Chapter 15
Brendan winced as a woman’s voice whined through the speakers, accompanied by an acoustic guitar. “What’s she so pissed off about?”
“Patriarchy.” Erin snapped an elastic around her ponytail and slid her sunglasses on her nose.
“Please don’t tell me the whole playlist is like this.” He put the rental into gear and pulled out of the parking lot to join the road leading to the highway.
“Nope, I threw in a couple of Broadway hits too.”
He groaned. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“I believe it was the forty-five seconds from the first touch to orgasm,” she pointed out, flashing him a helpful smile.
She leaned back in the seat as the car joined the highway. She’d had a superb meeting with the Topeka women’s team, the Skyline investigation was moving forward, and by the end of today she’d have enough content to make Brendan look like a hero on and off the pitch. She had her favorite tunes, a hot man behind the wheel, and three hours of clear blue skies and wheat-field roadsides. She exhaled happily, unable to remember the last time everything had been going so well.
She smiled over at Brendan, taking in the long legs he’d had to adjust the seat to accommodate, his relaxed posture, green eyes focused on the road ahead. She remembered the way he’d urged her legs to wrap around his waist in the shower that morning, the squeak of tile against her bare back, the muscles in his arms trembling as they came together, gravity forcing him deep inside her. Then she thought of the contrast between the ramshackle assortment of clothes stuffed inside her suitcase and the spare, ordered contents in his, and her smile became a grin.
She crossed her hands behind her head with a contented sigh. This friends-with-benefits scenario had worked out even better than she imagined. Steamy sex, genuine laughs, easy companionship, and the double-edge benefits of shaving down her debt and slowing down the rate at which she added more.
No, not slow—stop. She hadn’t opened her slot-machine app in days, not even during the long delay on the tarmac or tucked into her hotel room bed—two situations that normally could’ve cost her hundreds in bored, restless spins.
Brendan was the first man she would’ve considered for a medium-term affair, which made his imminent departure all the more disappointing. He didn’t bore her like most of her dates. He was good-looking, funny, smart, humble, yet confident enough to stand up to her.
She stole a glance at him across the car. He was leaving, and that meant emotions were off the table. But if he wasn’t… If they weren’t…
It didn’t matter. This would never be anything more than what they’d agreed—what she’d stipulated, in fact. No point getting sentimental about something that was always going to end. By New Year’s he’d be in Nebraska and she’d be bed-hopping again, and their fling would be a pleasant but distant memory.
Anyway, she wasn’t sure she had the capacity to love a man, not for any significant length of time. She loved her mother and her sister and her dad, but the possibility of feeling something similar for someone outside her family seemed totally unlikely. She could barely muster the emotion to care whether she saw most guys for a second date. At thirty-one, sexually active for thirteen years, she had so many notches on her bedpost she’d lost count. Not once had she felt a romantic tug toward commitment, and that was fine. She treasured her self-sufficiency and independence. Growing old alone didn’t faze her. She welcomed it.
And yet growing old with Brendan didn’t sound half-bad.
It was a waste of mental energy to even consider it, she decided, sitting up in her seat. Brendan might not want to be with her, anyway—he’d agreed to the same short-term time frame she had. He probably didn’t think of her as wife material. She bet he wanted a docile, wholesome, supportive type who baked bread and clipped coupons and kept a holiday decorating schedule. Who wasn’t ambitious or prickly or arrogant. Who loved him with the wide-open, uncritical, limitless adoration she doubted she was capable of.
She turned to him with a teasing smile, hoping some playful banter would lighten the weight pulling on her heart. “I bet all of Lincoln’s eligible bachelorettes will be there this afternoon, lining up like Penelope’s suitors, plying you with homemade jams and hand-sewn quilts.”
“Jesus, Erin, it’s the Midwest, not the nineteenth century.” He shot her a grin. “They’ll have Pinterest boards, not quilts, and the jams will be sugar-free.”
“Either way, I’m going to do my best to screen them for you. Any sign of extreme religious fervor, excessive cat ownership or sexual inadequacy will get them removed from the event.”
He arched a brow. “Sexual inadequacy?”
