Then I’ll say them again. I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  Her voice broke on the last syllable but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything—not the police streaming through the building, the stretcher carrying the assailant to an ambulance, the wildly flashing press cameras already bunching up along the police tape—except the man in her arms.

  And when he kissed her, and she closed her eyes, she saw the future. Two paths winding together until they merged, inseparable and inextricable, stretching all the way to the horizon.

  Epilogue

  “Wait, don’t put that there. You can put it—Actually, could it go in a drawer or something?”

  Kate shot Oz a sharp glance, holding the bottle of hand lotion an inch off the surface of the dresser.

  He exhaled, unclenching his hands. He forced a smile. “Put it anywhere you want. I don’t mind.”

  She placed it squarely on the dresser and pushed aside the empty cardboard box, then reached for a pair of scissors to open the one beneath it.

  “I’m pretty sure this box is all clothes.” She glanced up. “Did you clear out a drawer for me? And some closet space?”

  His anxiety thrummed again. “Do you need a whole drawer?”

  “More like two.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She sighed. “We’ve been through this a hundred times since you asked me to move in. This is going to require compromise. We can’t all live in Swedish minimalist wonderland. Some of us need daily access to, you know, objects.”

  “I know.” He yanked open the drawer he’d half-emptied for her and studied its contents. He’d earmarked this for screen-printed T-shirts, ordered by color, but he supposed he could integrate them with plain T-shirts. Although…

  “Hey.” Kate moved beside him, slipping her arm around his waist. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m trying,” he told her, turning to pull her against his chest. She was warm and soft, the perfect fit he never expected.

  “And you’re doing great. But maybe we could get through this box a little more quickly than the last one. Say, less than two hours?”

  “Don’t push it.” He tilted his head to kiss her. In the month since the incident at the Peace Institute he’d gotten used to having her in his house. The gunman turned out to be a man who’d legally changed his name to John Ausonius and was already on an FBI watch list due to his online participation in a number of racist and xenophobic forums. Oz slept better than ever now his stalker was in prison—and because he no longer slept alone.

  They’d spent the day before driving her stuff back to Atlanta from Jasper and this whole Sunday morning and early afternoon unpacking her things in his house. At first it was difficult, but as the day wore on he grew to like seeing her possessions mixed in with his. Her feminine-labeled cosmetics between his masculine ones. Her shoes alongside his own. Her surprisingly racy lingerie collection jumbled amidst his austerely folded briefs.

  Remembering the sight of her bright red, sheer bra tossed into the drawer gave him an incentive to get through this box faster after all. Releasing her he dropped to his haunches, pulling open the folds and assessing the contents.

  “You have that second interview tomorrow, right? For the corporate security advisory company?”

  She nodded, sitting on the floor and taking out a couple of pairs of folded jeans. “But it’s mostly a formality. I think the managing director would’ve hired me on the spot if he didn’t need to get signoff from HR. He said he has a great track record hiring veterans, and he’s been dying to get a woman on staff. So many of their executives are women, and they face completely different challenges trying to do business in the Middle East.”

  “You’re going to be so good at this, Kate, it’s almost scary.” He grinned. “What time is the meeting?”

  “Eight-thirty, why?”

  “You probably need to get to bed early, then. So you’re rested and ready to go.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Your point being?”

  “You know me, always planning.” He shrugged. “And my plan was to make you come at least twice before we went to sleep, so if we work backwards from, say, eleven o’clock…”

  “I’m sure this can wait.” She shoved the box aside and scrambled into his lap, straddling him, her mouth finding his with heat and hunger.

  He smiled into the kiss, threading his fingers through her hair. Kate certainly wasn’t the woman he could’ve ever imagined he’d end up with, but that didn’t matter. She was here, she was his, and he couldn’t have planned it better.

  Don’t miss book one in Rebecca Crowley’s Atlanta Skyline series!

  Crossing Hearts

  FEVERED FATES

  New to the U.S. soccer scene, not to mention the English language, compact yet explosive Chilean soccer legend Rio Vidal is driven to define a role on his new team, Atlanta Skyline. But he must also adapt to a new culture—and accept that he can’t do it alone. His beautiful interpreter, Eva, has been his voice, his refuge. But she is becoming so much more. If only he could convince her he isn’t like the other men she’s worked with, players on—and off—the field.

  As a translator for pro athletes, Eva Torres is used to dealing with self-interested super stars. But Rio seems different, and she’s blindsided when he locks eyes with her across a church pew. By now, after weeks of close contact with the endearing athlete with whom she shares a language, her thoughts are far from holy. She must remind herself flirtation is probably just his default style. Plus, she’s the only one he can really talk to. But when his ambition threatens to derail his career—and their deepening connection—they’ll both have to lay their hearts on the center line . . .

  Chapter 1

  “Rio! Rio! Rio!”

