Chapter 20
Brendan peered suspiciously at his teal uniform hanging neatly in the open-fronted locker. He glanced over his shoulders, surveying his teammates for any sign they knew something he didn’t. They were all absorbed in getting ready for the match—as he should be, apparently.
Memphis had been chosen as the venue for the league final before the season started, and as he looked around the dressing room in the brand-new stadium he could see why. The facilities were top-notch and the hospitality they’d received as a visiting team was unparalleled. His spare kit was folded on the bench beside a copy of the match program. On the floor beneath was his cleats, shin guards, flip-flops for the shower, a sponsor-branded towel and a bottle of a sports drink in his favorite flavor.
It was almost like the equipment manager expected him to play.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to shed the paranoia that had dogged him since he hung up with Will Hart last night. Although he was relaxed and confident about his decision, he hadn’t been looking forward to the inevitable confrontations with Roland, his parents, and whoever else had a minor stake in what remained of his career. He spent the evening with his phone in his peripheral vision, waiting for it to ring.
It didn’t. It didn’t ring the next morning, either, as he showered and dressed and packed. It remained silent when he dropped off Erin’s phone with her doorman, and except for a few pinging texts from well-wishing former teammates, it was quiet from the time he arrived at the airfield to the moment he switched it off for the flight.
Roland acted disconcertingly normal, too, and more than once Brendan had to stop himself from staring at his manager. Was it possible he didn’t know? Or was he focused on minimizing disruptions before the big match and saving his hostility for a postgame screaming session?
Neither option seemed likely. As the flight wore on, it occurred to Brendan that the story should be out by now—if it was going out.
But why wouldn’t it?
With that in mind, he sat down in front of his tidily arranged uniform and unlocked his phone. He dismissed another slew of messages from Erin without reading them and put his own name into a search engine for what must’ve been the hundredth time since they’d landed an hour earlier.
Nothing.
He shook his head in disbelief as he cut the screen and stuffed the phone into his duffel. He doubted Erin could’ve killed the story on her own—she didn’t have enough leverage with Will. But he couldn’t think of any favors she could’ve called in that wouldn’t have exposed her role in the whole thing, either.
Maybe he just wasn’t famous or interesting enough, and Will couldn’t sell the story. Again, that seemed unlikely, especially on the day of the final. Maybe Roland had enough sway to get Will to hold off on publishing, but then by now surely he would’ve given Brendan some indication that he knew—he wasn’t exactly the type to keep his opinions under wraps.
He snapped his fingers, the answer arriving with clear dimensions. Will was delaying the story’s release until after the match. If Skyline won, the story would be even bigger. What better way to lead than with a photo of the disgraced goalkeeper hefting the league trophy? If they lost he’d get the same impact as if he’d sent out the story in the morning, so he must be taking his chances on a win.
Brendan exhaled and closed his eyes. His thoughts had been going in circles for hours and he wasn’t achieving anything except draining his mental energy. All he could do was focus on this final—the last professional match he’d ever play—and trust the rest of the pieces would fall into place exactly as they were meant to.
With his eyes still closed and his hands spread on his knees, he visualized packing up all the shit with Erin and Will and the article and dropping it into a cardboard box like the ones he’d filled last night. Mentally he taped it shut and shoved it in a corner, out of sight, unimportant.
He inhaled as he opened his eyes, letting the scene around him fill the rest of the space in his head. He owed his teammates his full attention, not to mention the fans that had traveled to Memphis. Everything else could wait. For the next couple of hours, he was the goalkeeper for Atlanta Skyline. No past, no future, just the guy protecting the net at one end of the field.
He watched his teammates for a few seconds. Right-back Kojo Agassa bobbed his head in time to the music pumping through his headphones. Winger Rio Vidal hung a Chilean flag and a wooden rosary on the hook, then touched the framed photo of his fiancée he’d propped up on the shelf. Left-back Oz Terim got dressed with one hand and held his e-reader with the other, looking engrossed as he thumbed the screen to turn the pages.