“Don’t pretend I haven’t spoiled you for all but the most sexually dynamic of my species. I’m a hard, if not impossible, act to follow.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“No, but you’ll say goodbye to me when the time comes. You’ll sleep with other women and I’ll sleep with other men. You’ll never forget me, though,” she told him, then snapped her mouth shut as what was meant to be a silly, triumphant statement came out wistful and full of longing.
He heard it, too. “I never said I would.”
“I know,” she replied shortly, trying to think of a way to change the subject.
“You brought up these imaginary bachelorettes, not me. Is something bothering you? Because—”
“Look, there’s a casino at the next exit,” she exclaimed, pointing to a sign on the side of the highway. “Can we stop, just for a few minutes? Please?”
“I hate casinos on reservations. They’re depressing.”
“Have you ever been to this one?” When he shook his head she continued, “Then you have no idea. It could be great. There’s only one way to find out.”
He sighed exaggeratedly, but she could tell his gambler’s instinct was as piqued as hers. “Twenty minutes, not a second more. We have to get to Lincoln by noon.”
“Deal. I can do a lot of damage in twenty minutes.” She flashed him a bright smile, but his brow furrowed.
“No one will recognize us, right?”
“At eight o’clock in the morning in middle-of-nowhere Kansas? Not a chance.”
Apparently satisfied, he indicated to take the exit.
The casino was one of the smallest she’d ever seen. A handful of pickup trucks and one ancient Lincoln Town Car huddled in the narrow parking lot. They both glanced up at the peeling sign as they walked through it, quickening the pace in case the hinges were as loose as they looked.
“The Golden Gate,” she read aloud. “Odd to name this place after a landmark a thousand miles away.”
“Maybe they mean it’s a gate to wealth and treasure.” He pushed open the door, and the watery autumn light washed over a threadbare carpet in a faded orange pattern. As a black-clad bouncer roused himself from a chair at the other end of the long room, Erin made out a row of ten slot machines, three empty card tables, and a roulette wheel. Half of the slot machines were dark, so potentially broken, and the median age of the people playing the rest was at least seventy-five.
“Grim,” Brendan murmured as the bouncer reached them.
“Can I see some ID?”
He squinted at their driver’s licenses, then waved them through. “Good luck.”
Erin wrinkled her nose as they made their way toward the slot machines. “I didn’t think you were still allowed to smoke inside commercial premises.”
“We’re a long way from Vegas,” he observed mildly. “Do you want to waste some money on your one-armed bandits?”
She glanced at the beeping, blinking, colorful row of money eaters. There was a time when her mouth would be watering, her hands itching—hell, there was a time when she would’ve already lost ten dollars by now. On her worst weekend she’d taken the cheapest bus down to Atlantic City on Friday night, then the latest bus back up to Manhattan to avoid paying for a hotel room, slept three hours at her apartment before boarding another dawn bus to a casino. She spent eighty dollars on bus fares, fifteen dollars on food, and lost three and a half thousand dollars on slots.
At the time it felt unlucky. Now, having dragged the patient, accommodating man beside her into this shabby, depressing, smoke-filled room, she realized how totally unhinged she’d been.
She slipped her hand into Brendan’s and held it tight.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think we should go.”
He turned curious eyes on her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve been so committed to staying off the slot app and chiseling away at my debt. I don’t want to ruin all my good work. Not here, anyway.”
He slung his arm across her back and squeezed her against his side. “Let’s go.”
They walked hand in hand back to the car. Erin exhaled heavily as she slid into her seat, averting her eyes from the temptation of the entrance as Brendan started the engine.
“You okay?” he asked as he reversed out of the space.
“That was harder than I expected,” she admitted. “But, yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good. But also a shame. If ever there was a blackjack table where I had the chance to bring down the house, that was probably it. I doubt those decks were even full.”
“You can’t count cards,” she scoffed, then added uncertainly, “Can you?”
“I’d like to try.”
“Next time,” she promised, leaning back in her seat and resolving once and for all that next time would never, ever arrive.
