Chapter 14
“Who are you bringing to Family Day, Terim?” Aaron lobbed the question across the corridor as they walked through the training complex from the pitch to the locker room.
Brendan looked up just in time to catch the Swede’s evasive glance. “Friend of mine’s niece. A little girl named Dallas. How about you, Young?”
“Kid from the Down syndrome sports program. She won the keep-up competition.” He smiled fondly, remembering the event back in… Actually it was only at the end of July. Not even two months earlier.
Yet life seemed completely different. Then he was doomed to the bench, going through the motions of day-to-day life, spending his nights with his head buried in his notebooks.
Now he was Skyline’s starting goalkeeper. He was betting for real again and seeing his odds play out calmed his mental state more than six months of Gamblers Anonymous meetings had. Sitting in the league’s crosshairs still worried him, but he believed Erin when she said she would fix it.
Erin.
He sighed contentedly as he tuned out his teammates’ banter. Sunday night had exceeded his most optimistic fantasies of this friends-with-benefits scenario, to the point he’d had to leave before his emotional defenses became as soft as his sex-spent cock. Only once he got home did he worry that Erin might misread his departure as a storm-out. Given the openness and trust she’d shown him, that was the last signal he wanted to send, and he was halfway through his third version of a long-winded text explaining that he wasn’t ready for no-strings post-sex cuddling when his phone had pinged with a text from Erin herself.
Or more accurately, a sext.
Should’ve made you stay. Thinking about round 1 has got me needing round 2.
He blinked at the message, then flicked back to his own and reread it. Overlong, wordy, explaining something he hadn’t done but thought she might think he did.
He exhaled in disgust as he deleted it. No wonder he was such a hit with the ladies.
He stared at the blank message screen, briefly considered Googling “how to sext” for ideas, then stopped himself with a sharp mental slap.
One of the blissful elements of his evening with Erin was the submission to instinct. No overthinking. No analysis and reanalysis. Just touch, taste and all-consuming sensation.
He set his jaw and typed, then pressed send before he could change his mind.
Didn’t realize the benefits part of ‘friends w/’ included round 2. Good to know for next time.
She fired back, When is next time?
He raised his brows. Guess she had a good time, too.
Got training this week, home match on Saturday. Thurs night?
Your place or mine?
Mine, he decided.
A short pause, then, In my calendar. Had to put it in code b/c my PA has access. Cocktails w/ Brenda, 6 PM. Because your cock tells a hell of a tale. :)
Brenda? he replied.
Code, she reminded him. Anyway what do you have to say for leaving me high and dry like this? Just me & my right hand here all alone, not sure what to do w/out you.
I think you know what to do. He moved to put down his phone, thinking they were finished, when it pinged again.
Tell me what to do.
He swallowed. Sat down on the edge of his bed. Braced his elbows on his knees.
Tease your clit, just a little.
Mm. Not as good as you but I’ll take it. And?
His breathing quickened, already hard as he imagined her sprawled naked on her bed, hand between her thighs. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this—as a lover he’d always been more Harlequin than Playboy—but Erin had a way of pushing him past limits he hadn’t realized existed. He shifted on the bed so he could type with one hand, using the other to unzip his fly.
Test yourself with 1 finger. Tell me how wet you are.
Mmmm. Very wet. Very slick. Still hot from your—
“Brendan, hi.”
He stopped short, managing to drag himself out of his foggy line of recollection just in time to stop from colliding with—
“Erin,” he remarked, briefly wondering if she was real or his fantasy had been so vivid he’d conjured her into three dimensions. “What are you doing here?”
“I had a meeting with Roland,” she said, widening her eyes in warning as the manager stepped into the corridor behind her. Belatedly Brendan realized they stood a few feet from the manager’s office.
“Brendan. I’d like to see you, please.” Roland’s tone was flat, implicitly telling his teammates to keep walking and stop nosily craning their necks.
