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 position 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.
Rio charged down the left-hand channel in an attempt to evade the San Diego defenders hot on his heels. Oz stayed straight, his gaze clicking between his teammate and the opposing goalkeeper, who already slapped his gloves together in anticipation.
With San Diego’s defenders closing in and his angle on goal becoming increasingly unusable, Rio looked up. Oz met his gaze and Rio passed, the ball floating in a perfect, bending arc.
Oz took one last look at the keeper while the ball was airborne. The man was shouting something, full of adrenaline and expectation, but Oz couldn’t hear him—he couldn’t hear anything except the slight whistle of the ball slicing through the clear afternoon.
He linked his fingers behind his back as his feet left the ground. The top of his head connected with the ball. It flew over the keeper’s shoulder and slapped into the back of the net.
Oz’s clinical focus dissolved as he shouted his delight. He grabbed the little Chilean tightly as they jumped up and down together, his chest full to bursting with pride. The fans’ cheers were deafening as the rest of their teammates caught up to them and joined in the celebration, high-fiving and slapping backs and punching the air in excitement.
Play resumed and they broke up, jogging back toward the center line as the Skyline fans sang “We’re Off to See the Wizard.” Still grinning, Oz veered toward the manager’s box as Roland gestured him over.
“You’re so far out of position it’s unbelievable. You’re a defender, remember?” his manager shouted through cupped hands, but his smile betrayed him.
Oz gave Roland a thumbs-up, then did what he’d resisted since the first whistle blew. He let his gaze drift to Kate’s seat.
He didn’t expect much. A smile would’ve been enough. Maybe even a glimpse of her applauding, or nodding encouragement. He’d never needed anyone’s approval, but suddenly he wanted hers, and he wanted it desperately.
Her seat was empty.
The sight of the brick-red seatback where she should’ve been hurt more than a hard ball to the chest. He didn’t pause to see whether Emily was there, or Dallas, or Kate’s mom—he looked away so quickly it made him dizzy. His legs felt heavy as he ran into Skyline’s half, his lungs short on oxygen.
Maybe he would go to Spain after all, he considered, trying to tug up the emotional shields that had served him so well until seconds earlier. Maybe he would get as far away from here—from her—as he could.
* * * *
“Dallas, honey, the cutlery needs to stay here, okay? These don’t belong to us, they belong to the soccer team.” Kate’s face burned as she extracted a handful of forks, spoons and knives from Dallas’s pink backpack and subtly tried to shove them back into place on the buffet table.
“But Grandma takes knives from the hot wings place,” her niece protested. Kate shot her mother a sharp glance.
“I like their steak knives,” her mom replied mildly, passing her wine glass to the bartender for a refill.
The match had ended almost an hour ago but the players were still drifting into the Family Day party. Three of the stadium’s corporate hospitality suites had been combined to form a space with enough room for a bar and a buffet, with plenty of seating to watch the match at one end and kids’ activities at the other. Bored by halftime, Emily insisted they move from their amazing pitch-side seats to the suite during the break. Kate had good intentions of heading back down but they never came to fruition. As a result she’d missed Oz’s goal, and as time wore on and he remained absent, she wondered whether she’d missed her last opportunity to speak to him, too.
Not that she had anything in particular to say. She had plenty she wanted to say—how much she’d missed him these last few weeks, how uncertain she was about what she’d said the last time they were together, and that maybe he was right and the only version of herself she needed to find was the one in his arms—but nothing she would say.
Because he was right. She was a coward, to the extent that she was afraid he’d already moved on and any capitulation on her part would only open her up to bigger heartbreak.
This Family Day escapade would certainly be simpler if he didn’t show up. Maybe it was for the best, she concluded, distractedly removing one of the flower arrangements from Dallas’s hands.
Then a hush swept over the room, followed by a short burst of applause. She didn’t need to look up to know who’d arrived. It could only be Atlanta Skyline’s man of the match, Oz Terim.
“Katie. That’s him. He’s here, Katie.” Her mother repeated her name in a raspy stage whisper.
“Don’t make a scene,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “He’ll come over when he’s ready.”
“He’s much better looking in person, I can tell you that much. Needs a haircut, though. Oh, crap, Katie, he’s coming.” Her mom dug around in her enormous purse and produced a bottle of perfume, which she spritzed at Kate before she could get out of range.
She wrinkled her nose and batted at the air around her. “Mom, gross, now I smell like old lady.”
“Hi.”
Kate spun at the sound of his voice, her heart rate already tripling in awareness of his presence. Oz stood before her, long and lean, hands in his pockets. He was so freshly showered she could smell his shampoo and it took everything she had not to fall against his hard body and let him catch her.
She replied, “Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“Good.”
She couldn’t read his expression fully, but she detected a hint of ice, a touch of detachment. With their Oscar-worthy dialogue running dry, Kate glanced around for inspiration. Instead she found her mother, grinning like a fool behind her newly emptied wine glass.