* * * *
“Good, but if you lean over from the waist you’ll hurt your back. Better if you can drop down, like this.” In slow motion Brendan bent one leg and put his knee on the grass, scooping up the ball.
His two trainee goalkeepers nodded avidly, mimicking the motion.
“Got a great one,” the photographer murmured at Erin’s elbow, and quickly angled the camera display for her to see a perfect shot of the three of them on bended knees. Delighted, she stuck up her thumbs as he raised the camera again.
“Much better.” Brendan glanced to where Erin stood on the sideline and tapped his wrist. She checked the time on her phone, then flashed ten fingers to tell him how much longer they had before the match started.
“Pretty soon you’ll be facing off against each other, so there’s one last thing for us to review.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Intimidation tactics.”
Brendan’s two students—both men in their early twenties—exchanged wide-eyed glances.
He motioned for one of them to take his place in the net, then positioned the ball at his feet. “Ty, you’re first. I’m going to take a penalty, and you’re going to do your best to put me off. Ready?”
Ty nodded, separating his feet and raising his hands.
Brendan looked over his shoulder. “Erin, can you give us the cue?”
“Gladly.” She stuck her index fingers in her mouth and did her best approximation of a referee’s whistle.
Immediately she saw Brendan’s hesitation, deliberately delaying the lightning-quick instinct to shoot to give Ty time to react. Ty sneered and growled, cupping his hands with his knuckles facing his chest, and Brendan’s shot curled around him to hit the net.
“Dang.” Ty slammed his fist into his thigh but perked up when Brendan came forward to slap him on the back.
“First-class theatrics, but don’t forget to jump for the ball. Next time you might want to put your arms out, too. Your catch form is perfect, but in a penalty situation you want to cover as much of the goal as possible.”
“Got it.”
Ty moved out of the way to give his counterpart, Jamie, a try while Brendan reset the ball. He’d barely gotten it into position when Jamie extended his arms to the sides and planted his legs wide, his face a bug-eyed, tension-lined mask of toughness.
Brendan rubbed his chin, attempting to hide the endeared smile Erin could see clearly from where she stood. She replaced her fingers and whistled.
Brendan shot quicker this time, and to the right instead of the left. Jamie reacted instantly, throwing himself to the right, arm outstretched. He fisted his hand and Erin’s jaw fell open in astonishment as he punched the ball clear, saving the penalty.
“Yes!” Ty screamed from the sideline. Jamie picked himself up and brushed grass off the knees of his uniform, his expression shifting from shock to delight as the accomplishment registered.
“Wow,” Brendan remarked openly, hands on his hips. “Jamie, that was awesome.”
Jamie shrugged exaggeratedly. “All in a day’s work.”
The three goalkeepers—two in their respective teams’ uniforms, one in his Skyline training kit—exchanged a series of handshakes, thanks, and congratulations. Brendan put his gloved hands at waist height and the two boys piled their hands on top.
“Outstanding session today, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you both in action. Play fair, play well. Keepers on three.”
In unison they recited, “One, two, three, keepers!”
After a few high fives Jamie and Ty ran down the pitch to join their teammates. The photographer followed and Brendan turned his grin on Erin.
“That was great,” she told him emphatically as she stepped closer, instinctively reaching for his hands before remembering where they were—and who was watching—and stopping herself just in time.
“Good photos?” Brendan stripped off his gloves and tossed them on the grass beside the ball.
“Well, yes, but I mean you and the guys. That was great,” she repeated. “You were so patient and clear in the way you explained things, but not patronizing, and you gave them a lot of really useful, technical advice.”
He lifted a shoulder, plucking up a bottle of water and taking a long drink. “Young Legends is about making sports inclusive, not easy or low-quality. Those guys may not be facing off against Pelé or Maradona anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean they don’t take their matches seriously or shouldn’t be equipped to play to their full potential.”
“Exactly. Oh my God, Brendan, exactly.” She pressed her palms to her heart. “I know this is the soapbox I always climb onto, but this has so many parallels to the women’s game. There’s so much complacency around women’s soccer, it’s like a day-one acceptance that none of the players will ever earn as much or play as well as the men so let’s be happy with what we’ve got and not waste resources on making it better.”