“It was nice to see you again,” Erin told him crisply.
He nodded, keeping his tone level and polite, schooling his features to show none of the excitement he felt at seeing her even in these dangerous circumstances. “You too. I hope you’re settling into life in Atlanta.”
Her smile was bright and professional. “Absolutely. Best of luck with the rest of the season.”
They shared a fleeting, conspiratorial glance before she proceeded down the corridor.
He followed Roland into his immaculate office and sat down, feeling exceptionally unkempt in his grass-stained training kit, his mind lurching like a drunk on a sailboat as he assessed the situation from every angle, worked the odds, examined the probabilities.
Best-case scenario, he’s decided I’m a hero and wants to extend my contract.
Worst, he’s found out about our syndicate and I’m fired.
He held his breath as Roland folded his hands on the desk.
“You know Erin Bailey,” he stated neutrally.
“We went to college together,” Brendan explained, careful not to volunteer any more information than he had to.
Roland inclined his head, giving nothing away. Too bad he’d come into managing after only a brief career as a defensive midfielder because he could out-poker-face some of the best strikers in the league.
“Did you know Miss Bailey works for the league?”
Brendan nodded. “Ethics Director.”
“Unfortunately her visit today wasn’t a courtesy call. She’s received an anonymous tip that one of my players is betting on the CSL.”
Brendan said nothing, ignoring the panic beginning to stir in his gut. If Roland wanted to accuse him, he could go right ahead. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Okay, he had done—and continued to do—plenty wrong. But he hadn’t bet on his own league. That was a line he’d never cross.
They regarded each other in silence. Brendan forced his breaths to slow, reminding himself that Erin was in his corner. She wouldn’t say anything to Roland to jeopardize his career. They were in this together.
He resisted the urge to twitch his mouth in a half-smile. How times had changed.
Finally Roland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’ve had an outstanding run since Pavel was injured. I’d hate to lose you at this point in the season, and that’s why I need you to be completely honest with me.”
He arched a brow, daring his manager to ask the question.
Roland’s voice was hard as flint. “Are you betting on the league?”
“No,” Brendan replied firmly, secretly grateful Roland had qualified the question with on the league.
Roland narrowed his eyes. Brendan held his gaze unwaveringly, refusing to fill the silence with anything but that single word.
“Fine.” Roland dropped his palms to the desk. “I won’t ask you again. But Erin Bailey might. She’s opening a formal investigation, and she has my full support. I won’t stand for ethics violations of any kind on this squad.”
It was more of a thinly veiled threat than a statement, and Brendan simply smiled. “I’m happy to cooperate. It’ll be nice to catch up after so long.”
“I’ll let you know when she wants to speak to you.” Roland picked up a piece of paper from a pile, signaling the end of their conversation.
Brendan didn’t bother with even a cursory parting statement. He just stood and left the room.
If Roland thought he could find a reason to freeze him out of the league final he had another think coming. He deserved his spot. No way in hell would he let go of it now.
* * * *
“Hello.” Brendan grinned as he opened the door from the garage to the kitchen to find Erin framed in the dim light, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, a virginally white dress hugging the body he’d dreamed about for the last three days.
“Hello, yourself.” She pushed up to her toes and brushed a kiss over his lips. He grabbed her wrist to keep her in place, lapped at her lower lip, stole a taste of her tongue. She hummed her approval and pressed in closer, but he used his grip on her arm to hold her back.
“Work, then pleasure.”
“Boring,” she whined but preceded him through the door to the pub.
“How was training today?” she asked over her shoulder, picking her way down the stairs in her high heels.
“Standard.” Her ass looked sinful in that dress. In every dress. Was there a special store that made clothes that tight, or—
“No one mentioned anything about the investigation?”
Mention of the dark cloud hanging over him and Roland killed his boner faster than a cold shower in January. “No. But I’m not sure anyone knows about it except me.”