Every player he’d known had their own peculiar pre-match rituals. He touched the goal posts, left, right and center, firmly gripping each white bar. That was it, though. He’d never been superstitious. He supposed he was too aware of probabilities in all their minute details for there to be much mysticism left in his world.
Except for love. He’d barely given it much thought these last couple of years, certainly didn’t expect it to materialize anytime soon. Love snuck into his life through the gaps, edging in, coming closer and closer until he had no choice but to acknowledge it.
He smirked as he reached for his match-day top, embroidered with the date of the final below the Skyline logo. That he’d fallen in love with Erin Bailey, a woman immovably married to her career in the sport he was leaving, was definitely a cosmic joke.
He’d only loved once before now, a passion so enduring and deep-seated he doubted he’d ever get over it completely. Soccer. This game had been his refuge, his springboard, his wings, and finally his parachute. No matter how badly he’d screwed up, or how often, or who he hurt in the process, soccer didn’t yield. The rules remained, the dynamics persisted, and he could be all the good and usefulness and virtue on the pitch that he couldn’t when he took off his uniform.
He finished changing and stood, just in time for the assistant manager to appear in the doorway and give the team a two-minute warning. The atmosphere heightened as nervous rituals were executed more hastily, but he moved slowly to the door, tugging on his gloves as he went.
He caught sight of a tall, lanky figure making his way past the dressing room.
“Pavel,” he called, catching the goalkeeper by the elbow.
His teammate greeted him with a tight hug. “I wasn’t sure whether I should try to say hello to you before the match. I didn’t want to throw you off.”
“It’s good to see you. How are you?”
“Better every day. Cleared to sit with the rest of the walking wounded.”
“Good. Roland and I are just about on speaking terms, but we may have to bring you on.”
Brendan meant it as a joke, but Pavel’s tone was serious as he replied, “No. This is your day. You’re going to be great.”
Instinctively Brendan drafted a quip to brush off his teammate’s compliment, but then he changed his mind. “Thank you,” he said instead. Simply and earnestly.
“Good luck, my friend.” Pavel hugged him once more before moving down the tunnel. The final call must have gone out in the dressing room because the rest of the first team trickled past him. He joined their momentum and took his place in the line. Oz was their captain, so he stood at the front. In ascending order of number, Brendan was right behind him.
He trailed his gloved finger down the number printed on his shorts. One.
Each player took the hand of their child escort and walked out onto the pitch, accompanied by the booming voice of the announcer listing their names. Then they lined up side by side while the two captains exchanged pennants and shook hands with the referees. When Oz returned to his position, a country-music star emerged from the tunnel to sing the national anthem.
He pressed his hand to his heart and let his gaze drift over the crowd. He peered up toward the VIP section, trying to remember the row numbers on the tickets he gave his father and brother. He couldn’t recall, and he couldn’t see them.
They were here. They’d sent him a selfie when they arrived at the stadium, both decked out in shirts with his name, Liam sporting gigantic novelty sunglasses he must’ve bought from a street vendor. He’d also gotten a text from his mom, full of kissing smiley faces and heart emojis, and a photo from Aidan of his nephews giving thumbs-up in their Skyline shirts. He wasn’t unloved. His family cared, even if they didn’t always know how to show each other.
He tilted his gaze higher, to the executive boxes. The mental cardboard box into which he’d shoved all his emotional shit popped open and a flashing memory of Erin’s fiery hair and dazzling smile peeked out.
She was up there, somewhere, watching him. Probably hating him for taking the fall on the article, but probably quietly grateful, too.
He smiled. The loneliness nipping at the edges of his awareness dissolved. Twenty thousand spectators in the stands, but she was the only one who mattered.
He would play for her. Make her proud. Show her how much he could love something since he’d never be able to tell her how much he loved her.
The song concluded and the audience clapped. He shook hands down the line of his opponents, then made his way to the net that would be his to guard for the next forty-five minutes.
