Chapter 18
“Well.” Erin pushed up onto her forearms and peered down at him with a smile. “That was different.”
Still reeling from an abrupt, explosive climax, Brendan didn’t bother trying to form a coherent sentence. He put his arm across Erin’s shoulders and tugged her onto his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin.
He closed his eyes. His jeans bunched above his shoes, uncomfortably pulling his ankles together. The floor was hard against the back of his head, and the carpet he’d expensively imported from the UK for his basement pub made his bare ass itch. But as Erin sighed contentedly into his neck, he wouldn’t have moved for all the money in the world.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed in that position. Long enough for his dick to find its second wind, twitching to life as he slid his hand over the firm mound of Erin’s butt and trailed his fingertips down the soft cleft left exposed by the dress shoved up around her waist.
She rolled off him with a groan and rose to her knees, dragging her panties over her thighs. “You are insatiable.”
“Have you seen yourself today? That there was any gap after round one is testament to my immense self-control.”
She smiled, running a preening hand through her hair. “I figured a man who’ll be playing in a league final in less than twenty-four hours deserves something special.”
“That dress isn’t special. It’s sinful.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Take it off.”
“I would’ve said we need to prioritize business over pleasure, but I can’t see that you’ve been up to much on that end.” She nodded to the whiteboard, half-empty and mostly outdated.
“I’ve been distracted.” He got to his feet and straightened his jeans, deciding this wasn’t a statement he wanted to make half-naked. “I had an offer on the house.”
“Really. That’s great,” she said crisply, rearranging her clothes and perching on one of the barstools.
“Full asking price.” He took a seat beside her. “Family with two kids. Dad’s some corporate something, and his job is relocating from Chicago to Atlanta. They want to be in before Christmas so the kids can start school in January.”
“Asking price and a quick close. Exactly what you want.”
“Yeah.” He tried to smile. His job was to protect her, now. To convince her he was happy and ready to leave, and never let on that he missed her every minute they weren’t together.
“What are they going to do with all this?” She swept her hand to indicate the pub.
“Turn it into a home gym. But that’s fine,” he said quickly. “I’m going to strip it out and take most of it with me. The house in Nebraska has a cellar. I was going to put in a gym but I think I can make both work.”
The corners of her mouth turned down almost imperceptibly before she dragged them back up into a grin. “Just make sure you’re not sitting down there alone.”
“I’ll try.”
She looked as though she was about to say something else, then changed her mind, and the subject. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
“I don’t get nervous.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t. Are your parents coming?”
“My mom’s at a Down syndrome parents’ conference, so my dad’s bringing Liam. They got there this afternoon. Already sent me a photo from Graceland.”
“Cute. When does the team fly?”
“It’s chartered. Takes off around eleven. When do you go?”
“Nine-fifty flight. Nice that it’s only an hour up to Memphis. Means everyone can sleep in their own beds tonight.”
“The players, anyway. I was hoping a certain league executive might opt not to sleep in hers.” He put his hand on her knee.
“Funnily enough, I was thinking the same thing.”
She was leaning forward, eyes bright with wickedness, when her phone rang. She glanced at the display, then did a double-take and picked it up.
“It’s Will Hart,” she said thoughtfully, naming a local sports writer who freelanced for a few different outlets. “He probably wants a quote for his piece on the final. I’ll be quick.”
She tapped the screen to answer. “Will, hi. Nice to hear from you.”
Brendan had to look away at her coquettish, flirty tone, tugging his hand back into his lap. Would she sleep with Will after he’d left? She had every right. She could sleep with whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
That would be hard to get over.
“Are you in Memphis, or—ah, tomorrow. Me too. Maybe we can grab a drink before kickoff, unless—what? Sure. Go ahead.”
She bit her lower lip, listening to the deep voice Brendan could only just make out. Suddenly her brows drew together, and then she glanced up at him in panic.
“Whoa, hold on. Do you have proof of this so-called betting, because I’m really not in the mood to…”
Her eyes widened as Will’s voice got louder on the other end. Then she clapped her hand over them, her breathing short and shallow.
Brendan leaned forward to grip her shoulder. When she dropped her hand he mouthed, What?
But of course he already knew.
“Okay. Okay,” she repeated, her voice calm and steady although her face had gone completely white. “What will it take to keep this between us? What do you want?”
Brendan scrubbed a hand over his eyes as after a second she retorted sharply, “Don’t give me that right of reply bullshit. Tell me what I have to do.”
There was another pause. She began to tremble. “You’re going to regret this, Will. This will be the end of your career, not the start. I swear to fucking God.”
She cut the call and slammed her phone face down on the bar. Then she flung herself into his arms as she burst into tears.
“He knows,” she managed weakly, in between hiccupping breaths. “He says there was another data breach, but I bet he paid people at the betting websites to sell him lists of users. He wants to time a gambling story like the SportBetNet leak with the league final, except he only found one person affiliated with the CSL on all the lists he bought.”
“You.”
She nodded, eyes round with terror. “He’s going to contact all his clients tomorrow morning to sell the story. Highest bidder gets it. This’ll go national. My career is over. I’m finally paying for this stupid habit, and it’s going to cost more than I ever imagined. Fuck, Brendan, what have I done?”
Her face crumpled as tears spilled down her cheeks. He gathered her against his chest, holding her tightly as sobs shook her.
Instinctively his brain worked all the angles, although it didn’t need to. He had no options, no choices, no complex probabilities.
There was only one answer, and he’d known it only seconds after she picked up the phone.