“Oh, this is my mom. Joanne. Mom, this is Oz.”
“Pleasure.” Oz extended his hand to her mom, who responded by leaning up and kissing him on both cheeks.
“Guten Tag,” she drawled, her added wink only intensifying the bewilderment in Oz’s expression.
“Great, thanks Mom.” Kate inserted herself between the two of them and guided him toward an empty spot by the window. “And you met Dallas earlier. She’s running around somewhere with the other kids. Probably convincing them to give her all their goodie bags.”
“And your sister? Did she make it?”
“She sure did.” Kate nodded to one of the sofas, where her sister was half in Glynn’s lap, one leg draped over his as she smiled at him adoringly. “That’s Emily. She pounced on him like a tiger as soon as we walked into the room. Didn’t even know he knew you. I tried to rescue him but he seemed pretty content.”
“Wow. I didn’t see that coming.” Oz stared at his friend, who trailed a finger down Emily’s bare arm.
“I’m sure he didn’t, either. Anyway.” She shrugged. “Leave it to the Mitchells to put the NC-17 in a G-rated event.”
Oz took in the scene around him, then turned back to her with a hint of a smile. When he spoke again his voice was for her ears only. “How’ve you been?”
“Okay, I guess. Thanks for inviting us today. And for still speaking to me.”
“Why wouldn’t I speak to you?” he asked softly.
“You know why.”
“Tell me.”
She inhaled slowly. “Because I hurt you. And I took something you can’t ever get back.”
“You didn’t take anything I didn’t give you,” he muttered, his bitterness palpable. He straightened. “How’s the job hunt?”
“Slow. I’ll be out of my apartment in two weeks, so I’m slowly moving stuff to Jasper. Had a couple of interviews. Nothing I’m too excited about. Actually, I’ve been thinking about going for a commercial truck-driving license. Doing that for a year or two.”
He didn’t even try to hide that he thought that was a terrible idea. “Why?”
“I like driving.” And it’ll keep me away from everyone, give me time to sort through whatever the hell’s going on inside of me. Especially that ache in my stomach every time I think of you.
“You’re still set on moving out of Atlanta, then.”
She moved on. “Any more trouble from Citizens First?”
He shook his head. “Apparently they’ve splintered into nothing, at least on the East Coast. Wayne Seibert is in jail, awaiting trial.”
“Did Roland find someone to replace Peak Tactical?”
“Yeah, some guys who drive around in Jeeps wearing combat boots. The neighborhood association was so impressed, now most of the houses on the street have men in camouflage pants racing to their front door every time a cat sets off the beams.”
She smiled. “I think I know which company you’re talking about. They’re good. Make Peak Tactical look like a bunch of suits.”
“I think those were the exact words that sold Roland.” His expression grew serious as he gestured her away from the buffet table. “I’m still getting those Ausonius comments,” he confided in a low voice.
She knew. She scrolled through the comments on his social-media posts almost hourly, quietly monitoring the content for anything alarming—and maybe checking to see whether he responded to any of the more flirtatious messages. Of course he didn’t, and although in general the level of ire had dropped far below what it was when they met, each Ausonius comment registered grimly in her mind.
“I’ve seen them,” she admitted. “Does the new security company know?”
“They do, but there doesn’t seem to be anything anyone can do.”
She nodded. “Peak Tactical’s cyber-security guy said as much. I thought maybe a better resourced company would have a solution.”
“Evidently not.”
They lapsed into thoughtful silence, and after a couple of seconds Kate realized she should wrap up their discussion, drag her mom and niece away from whatever trouble they’d managed to cause in the last five minutes and let Oz move on to speak to other people. To let him move on altogether.
But she didn’t want to.
She had more time-wasting small talk on the tip of her tongue when he asked her bluntly, “Do you want to see the boot room?”
“The what?”
“Where all the players’ boots are stored. We have a real one downstairs near the locker room, but there’s a mini one down the hall.”
“Why? So the VIPs can get the real behind-the-scenes stadium experience?”
“And buy wildly overpriced replica pairs, mostly.”
“Got it.”
“Follow me.” He led her through the suite to the door, moving quickly so no one could catch them in conversation. She had to hasten her steps to keep up on the route down the hallway, trailing behind him into a deep alcove. Boot Room announced itself in big red letters, below which a series of hooks, labeled with players’ numbers, displayed soccer cleats hung at artful angles.
She drifted toward the pair under number eighteen. “So these are yours.”
She glanced at Oz over her shoulder. His expression showed intent so hot, so unyielding that she couldn’t stop herself. She reached for his hand and held it tightly.
He pushed her against the wall, sending boots tumbling to the floor as he pinned her body in place with his own. His arousal dug into her abdomen as he raised his palms to her cheeks and kissed her, hard and demanding—everything she’d been missing for these long weeks.