Left, right, center. He clasped each bar, stilling his mind, opening his perception, straightening his spine.
Then he turned to face the last match of his career.
* * * *
Erin sucked in a breath through her teeth, smothering a profanity as Brendan caught the ball and fell on it, saving Miami’s shot on Skyline’s goal.
“Young’s turned out to be a hell of a keeper,” the league chairman remarked at her elbow. “Too bad he never got much of a run while he was in Atlanta.”
She hummed noncommittally, darting a glance at Randall. Her boss was deep in conversation with one of the directors, but she reminded herself that even if he’d heard, he would’ve given no sign. His discretion throughout the day had been impeccable, and she had to admit she’d underestimated him. Beneath that socially awkward exterior was a solid man.
Skyline charged a counterattack into Miami’s half, and she walked away, trading the luxurious viewing terrace for the mostly deserted tables at the back of the executive box. She accepted a glass of champagne from the bartender and sipped it slowly, gathering herself, making a plan.
She’d spent most of last night talking to her parents, beginning with the painful process of helping them figure out how to use Skype since she didn’t have her phone. Once that was up and running they did a lot of listening, followed by effusive expressions of love and support. She welled up remembering their earnest insistence that they were proud of her no matter what, and that they’d do whatever she wanted as she moved forward.
She hung up feeling lighter than she had in years. For the first time in months, she fell asleep as soon as she slipped into bed. No tossing and turning thinking about debt, no icy dread in her stomach keeping her awake.
The next morning started early, but started well, with the doorman buzzing to let her know “her friend” had dropped off her phone. She raced to the lobby half-dressed, hoping to catch him, knowing she wouldn’t. She wasn’t even fast enough to see the Aston Martin turning the corner. But she had her phone, and she grinned when she noted he’d returned it fully charged.
Even now the flurry of texts she’d sent him was unviewed and unanswered, and her call log was just a long column repeating his number. That was okay, though. She hadn’t expected him to respond—in fact, she suspected he didn’t intend to speak to her ever again.
“We’ll see about that,” she whispered into her champagne glass.
She had to rethink her plan slightly now the match looked sure to go into extra time. With only five minutes left the score was goalless, though both teams had given spectacular performances. The forwards drove hard and took creative chances, but the defenders were obstinate and impenetrable. In Skyline’s half, Brendan had single-handedly saved at least three potentially fatal on-target shots.
Her breath caught as she thought of him, alone between the posts. Whenever the action raced into Miami’s half her gaze snared on Atlanta’s goal and the man guarding it. The sentry on whom ten other men relied. Alert. Focused. Isolated.
She gulped the rest of her champagne, shaking off her melancholy. He wouldn’t be alone anymore. Not if she had anything to do with it.
She glanced at the match clock. Four minutes left. Time to make her move.
Half the executives had already made their way out of the box and into the lower stands for a closer view, so no one noticed when she slipped into the hall. She detoured into the restroom and rooted in her bag for the Skyline jersey she’d brought. She pulled it on over her dress, briefly admiring the way the hem fanned out from the bottom before fluffing her hair and continuing down the hallway.
The whistle blew while she was clomping down the cement steps of the lower stands, the wall of noise from the crowd nearly knocking her over. The score was still nil-nil. The ref added thirty minutes of extra time.
The players from both teams staggered toward their respective managers and dropped onto the grass. A flurry of personnel rushed onto the field with the precision of Formula One pit crews, distributing bottles of electrolyte drinks, rewrapping limbs, and massaging tired muscles.
She reached the first row and realized Brendan wasn’t with the rest of the team. He sat in front of the goal, long legs stretched in front of him, leaning back on his hands.
She propped her hands on her hips. She assumed she’d be able to speak to him when he came near the tunnel. It never occurred to her that he’d remain out on the pitch by himself.
