Chapter Two
“You told her what?” Ramon stared at his cousin in disbelief.
“That you would be meeting her and her son at noon at Soccer Plus.”
“And what the fuck am I supposed to do with them there?” He protested while his body began reacting to the thought of being that close to the gorgeous redhead from the MGM lobby. But Jackson had no right to do this. He’d sworn off soccer. All that ridiculous time, energy, money spent, only to get cut down in your prime by a random bullshit event. He turned and started to walk out of Jackson’s office. The hour-long massage had loosened his leg, but his head started to pound at the latest turn of events.
“You will do this. Not because you owe me or anything. But because I’ve just made it a condition of your stay here.”
He gripped the doorknob. Yes, he owed his entire life to the Castillo clan. Born to a drug-addicted prostitute and left to languish in a Cuban-American neighborhood welfare hospital, he’d been adopted by the Castillo family, and Jackson in particular had taken an early interest in his natural athletic abilities. He’d paid for early training in the lily-white suburbs, amongst the wealthy soccer moms with their shiny SUVs. The rest could be called soccer history, including this latest ignominious chapter.
His shoulders slumped and he nodded, not turning back to face the man at the desk. “Okay—but just once. And I am not doing this for her or that kid. I’m doing it for you.”
“That’s fine. But I assure you that you may have met your match with Gillian Winter.”
Suddenly curious in spite of his irritation, he turned. Jackson leaned back in his chair, shiny dress shoes propped on the huge walnut expanse of a desk, one eyebrow cocked.
“Gillian Winter….” He had a sudden flash of realization. She had been the goal keeper for the women’s national team back when he’d still been playing at the under-nineteen level. He’d quickly moved up. But she had left her gold-medal winning team after two brilliant seasons.
“Christ.” He ran a hand over his face, yanked open the door and stomped out. First, the pressure to stay in Vegas to take over the semi-pro team Jackson had funded with several other successful resort owners. And now this?
Back in his suite, resentment roiled in his gut at Jackson’s overt manipulation. The man would not give up trying to get him to admit he would never leave soccer. But he had to. He gulped down his second espresso, and made a halfhearted stab at some eggs for protein. His whole life had been regimented by his sport. Without the structure provided by the game he absolutely adored, he slipped, unmoored, aimless, through the days. The pain in his leg matched the excruciating pain in his chest at the thought of never playing again.
Although claiming to himself he didn’t really care that much, he found pictures of her on the web. He leaned on his elbows and studied the laptop screen. Her intense gaze as she readied herself in goal struck him hard. He knew that feeling. The celebrations with her team, especially the one after the women’s World Cup gold medal victory made him smile. The one at a press conference, when she announced her retirement, pregnant by the coach of the team, showed her as tough, resolved and sad. Her husband had apparently died of a rare heart condition two years ago, keeled over on the sidelines one day while coaching a club team here in Vegas. And I thought my life was fucked up? He frowned and slammed the laptop closed.
Might as well get it over with. He put on loose-fitting shorts and a T-shirt, flexed his knee a few times, and marveled at how it had healed. He recalled the utter torture of major surgery, a two week twilight of pain killers, four more in early therapy, trying to get the damn thing to bear his weight. The four months in intensive repair work with weights, swimming, yoga and some light running had been working. But his entire body tensed at the thought of donning shin guards and cleats. He simply could not do it. Choosing short socks and indoor turf shoes instead, he grabbed one of the soccer balls lying around his room and made for the front door and taxi stand.
He’d do this thing. Kick a ball around with that kid. Try not to be a walking hard on in the presence of the woman he now knew equal to his own talent. And be done with it. His thoughts wandered to the blackjack tables where his night would end, comforted by the concept of winning a few bucks in solitude once again.
The smells, sights and sounds of a busy indoor soccer arena made his throat close in panic. He realized he hadn’t darkened the door of any sort of pitch or venue for nearly a year, and now remembered why. In less than one week, he had to report back to his team in St. Louis to get evaluated by the trainers and team doctor. He’d avoided it for so long, hanging out like a loser at blackjack tables instead of readying himself for the inevitable. Lame. But he barely managed to drop into the nearest chair and ignore the frank stares of the kids and parents that swarmed the place without getting ill.
Leaning over, elbows on knees, he fought with every ounce of his being not to run back out the door. His knee and shin started throbbing in sympathy. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to still the mantra: I can’t do this…I can’t do this…I can’t go back here…it’s too much work…it’s….