His smile changed, became inward, like he was thinking something he didn’t plan on saying aloud. “You’ll change that.”
“I hope so.”
“You will,” he echoed firmly, leaning down to gather up the pieces of equipment they’d used in the training session. “I need to stow this stuff and get changed. It’s almost time for the whistle.”
While Brendan changed she found a seat on the front row of the metal bleachers, relishing the crisp, early-autumn air beneath a clear blue sky. She recognized Brendan’s parents at the opposite end but didn’t have time to walk over and introduce herself before he reappeared in jeans and a brick-red Skyline polo. He offered a few pregame remarks—thanking the parents, the Young Legends staff, and the principal of the high school whose field they were about to play on—then handed over to the referees and joined the two coaches on the sideline.
As the match got underway Erin realized that Brendan’s brother, Liam, was up front as striker for one of the teams. Though one of the older players on the pitch he was also one of the most capable, scoring two neat goals in the first half hour, following each one with a careening, arms-outstretched celebration that put a smile on the face of every spectator, whether the point went to their team or not.
The watching crowd was enthusiastic and she joined them in cheering every attempt on goal, every clean tackle, every counterattacking sprint down the field. Brendan paced up and down the sideline, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing to illustrate the instructions and advice he called out to each of the two goalkeepers. She smiled fondly at his furrowed brow, the sincerity of his shouted encouragement, his firm applause even when the keepers fumbled or made mistakes. His passion showed in every movement, and she wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of all that bone-deep commitment, that intense devotion, that palpable, unwavering love.
She blinked away sudden, silly tears from the edges of her eyes. No point in speculating—she would never know. She’d drawn the line in the sand between them and he’d faithfully stayed on his side. She couldn’t start blurring it now.
At halftime she made her way to Brendan’s parents. Marie insisted too forcefully that she remembered Erin from their college days, which made Erin think Brendan had jogged their memories, but she smiled graciously and complimented Liam’s performance and Marie’s sequined Young Legends sweatshirt.
Erin was about to return to her seat when Marie invited her to dinner. She balked. For the sake of appearances the plan was for her to spend the night at a hotel, then meet Brendan at the airport for the flight from Lincoln to Atlanta. She wasn’t sure whether a CSL executive ostensibly supervising event coverage should accept a dinner invitation from a player’s mother, or whether declining would draw more attention given they did have a public, former-college-buddies friendship.
Thankfully Brendan appeared just as her indecisive silence was about to become awkward. Marie reiterated her invitation in a tone that dared Brendan to contradict her, and he shrugged in dutiful agreement.
“Sure, if Erin doesn’t have other plans. Should I invite Leo, too?” He indicated the photographer, who was taking artsy-looking shots of water bottles lined up on a bleacher.
Genius, Erin thought with relief, as Brendan’s quick thinking gave the situation a professional angle. “I think he said he wanted to drive back to Des Moines tonight, but I’ll ask him. I’m free either way.”
“Then we’ll see you at the house,” Marie decreed. Erin thanked her and moved to take her seat for the second half, exchanging a coded glance with Brendan as they split in separate directions. This whole trip had brought their private affiliation dangerously close to their public pretense. They had to be careful not to push it over the edge.
Erin pulled out her phone as the second half kicked off and scrolled unseeingly through her work emails, her mind churning. What would she do if this really were just professional—if she actually had followed a player to his hometown to show his rehabilitation for the ethics section of the year-end report?
She opened the latest email from Prinisha, scanned it, and hit Reply. She began the message with an answer to the question Prinisha had asked, then continued, Superb weekend in the Midwest. I’ll relay fully on Monday, but the meetings in Topeka couldn’t have gone better and we’re getting great content in Lincoln. Brendan’s mother has even invited me to dinner tonight, so if you never hear from me again, it’s because I got drunk on wholesomeness, bought a minivan, and married a farmer.
She sent the email and stuffed her phone back in her purse. She could already hear Prinisha joking with the rest of the team on Monday morning, imagining their urban-chic boss scraping mud off her designer heels. She would hide this in plain sight. No one would suspect a thing.