With a heavy exhalation, she made her way along the front row, clambering around people’s knees, picking her steps between their splayed feet. Technically she had no right to access this part of the stadium—her VIP pass only let her into the executive level—but she had to make this work somehow. She wouldn’t let Brendan finish his career thinking his legacy was about to be trashed by a single news article, nor would she let him walk out of this stadium thinking no one loved him.
She loved him. More than she ever thought possible. And she didn’t care what happened after today, as long as he knew.
Finally, she made it around the curve of the stadium to the line of seats directly behind the goal. She stood in the aisle and leaned over the siding, her breath catching as she got close enough to see Brendan’s face. He sat motionlessly, head slightly turned to keep an eye on his teammates.
Drawing a bolstering breath, she bent over as far as she could and called his name to get his attention.
He didn’t notice.
Frowning, she tried again. And again. And again, with no response. He seemed so close, yet he couldn’t hear her.
Then she looked down the row of fans. At least ten of them were on their feet, also screaming his name.
Dammit.
She had to get closer. She grit her teeth and began sidling in between the fans and the siding, hoping one of them wouldn’t mind her standing in their space for the few, crucial seconds she needed.
No such luck. She stopped in front of someone she thought was a nice-looking woman in a Skyline jersey, but she hadn’t even planted her hands on the siding when the fan in question spoke.
“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”
“League business. I’ll be two seconds.” Erin flashed her VIP pass.
“What kind of league business gives you the right to block my view?” the woman demanded.
Deciding honey was better than vinegar, Erin whirled with an outstretched hand—which the woman ignored—and a big smile, which also had no effect. “Hi, so sorry to bother you, I’m the Director of—”
“I don’t care who you are. I’m a season ticket holder in Atlanta, I paid a fortune for this seat and if you don’t move I’ll call security.”
Erin dug her nails into her palm. If this woman had any idea of the stakes involved…
“I just need to call a message to the goalkeeper. Less than a minute and I’ll be out of your way.” She tried to make her tone as sweet and polite as possible.
The woman snorted. “Good luck with that. He just moved down the other end. They’re switching sides before the whistle.”
Erin swore viciously under her breath as she turned just in time to see Brendan making his way toward the center line. She scrambled back through the tangle of feet and legs, but the referee blew the whistle to start the extra half-hour as she reached the aisle.
Panic gripped her. She’d lost her chance—but she had to tell him. She had to.
She should’ve told him long before tonight, she chided herself, tears welling hot and unstoppable. She shouldn’t have been such a self-centered princess, burying her head in her ambition and refusing to see what was right in front of her. Now he was out there, on his own, with no reason not to expect to walk off the pitch into a massive, shaming scandal when instead she wanted him to walk straight into her arms.
She had to think of something. But what? Frantic, rock-bottom tears spilled over her cheeks as breath hitched in her lungs. She’d screwed this up and she was fresh out of ideas.
“Ma’am?”
She spun, coming face-to-face with a security guard.
“May I see your ticket, please?”
She passed him her VIP pass. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t be down here.”
“I need to ask you to return to your ticketed area.”
“Okay,” she acceded meekly. She took one last look at the pitch and the teal-uniformed man at the far end of it. Then she turned and made her way back up the concrete steps, shoulders slumped in defeat.
* * * *
“Up and in. Quick,” Brendan instructed his defenders, who obediently ran up the middle of the pitch as he took a couple of steps back for a goal kick. When he was satisfied with the way brick-red jerseys populated the pitch he booted the ball back to the center line.
Skyline’s forwards pushed into Miami’s half and he checked the clock. Another couple of minutes until the end of added time. Every player on the field ran with heavy legs, desperation, and exhaustion combining to make shots sloppy and passes ill-timed. There was no artistry left, just dogged determination.
Slower players made his job slightly easier, or they would if the mounting tension of this goalless match wasn’t sending his brain into a tailspin. If no one scored before the thirty minutes was up, the result would be decided by a penalty shootout. Whether they won or lost would be almost entirely in his hands.
Penalty shootouts were about mental grit, not skill, and the odds always favored the player taking the shot. Saving a penalty required a combination of luck, instinct, and a hell of a pair of cojones.