  His name was the only word he could decipher as he entered the arrivals area of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. He was hungry and tired after the overnight trip from Antofagasta and five minutes earlier he’d almost asked a security guard to sneak him out a back door so he could spend the first several hours of his new life in America soundly asleep.

  Now, as flashbulbs lit up the already bright airport and a group of reporters thrust a bouquet of microphones toward his face, he thought this might be one of the best moments of his life.

  His grin came easily as he surveyed the crowd. Members of the press vied for proximity, a group of fans waved Chilean flags, and a welcoming committee wearing brick-red Skyline jerseys turned in unison to show his name and number printed on their backs: Vidal, 17.

  He focused on each photographer in turn, flashing the practiced smile that showcased his expensively straightened teeth. The fans’ cheering grew louder, the reporters shouted over them, and by the time Skyline’s manager, Roland Carlsson, waded over to him, Rio couldn’t make out what the stylish Swede said as he clapped him on the back.

  Not that he would’ve understood the words if he’d heard them.

  He blinked up at his new boss, who returne
d his stare expectantly. He took in Roland’s perfect haircut, the touch of grey at his temples, his tailored clothing—he couldn’t be more different from the pudgy, tracksuit-wearing manager he’d played for in Chile. After several uncomfortable seconds Roland raised his eyebrows behind his hipster glasses and repeated himself loudly enough for Rio to hear.

  “Bzzz Atlanta, Rio. Bzzzbzzzbzzz.”

  Rio widened his smile, hoping it was an appropriate response as anxiety quickened his breathing. It would be so embarrassing if he turned out to be grinning like an idiot at the man who’d just asked him a question—or fired him.

  Roland’s friendly expression faltered. Rio’s mouth went dry. He quickly inventoried the few English words he could deploy.

  Soccer. Bon Jovi. One, two, three…

  “Señor Vidal, buenos dias.” A woman appeared at his elbow, her Skyline jersey so oversized it nearly met her knees. “Soy Eva Torres. Su traductor.”

  “Eva the translator, just in time to save my career,” he gushed, grateful to be back in the safe waters of his native Spanish. “Please don’t say Roland just told me to get on the next plane home to Chile.”

  Her smile was more magnificent than the flashbulbs sparkling around the room. He took in her small stature, olive complexion, dark hair falling thickly over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide-set, the exact shape of almonds and slightly hooded, as though their black-coffee depths were so accustomed to keeping secrets it had ceased to be a challenge.

  From nowhere he thought of his grandmother’s obsession with the Virgin of Guadalupe, the paintings and candles and statues that cluttered her curtained-off corner of the tin-roofed shack where he’d grown up. She used to insist the eyes of the Virgin changed, that it was possible to read warnings and reassurances and answered prayers in those heavy-lidded orbs. As a child he’d spent hours nose-to-nose with one of her figurines. Watching. Waiting.

  He always blinked first.

  But this Eva… He bet the cool eyes she tilted up to him could give that ceramic Virgin a run for her money.

  “He welcomed you to Georgia, as does everyone here.” She swept an arm to indicate the increasingly frantic crowd. “The plan is for us to make our way to the auditorium for a brief press conference, then you’ll be taken home to rest for the evening. I’m sure you’re exhausted after your journey.”

  So polite, so professional. He stole a glance at her ring finger.

  Bare.

  Encouraging.

  “Who could be tired with all this excitement? Lead the way, I’m all yours.” He gave her his trademark cheeky grin, which she returned with a slight dip of her chin before ushering him toward a corridor.

  He resigned himself to her indifference as she turned her back and walked so briskly he had to quicken his pace to keep up. Evidently his hopelessly romantic side had made it through all those long flights. His celebrity status in Chile certainly hadn’t aided his love life, so he was silly to think that would change in the United States. As if the woman of his dreams was going to be the first one he spoke to off the plane—ridiculous.

  Signing to one of the best Championship Soccer League teams in America was the biggest leap of his career. He couldn’t mess it up, couldn’t let it pass him by. Definitely couldn’t get distracted by a beautiful woman with secretive eyes.

  At that moment Eva glanced over her shoulder, probably checking to make sure he was keeping up. Their gazes locked and in the split second before her expression resettled into cool disinterest, he saw it. Barely a flicker, almost imperceptible, but bright enough to sear onto his memory: the same shimmering, teasing flame of bald lust that began roaring in his gut the instant he’d laid eyes on her.

  “This way.” She snapped her attention back to the front, walking even more quickly as a door labeled Auditorium loomed ahead. The corridor echoed with the shuffling din of onlookers finally being allowed to follow them, and before he could process the sequence of events the heavy door swung open. He was shown to a seat at a table dressed with the Skyline banner on the stage, and the horde that had greeted him just minutes earlier was filing into the room.

  Roland dropped into the seat beside him and leaned in, winking conspiratorially. “Bzzzbzzzbzzzbzzz.”