“They will tomorrow. My assistant’s sending out the interview schedule first thing in the morning.” She took a seat at one of the barstools, slung her bag onto the one beside it, then pulled out her iPad. “I guess it’s inevitable that some people will assume it’s about you. Hopefully they won’t let it affect the team dynamics.”
He moved behind the bar to pour her gin and tonic, then emptied a beer bottle into a pint glass for himself.
“We have a rest day tomorrow, ahead of the early match on Saturday.” He eased onto the stool beside her and opened his notebook. “If anyone wants to confront me about it, they can call. Otherwise they’ll have to set their suspicions aside until after the game.”
“Do you think anyone will be rude about it? Cheers, by the way.” She tapped her glass against his.
“Cheers.” He took a sip, then raised a shoulder as he put down the pint. “I doubt it. They’re not a sanctimonious crowd. The only one I can see being difficult is the guilty party.”
“What about Roland?” she prompted. “Was he difficult?”
“No more than usual. Anyway, let’s get to work.” Brendan picked up his pen, shoving aside images of his manager’s brooding stare, his furrowed brow, his even greater reluctance to offer any praise to his goalkeeper.
She let the topic drop as she tapped the screen to life, but her sidelong glances told him she was still thinking about it.
He reached over and lowered the tablet, touching her cheek so she looked at him head-on.
“I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I don’t need Roland to be nice to me, or anyone else for that matter. What I do need is for you to make a big bust and get my head off the chopping block.”
“I know. And I will. It just makes me sad to think of people making assumptions about you that aren’t true.”
“Aren’t they?” He gestured to the setup in front of them, sweeping his arm to include the whiteboard, his stats-clogged notebooks, her own spreadsheet.
She shook her head. “Definitely not. Betting on a league you haven’t played in for years is completely different to betting on the one paying you every week.”
“It’s not great, though, is it.” He sighed, smoothing his hand over a page made bumpy by the density and pressure of his handwriting.
“Moral or not, it’s profitable,” she said resolutely.
He nodded, glancing between the whiteboard and his notebook as he tried to find his focus, to summon the sense of relaxation that normally accompanied these stats sessions.
The last couple of days he’d found himself reluctant to open his notebooks, and he wasn’t sure why. Part of him was grateful, hoping this was a natural easing of his obsession, that it showed the potential for finding a mental release valve in something other than a morally dubious, time- and money-consuming hobby.
The other part of him was quietly terrified that it meant the stats would stop working. That he wouldn’t be able to reach for his notebooks when he needed to silence his clanging brain. That there would be no outlet for his anxiety and the erratic heartbeats, short breaths, and tickertape thoughts would become the status quo.
No, he assured himself, forcing his attention onto Erin’s analysis of the first match on their list. He’d find another way. Something else to be his conduit out of mental chaos and pin him to earth.
He just had no idea what.
“I know their lineup looks stronger,” Erin said. “But they had a big European match last night and I think the players will be tired. It’d be a huge upset, but I think they might draw.”
Brendan frowned at the predicted team sheet Erin had pulled up on her iPad. “I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about this one yet. We can go with your bet, though, if you think it’s sound.”
She bit her lower lip. “It’s a big call. Maybe you should look at it when you get a chance and decide whether or not I’m on the right track.”
“I can, but you’re getting awfully good at this yourself. In a couple of months you’ll be making all these decisions on your own. Time to start taking off the training wheels and sending you for some test runs, Bailey.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about you leaving and taking that superstar cock of yours with you.” She puffed her lips in a mock pout.
“I can’t leave it here. Although it might finally get this house sale moving if it was included in the purchase price.”
“Still no offers?”
“Nope. The realtor wants me to paint the second bedroom lilac. Says the whole place is too masculine.” He exhaled his disgust.
“It’s a sign. The universe is telling you to stay in Atlanta and serve as my private sex slave.”
He laughed, but his groin twitched. He looked her up and down again, his eyes leveling on her breasts, the way they brushed the tops of her hands as she leaned over her folded forearms.