He was tired, too. Two hours of intense concentration, spiking adrenaline and maximum physical output had taken a toll. As the clock ticked his grip on his thoughts got looser and looser. Already the box he’d shoved his distractions into had slid out of its mental corner, and the tape holding it together was threatening to break open.
At the other end of the pitch, Rio crossed a ball that Deon headed at the goal. The crowd gasped as it arced toward the top of the net, but Miami’s keeper got his fingertips on it just enough to push it back into play.
Brendan swore under his breath. He’d briefly overlapped with Miami’s American keeper in Spain, and the guy was good. With only a minute left Atlanta were unlikely to get another chance. Unless something extraordinary happened, whether the league trophy traveled to Miami or Atlanta tomorrow was on his shoulders.
The implication of that missed shot exploded in his mind like a firework, and the box in his brain burst wide open. He almost staggered under the rush of anxieties that flooded his mind like a tidal wave.
Maybe the article was out by now. He glanced up at the stands, suddenly reading criticism and disgust in every set of eyes. He’d disgraced himself, his family, his place in this game. In minutes he wouldn’t be a professional athlete anymore. He’d be unemployed, unimportant, insignificant. A has-been, and an ill-reputed one at that. Not remembered for the trophies with his name on them, but as the man in the middle of a scandal that broke the day of the league final—maybe the day he lost the league final for his team.
He pressed his hands against the sides of his head as if he could force his reeling mind to still. His breaths came quicker, shallower. He couldn’t face the penalty shootout. He couldn’t let everyone down again.
The referee blew the whistle on a nil-nil scoreboard and he bent over at the waist, fighting a wave of nausea. He couldn’t do this.
He dragged himself upright and made his way to the sideline. Both teams already had their penalty orders determined, and there would be no formal break before the shootout began. A couple of minutes for hydration and then he’d have to face Miami’s players one-on-one.
Roland approached as he chugged an electrolyte drink. The Swede seemed to have aged ten years in the last two hours, but as he reached Brendan he smiled.
“I won’t bother giving you a pep talk. Just know I’m glad you’re here.”
Brendan shook his head in objection but Roland didn’t notice, slapping him on the shoulder before moving to speak to the players who’d be shooting for Skyline. Brendan lowered the half-empty drink bottle, suddenly feeling sick again, and searched the row of injured players’ seats for Pavel. The Czech keeper shot him two thumbs up and a big grin, but it only heightened his anxiety as he realized there was absolutely no way out. He couldn’t fake an injury and get Pavel to run on from the stands. There was no one left but him.
“Brendan!”
For the most part, he’d learned to ignore fans yelling his name—they did it all match long—but the female voice ringing over the din caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder, and the plastic bottle dropped from his hand.
Erin leaned over the siding of the front row, a raging fire-haired beacon in the twisting shadows of his mind. She grinned and waved him over, ignoring the furious man whose view she blocked.
He took only a couple of steps closer and didn’t shout back, wary of the rules, not wanting anyone to misinterpret their exchange as any kind of coaching or inappropriate communication.
“It’s not coming out,” she called out, her coded language suggesting she knew the rules, too. “Dead in the water. Randall, of all people.”
“You told him?” he shouted before he could think better of it. Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, unsure whether to be delighted that she’d managed to kill the story or sorry that she must’ve lost her job in the process.
“I’ll tell you later, but everything’s good. Good,” she emphasized, grinning even wider.
“Okay. Well, I have to go,” he told her dumbly, not sure what else to say.
“Wait,” Her tone was urgent, and her smile dropped. “One more thing.”
He turned his hands palm-up.
She inhaled, lower lip darting briefly between her teeth. “I love you.”
He blinked. Squinted. Shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
Her expression moved from determined to annoyed. “Yes, I do. I just said it, didn’t I? I love you, Brendan. I love you, and we’re going to make this work.”
He just stared at her, unable to process what she was saying. Did she love him? Really?