  Rio glanced around for Eva, who was standing behind the seat on his other side, speaking to a man holding a microphone. Roland seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Rio nodded and smiled. Roland winked again and Rio released an anxious breath, knowing full well that these head-bobbing responses would only suffice for so long.

  Eva took her place beside him and he smiled at her for longer than he probably should have, unable to shake the memory of what he’d seen in her face. She gave him a muted nod before turning her attention to the audience, where hands were already raised to ask questions.

  Roland spoke first, hushing the onlookers as tiny tape recorders clicked on and pens scratched across notepads. Rio kept his camera-friendly grin fixed firmly in place as Roland buzzed on and on. He caught a few of the manager’s words—his own name, the team’s name, the name of his fellow midfielder, Nico Silva—but for all he knew Roland could be singing his praises or apologizing to the fans for signing a total unknown from an obscure team in Chile.

  When Roland finished Rio glanced at Eva for some clue as to what his boss had said, but there was no time for her to translate as members of the press began firing questions.

  “Bzzbzzbzzbzzbzzzzzz?” The reporter barely looked up from his notepad as he spoke in rapid, urgent tones.

  “He’d like to know how it feels to join a Championship Soccer League team,” Eva murmured.

  Rio blinked at the journalist, then at his translator. “Are you serious? That’s his question? He sounded so angry, I thought he was accusing me of cheating on my wife.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  “Exactly.”

  A suggestion of a smile flickered across Eva’s mouth. “That’s his question.”

  “Tell him I’m delighted to be joining Atlanta Skyline. It’s the highlight of my career so far. I just hope I can live up to the fans’ expectations.”

  Eva nodded, leaned into the microphone, and buzzed a response to the audience. Approving smiles spread across the room and he sighed with relief. He’d gotten the first answer right, at least.

  Another reporter barked a question, extending his tape recorder above the head of the person seated in front of him. Rio looked expectantly at Eva.

  “He wants to know whether you’ve had adequate time to rest after the South American Cup tournament, and if you’ll be appearing for Skyline right away.”

  Roland spoke before Rio could, hunching his big frame over the microphone.

  “He’s telling them you’re fully fit and will start playing immediately,” Eva whispered. Rio nodded gratefully, his head beginning to spin with the back-and-forth of translations.

  The next question was from a woman who introduced herself in Spanish, explaining she worked for a Spanish-language newspaper. He grinned at her, relieved to be back in control, even if only for a minute.

  “I think most of us learned your name for the first time during the South American Cup, from those assists in the early rounds to the goal in the final. You’ve been playing soccer for twelve years, since you were scouted at the age of fourteen. Why has it taken so long for the world to discover Rio Vidal?”

  He exhaled heavily, buying time as he considered his answer. What to tell them? As he looked out over the rows of seats in the dim auditorium he saw his childhood home slouching amidst hundreds of identical shacks on the edge of the desert, the packed dirt in the empty lot where he and his friends played five-a-side, the trail of exhaust from the car his mother borrowed to drive him to youth-league training in Calama, the stomach-dropping lift of the airplane as he took his first-ever flight to Santiago to make his professional debut.

  Should he
tell them how hard he’d worked to overcome his height, his size, to channel his frenzied energy on the pitch?

  Maybe he should tell them it was all thanks to the mining accident that killed his father, the life insurance payout that arrived in the mail, the move to the apartment in the school district where an involved coach made a phone call that changed his life.

  Or should he admit that he’d been conflicted about leaving Santiago to join an American team, and that it felt a lot like selling out? Should he remind them of the footage from the Cup final, the famous shot of his eyes welling as he hefted the trophy? Should he explain that nothing he could win at Skyline would compare with the pride and privilege of playing for his country?

  He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. Cameras rolled, pens hovered, and the Spanish-speaking journalist smiled patiently. These would be some of his first words on American soil, his introduction to the fans he was asking to trust him, believe in him, and support him through the season ahead. He wanted to show them his heart. Tell them his story. Share the joy and tumult of his journey to this career-defining moment.

  He leaned toward the microphone, summoning every last shred of recollection from the hour he spent half-watching YouTube language lessons.

  “I…excite…to play…Skyline.”

  Laughter and applause warmed the auditorium. The inquiring reporter inclined her head in thanks, blatantly charmed by his broken English. It wasn’t his most eloquent statement to the press, but it seemed to have done the job.

  Roland interjected in his characteristically thoughtful tone, and Rio sat back in his chair. To think he’d thought the long-haul travel from Chile had been exhausting. Now he knew he was in for the ride of his life.

  Chapter 2

  Eva led Rio down the carpeted steps to the cinema room, where oversized posters of classic Mafia movies loomed over plush theatre seating. “I don’t know if it’s exactly to your taste, but hopefully you can deal with it until you find a place of your own.”