A hand on his knee broke his concentration. He jerked his head up and stared straight into a set of deep green, worried eyes. The sudden urge to stand, take her with him and kiss her overwhelmed him until he had to grit his teeth against it. She smiled. The understanding in her gaze helped. His heart kept pounding, but he smiled back as he glimpsed Harrison’s bright hair and freckled face peeking around his mother’s long legs. They were both dressed to play.
“Mom,” Harrison tugged at her shorts. “Is that really….” He pointed, his smile huge and infectious.
“Ramon Castillo. I’m pleased to meet you.” The woman guided the boy from behind her and pushed him forward. The kid introduced himself, his face bright with awe. Ramon couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. “Do me a favor, Harry.” Harrison looked up at his mom and she nodded. “Don’t make a big deal about it because I came here today to play with you.”
The boy nodded and reached for his mother’s arm.
“Oh, and with my mom. She’s a killer goalie, you know.”
Ramon got to his feet, only somewhat confident his legs would hold him and he wouldn’t throw up.
“Yeah, I’ve heard.” He extended a hand to her. She took it, and his entire body zinged at the connection. She gasped and stepped back, covering the awkward moment by kneeling down and talking to her son. Ramon froze in place, words caught in his throat, watching her strong body move under a tight T-shirt and soccer shorts. She finally stood back up and faced him.
“So, no gloves?” He pointed at her hands, devoid of the protection goalkeepers usually wore.
She gave him a challenging look. “You counting on me needing them?”
He put a hand on her back, dying to touch her again, and using the excuse of getting them out of a growing crowd of gawkers to do so.
“You might be surprised.” Some of his old confidence returned. The combination leather-sweat-turf odors of the place no longer made him nauseous, but became familiar and energizing. He hadn’t so much as passed a soccer ball since his accident. Something about the moment made him want that, if for no other reason than to divert the raging lust for the woman he followed onto the field.
Gillian’s hands were on fire. But she had no complaints. The vision of Ramon Castillo, kicking a soccer ball around with her son, the beauty of his rippling muscles as they took turns hitting it toward her took her breath away. She never wanted it to stop.
He’s leaving in two days, remember? Jesus, woman, get a grip.
But finally, she had to hold up one stinging hand and take a break. She’d made some amazing saves; she knew it and the admiration in the man’s mesmerizing dark eyes kept growing. They officially had a crowd and Harrison played it up like only he could. The kid had the attitude of a soccer stud—self-confident to a fault. And he showed signs of talent to match. She walked off toward the bathrooms to grab an ice pack from the first aid station, leaving the former star and her son in passing drills.
Taking a minute to catch her breath, visions of Joe passed through her brain, as they always did when around their favorite game. She’d avoided any sort of serious soccer since his death. The two were so entwined, she couldn’t imagine enjoying it ever again without him. Watching Harrison’s games were hard enough. But today seemed like a turning point. She’d been in her element, in goal, her competitive nature winning out. She smiled, thinking of Jackson’s declaration about mutual healing.
Ice packs clutched between aching palms, she turned and nearly plowed straight into him. He was so close she could smell him, feel the heat from his skin. He grabbed her arm to keep her upright.
“Oh, um, sorry.” He pointed to the ice. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Don’t get cocky though. I just needed gloves. I can still stop you. You project you know, I can see it in your eyes every time you pull your leg back. And your favorite spot is upper right corner. I got it every time if I’m not mistaken.” She smiled, trying like hell to be calm.
He shrugged and grinned. Her heart leapt at the sight. The silky-looking brown skin, raven’s-wing black hair and chocolate-colored eyes, and a boyish look of self-deprecation completely unlike his public persona nearly undid her. The man fucked supermodels—apparently two or three at a time, she’d read. And she believed it now that she’d been this close to him. He oozed sexuality and confidence in spite of himself—not hard to do if you were a millionaire twice over thanks to endorsements. She let resentment creep back in as a defensive mechanism. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and shot her a sheepish look.
“Well, apparently, we have ourselves a game and you and I are coaching.”
She stared at him. What the hell? He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. She saw about twenty kids ranging in age from ten to teenagers, all watching them. She grinned.
“Okay, but my team is gonna kick your ass.”
To her utter shock, he stepped into her personal space, his lips mere centimeters from hers. His arm wrapped around her waist. She sucked in a breath.
“Big talk, but I’ll take that challenge.” He still held her, one arm curled around the small of her back. When his lips touched hers, it felt like coming home. Her inner reserve made her move away when she ached to wrap her entire body around him. She put her hands on her hips and ignored her painfully erect, sports bra-covered nipples.
“Nice try, Castillo. See you out there.” She turned, brushing his shoulder with hers as she breezed by, hoping he couldn’t hear her pounding heart or see her quivering knees.