“Tempting,” he admitted. “Not sure it would cover the mortgage repayments, though.”
“I only pay in blowjobs, so unless the bank is willing to accept those…” She shrugged.
“I doubt it. Moving on.” He cleared his throat and tried to focus on his notebook rather than the full-force erection demanding to be released from his jeans and stuffed between Erin’s legs.
It was her turn to laugh, a sunny, arresting sound. “Brendan Young, you are positively blushing. Did I scandalize you with the b-word?”
“No,” he protested, but she tilted her head knowingly.
“This is why I love sleeping with Catholic men. The overdeveloped sense of shame makes even the ordinary seem so much more taboo and delicious.” She ran her hand up his thigh. “I’ll give you one now if you want.”
“No.” Yes.
“I don’t mind. It would be my pleasure,” she purred.
“No,” he repeated, summoning the strength to remove her hand from his leg. “Stats first.”
“Your self-control is admirable and extremely boring.” She sighed her defeat, sulkily propping her chin on her hand. “Next match on the list should be easy. Top-flight club at home against one already battling to stay out of relegation. The odds won’t be worth much on this one.”
He flipped two pages backward in his notebook to see if he could fill the blank he was drawing. Nothing—he hadn’t started his analysis on this one either.
“I haven’t worked this one. Let’s park it for now. What’s next?”
She gestured to the half-empty whiteboard. “You’ve hardly thought about any of these. I know it’s only Thursday, but usually you’ve got at least an educated guess for every result. What’s up?”
“I don’t know,” he told her honestly, sitting back on the stool. “Normally I can’t stop thinking about the odds. I check them first thing in the morning, last thing before I go to bed. I dream about them. But this week I just couldn’t get interested.”
“That’s weird,” she agreed. “Do you know what’s weirder?”
“What?”
“I had the exact same issue this week. The difference is I’m actively trying to give up my stupid slot-machine habit, with mixed results. The last couple of days, though, I haven’t even opened the app on my phone. Haven’t even thought about opening it.”
“Interesting.” He crossed his arms. “What did you think about instead?”
She looked at him squarely. “You.”
“Very funny.” He ducked his head, trying to conceal what he was sure must be bald recognition in his face.
Because he’d been doing exactly the same thing since he left her apartment on Sunday night.
For years his tendency to reach for his notebooks in response to stress had been automatic, almost unconscious. He’d pay an unexpectedly high credit card bill and before the glimmer of guilt or regret could take hold he was already opening to the current page and fumbling for a pen. Each notebook was an escape route out of worry, fear, irritation, or sadness, ten times as effective as any of the psychiatric medicines he tried in high school and a hundred times faster.
On Monday morning, though, he’d opened his notebooks more out of obligation than need. On Tuesday evening, after his confrontation with Roland, he’d settled into the chair in his bedroom with a notebook only to leave it open and untouched as he stared into space, his thoughts drifting to Erin. Her body. Her smile. Her laugh.
He told himself it was the newness of their arrangement. He was scratching a physical itch he’d ignored for a long time, and that could drive any man to distraction. This fixation with Erin would fade over time. It had to. It was already September. By Christmas he’d be nearly a thousand miles away in Nebraska.
“I’m serious,” Erin insisted, drawing him out of his reverie as her hand found its way back onto his thigh. “It’s like you’re my new drug of choice.”
“Same,” he admitted, slowly raising his gaze to meet hers. “That’s why I haven’t looked at the matches yet.”
They regarded each other in silence. He wondered if she was also thinking about their no-strings agreement. Or if her heart rebelled as fiercely on that point as his.
“Friend with benefits,” he said aloud, as much for himself as for her. “I don’t speak from experience, but I’m guessing that doesn’t include sex as a replacement addiction.”
“Definitely not,” she replied, seeming to find the same resolve he had. “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the diversion while it lasts, though.”