“It’ll be all right,” he told her firmly. Just as he did during matches, he carefully gathered all of his inconvenient, distracting emotions into a corner of his mind and shut them behind a mental door. He knew what he had to do. No point getting het up about it.
She shook her head disbelievingly, fingertips digging into his shirt. “It won’t. Nothing’s going to be all right, not ever. My parents are going to find out. Oh my God, they’re going to be so—”
“I have an idea. Come with me.”
Picking up her phone from the bar, he took her by the hand and led her up the stairs, then through the ground floor to the back door. He didn’t dare look back at her—he didn’t know if he had the strength not to kiss her one last time, not to pull her close, not to tell her he loved her. He didn’t even glance at her as he unlocked the door to the backyard and motioned for her to go through. Her expression was puzzled, he guessed, maybe even wary—he didn’t raise his eyes to find out for himself.
“Stay here,” he instructed. “I have to make a call.”
He sensed her whirl in his peripheral vision, felt the moment she put the pieces together and realized what he was about to do. Too late. He’d already shut the door and locked it, and by the time he heard her pounding her fists against the glass and screaming his name he was halfway to the pub, her phone in his hand.
He paused in the kitchen, retrieving Erin’s bag from the counter and placing it inside the garage. He tapped the button to open the garage door so she could get her car out once she made her way from the backyard, and then locked the door that led into the house. Then he descended the stairs into the pub.
The cool, hushed quiet momentarily eased the tension in his shoulders. He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the space that had served as his personal sanctuary and bunker for years—and been the epicenter for the worst moments of his anxiety and addiction.
His addiction was on the wane—that was something, at least. For the first time in a very long time he felt like he was in the driver’s seat of his life instead of locked in the trunk, trying to gauge from the swerving angles where he was headed.
He didn’t need the stats now. Hopefully he wouldn’t need them again. He was clearheaded. Calm. In control. And for better or worse, in love.
He took a seat at the bar. Touched the stool where she’d sat beside him all these weeks. Breathed in her lingering jasmine scent lingering, that slice of femininity that had so disrupted the course of his life.
A fleeting interruption, already fading. But one for which he’d be forever grateful.
Maybe he would rebuild the pub in Nebraska.
Or maybe it was time to say goodbye to this version of himself, too.
He unlocked Erin’s screen by typing in her jersey number twice, then scrolled to her call history. He pressed Will’s number to redial it. It rang once, twice…
“Look, Erin, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can offer me that’ll make me change my mind. This is too big, and too important, and frankly that night at dinner you shouldn’t have—”
“Will? This is Brendan Young.”
Silence.
“Brendan Young,” he repeated. “Goalkeeper for Atlanta Skyline.”
Another few seconds of silence, and then, “I know who you are.”
“Good. We can keep this short. Erin placed those bets on my behalf. I was spooked after the data breach but I couldn’t stop betting. I talked her into it—I manipulated her, actually. I have bank statements to show earnings from those bets being deposited into my account. It wasn’t Erin’s fault, and I’m the bigger story anyway. I’ll give you whatever you need to leave her out of this.”
Silence again. Brendan sat absolutely still, attentive but unworried, waiting for Will’s response.
“How did you get her phone?” the reporter asked finally.
“I took it from her and locked her out of my house so she couldn’t stop me making this call. She’ll try to take the fall for this, but that wouldn’t be right.”
“Wait.” He imagined Will frowning, shaking his head to get the story straight. “What’s your relationship with Erin Bailey? Why should I believe anyone could coerce her into anything?”
“Off the record?”
Will’s sigh was exasperated. “I guess.”
“She’s in love with me,” he stated baldly, his flat tone reflecting none of the momentary swirl of emotion the words inspired. “I took advantage of that.”
Will’s pause was different this time, and Brendan smiled slowly. Will would be jealous of him now, and that much more willing to take him down.
“Back on the record,” Will informed him. “If I’m going to spend all night rewriting this then I need a lot of detail. Start from the beginning.”
Twenty minutes later Brendan put down the phone and rubbed his jaw. It ached from his tense conversation and the strict attention it had taken to ensure his version of events was as airtight as something left of the truth could be.
It worked, though. Will was probably already redrafting his article, removing all traces of Erin and peppering the tale with the name of the transgressive goalkeeper who, at the time of printing, would be just hours away from playing in the league final.
Whether or not he did would depend on how quickly the story broke, and at what scale. Roland was bringing a youth player as backup in case Brendan was injured. The kid was untried and untested, and would be unlikely to keep a clean sheet for Skyline. That didn’t necessarily mean they’d lose, but it would put pressure on the forwards to keep the goal tally high, and on the defense to keep the ball far away.
Then again, maybe Roland would play him anyway. Secure the trophy and then let the door hit him on the way out.
He supposed they’d have to revise his insert in the league year-end report. Oh well, worse things had happened.
And as for his parents… They’d get over it. They’d have to—he’d make them. He’d be there, in the flesh, every Sunday evening for dinner. They couldn’t hate him to his face. They’d forgive him. Surely.
He ran his hand through his hair and stood up. He’d have to find a way to get Erin her phone. Maybe he could courier it to her apartment in a couple of hours, when she’d had time to see sense and could be trusted not to do anything dramatically self-sacrificing.
Better to wait until morning and drop it off with the doorman at her building. Just to be safe.
Decision made, he moved behind the bar and opened one of the empty cardboard boxes he’d built that afternoon. Then he wiped the whiteboard clean, sweeping away every last grid, every number, every meticulously calculated probability.
He put the blank board in the bottom of the box. He grabbed a stack of notebooks and placed them on top. Then he began to move around the room, taking down photographs and pennants, carefully and systematically dismantling this part of his life.