She knew she shouldn’t but she kissed him back, tried to tell him with her mouth, her tongue, what she couldn’t put into words. That she wanted to be with him, but she was scared, because what she felt for him was too strong, too unshakeable.
That she loved him.
Footsteps echoed down the hall and he pulled away with such force she stumbled and knocked another two pairs of shoes to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, scooping up boots and slinging them onto hooks.
“It’s fine. You’re fine.” She stood for a second, dazed, then recovered enough to help him replace the boots as the footsteps grew louder.
“Post-match adrenaline. My fault.”
She forced a dismissive smile, getting the last shoe into place as a dad with two daughters in tow arrived. The girls squealed in excitement when they recognized Oz, immediately producing match programs for him to sign.
Kate stepped aside while Oz took photos with his young fans, then decided this was her opportunity. She would slip out of the moment—out of his life—with no more unrestrainable lust, no awkward goodbye.
She’d already taken three steps backward when she said, “Oz, I’m going, but great match today and thanks for inviting us.”
She managed only half a turn before he called her back.
“Wait—there’s something I want to ask you.”
She chewed her lower lip as she waited for him to finish with the kids. Was he going to ask her if they could give it another shot? What was her answer?
Nothing had changed since she’d left his house a few weeks earlier. She hadn’t miraculously discovered her self-reliance or had an existential awakening. She missed him, but she was still confused and uncertain and isolated, unable to see how anyone else could understand her when she had so little understanding of herself.
Could she offer him what he wanted? Trust. Partnership. Uncompromising honesty.
Maybe.
But maybe not.
Oz left his fans to study the boots and moved beside her, leading them back to the suite.
“When are you out of your apartment?” he asked.
“Next Sunday.”
“On Saturday I’m speaking at this interfaith event at the Peace Institute, if you’re not busy.”
“You want me to come?”
“Only if you want to.” His keen expression belied his casual tone. “I thought you might find it interesting, given what we went through with Citizens First.”
“I don’t know. Is it really a good idea for us to—”
“Please.”
She sighed. “Send me the details.”
“I will,” he promised, already being flagged down by other fans as they reentered the Family Day party. “It was good to see you.”
“You too,” she replied faintly, watching him move away into the crowd. She raised her fingers to her lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth, the suddenness of his grasp.
She shook her head and set her shoulders, bee-lining for her mother, who still hovered beside the bar.
“Pack it up, we’re out of here,” Kate announced.
Her mother smirked and accepted a refilled glass of wine from the bartender. “Good luck. Dallas is pinning the tail on the soccer player and Emily’s practically marching down the aisle with that guy. Have a beer and relax. These are your people.”
“They’re really not,” she disagreed, but accepted a beer and found a seat on a couch beside her mother.
“They are,” her mother insisted. “Look around you. This is where you belong—in this fancy stadium, with these fancy people, on the arm of that sexy guy.”
Kate rolled her eyes to look at her mother, but found the older woman’s expression uncharacteristically serious.
“I don’t know why you want to come back to Jasper, Katie,” she said softly. “We’re all so proud of you for leaving in the first place. We miss you, sure, but more than anything we want you to be happy. And being with Oz was the happiest I’d ever seen you.”
Kate lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, well, sometimes things don’t work out.”
“Sometimes they don’t,” her mom agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you should quit trying to fix them.”
“Nobody’s quitting, Mama. Our lives are headed in completely opposite directions. No point in getting stretched tighter and tighter between the two until they get so far apart we can’t see each other.”
“Excuse me, I didn’t realize you had the whole rest of your life mapped out already. Where exactly do you plan to end up?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. It’ll be far away from wherever he is.”
Her mom narrowed her eyes. “Be specific.”
Kate lowered her voice to a whisper. “Like he might be moving to a club in Spain. Is that far enough for you?”
“Hell no,” her mom exclaimed. “You been to two different warzones and you’re going to split up with him over Spain? Katie, listen to me. Don’t lose this man. You trust him, he makes you happy, and he looks at you like you’re the only woman on the planet. Your path isn’t pointed anywhere it can’t meet up with his.”
“Now we really are leaving,” Kate shot back, bolting to her feet and gathering up their possessions.
“Whatever,” her mom slurred, disregarding her as usual.
“Get Emily and Dallas. I’ll meet you in the car.”
Kate jerked her purse onto her shoulder and stomped out of the room, not daring to look back for a last glimpse of Oz. She wouldn’t have seen him anyway—her mother’s words had raised hot, blinding tears in her eyes.
She was right. Oz was such a good man—too good. How would she ever live up to him?
She shoved on her sunglasses despite the indoor lighting and mercilessly punched the elevator button to descend to the parking lot.
She needed space to breathe. Time to think. Some sense of purpose around which to align her whole goddamn life.
More than anything, she needed him.