He shut the notebook and swiveled on the stool, pressing his hand over hers. “We’re not getting anywhere on these. Maybe we should get the diversion out of the way. Come back to the odds with clear heads.”
“Best plan I’ve heard in weeks. One point of business first, though.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve gotten approval to travel to Topeka next weekend to meet with the ladies’ team. I’ll be there for Skyline’s away fixture on Friday night.”
He smiled. His Friday night in Kansas just got more interesting. “I’ll be on the same floor as all the other players, but I’m sure I can sneak into your room. Actually, if you book a different hotel, I can—”
“We’ll deal with the logistics later. First I need to explain why I timed the trip this way.” She grinned. “I have an ulterior motive.”
“Don’t you always?”
“I’m more like sixty-five percent hidden agenda, thirty-five percent open confrontation. Anyway, this falls into the former category. A little bird in the Skyline press office told me you’re driving home to Lincoln on Saturday for an event.”
“I usually do when we’re away at Topeka. It’s not a long drive to Lincoln, so I spend a night or two and fly home from there.”
“And the event? The publicist told me it’s similar to what you do here in Atlanta, promoting sports for people with intellectual disabilities.”
“The organization I fund here in Atlanta is an offshoot of the one in Nebraska. When I first started playing professionally I set up a foundation in my brother’s name and hired someone in Nebraska to disburse the money to worthy programs. He had so much trouble finding any, he suggested we start one.” He smiled fondly, remembering the work that had gone into creating Young Legends. “Now it’s a fully-fledged nonprofit. We have a couple of people who do the advocacy side, talking to legislators, partnering with parents and school districts to improve services. On the other we do all-abilities sports teams, targeted at a post-school age bracket, which is when the extracurricular programming tends to run out. Soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, softball in the spring. I’ve got a whole staff running it now, but I like to turn up in person when I can. See the players, meet their parents. Keep my hand in.”
“That’s awesome, Brendan,” she told him earnestly as he raised his beer glass to take a sip. “And that’s why I’m going with you.”
“You’re what?” He put the glass down so hard some of the beer sloshed over the rim. He grabbed one of the towels he used to wipe down the bar and slapped it over the puddle, glancing at Erin over his shoulder. “Explain.”
“This annual report thing rocks two ways. We both know I have to nail someone doing something worse than you did. The flip side is to make you look like a saint, and stuff your section full of uplifting content.”
“Like the thing next weekend,” he supplied.
“You’ve got it. The press office gave me a name of a photographer in Des Moines, and he’s available to be in Lincoln on Saturday. While I’m out there I can get some quotes from whoever you’ve got running the nonprofit, maybe even some parents or players. It’s perfect for what we need, especially as it has the hometown, end-of-career angle. You just have to say yes.”
He arched a brow. “Since when? If it’s what you want to do, you’ll do it.”
“Not when it’s this personal. Not now that we’re… You know.”
He didn’t know. In fact he was increasingly unsure of what they were, but he knew exactly what they were supposed to be. And it left no room for sentimentality.
“People will see us together,” he pointed out. “You don’t think that’ll be a problem?”
“Not as long as you can keep your hands off me. Which will be difficult, I know.” She winked teasingly. “Otherwise no one will suspect anything. The possibility of my dating someone is so improbable—especially a player—I doubt anyone would even think of it.”
“Let’s do it,” he decided. “We can drive up together on Saturday morning.”
She clapped her hands together in delight. “Road trip!”
“It’s only a three-hour drive,” he told her dryly, but her excitement was contagious and he couldn’t help smiling.
“Good to know. I’ll curate the playlist accordingly.”
“No way. I’m driving, I pick the music.”
Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Let’s play for it. Winner owns the stereo.”
“Winner of?”
“The game I just made up.” She reached back and slowly unzipped her dress. “We take turns. Whoever comes faster loses.”
“You’re on,” he declared, already reaching for her.