Her face fell, the confidence dissipating, and he realized that she must think he didn’t feel the same. Urgency swelled hot in his chest, and the words ran out of his mouth before he registered them.
“I love you too.”
Even as it trembled with emotion, her smile was the cooling salve his feverish brain needed. The cyclone in his head calmed to a gentle spring breeze. He inhaled all the way to the bottom of his lungs.
“Fuck’s sake, lady, do you know how much I paid for these seats?” The beefy, red-faced man behind her appeared to be on the verge of a heart attack.
“Later,” Erin called, edging away toward the aisle.
He raised his hand in farewell. “Later,” he echoed, too quietly for her to hear.
“Let’s go, number one.” The referee was at his elbow. Brendan looked past him to see that Miami’s keeper had taken his place between the posts. Atlanta would shoot first.
His whole body felt loose and relaxed as he took his place along the sideline. Never mind the logistics or the complexities that awaited them. Erin loved him. She loved him. The most vibrant, ferocious, lethally sexy woman he’d ever known had chosen him, having never chosen another.
He couldn’t stop his smile as he watched Oz step up to position the ball for the first shot. He made a silent promise to his teammates, to his parents, to the woman he loved. We’re going to win.
Oz regarded the keeper with the same cool, dispassionate expression that made him one of the most difficult reads in the league. He took a step back, leveled his gaze on his opponent, and delivered a precise, clinical shot straight into the back of the net.
The crowd roared, but Oz’s celebration was muted as he high-fived his teammates. Each team got five chances before they went to sudden death. The win was still a long way off.
His turn. He took his place between the posts and locked eyes with Miami’s striker. He’d never missed a penalty, but Brendan supposed there was a first time for everything. He widened his stance and spread his arms.
The striker shot left, and he dove left, but not far enough. The ball sailed an inch past his fingers and he heard it slam into the net as he landed hard on the grass.
He pulled himself up and brushed off his gloves as he traded places with Miami’s keeper. No point feeling defeated. Still four chances left.
Deon took the second penalty for Skyline, and he made quick work of it, barely taking a second to get into position before he sent a hard shot into the upper right-hand corner. Miami’s keeper didn’t even have time to dive and walked out of the box less than a minute after he walked in.
Brendan resumed his position, drumming his heels into the grass as he studied the winger placing the ball at his feet. This guy had nerves of steel. No amount of intimidation would work, only skill and speed. He narrowed his eyes as the winger shot, and although he picked the right side, the ball curved around him and into the net, unreachable and unstoppable.
He kept his head high as he walked back to the sideline. Two-two and Miami had used their best penalty takers. All was far from lost.
Laurent Perrin, Skyline’s number ten, stepped up for his turn. The French playmaker radiated confidence as he set the ball and stepped behind it. Miami’s keeper braced his legs apart and Laurent took his shot.
The ball hit the top post, then bounced over the goal and onto the grass behind it.
A chorus of profanities rippled amongst the Skyline supporters, but Brendan fought to keep his expression neutral as Laurent turned, devastation plain on his face.
“Don’t worry about it,” he told his teammate as they passed each other, gripping Laurent’s shoulder. “I’ve got this.”
I’ve got this, he reiterated to himself, believing every word. He stared across the box at the Miami defender readying for his shot. He was fifty-fifty when it came to penalties, and Brendan had everything to lose.
The defender took his run-up. It wasn’t quite an open book, but it was readable. Brendan jumped the instant the ball left his foot, and just managed to get his fingers on the high shot to push it even higher, sending it over the bar.
The defender swore profusely where he stood and Brendan eagerly vacated the goal, not wanting to give his teammates too much time to celebrate. The score was still even at two-two. Saving one didn’t mean he could save another.
He ignored the slaps on his back as Rio stepped up to take Skyline’s fourth penalty.
“Not the Panenka,” Brendan urged under his breath. Rio was famous for using the ballsy, soft-touch technique to scoot a goal past the keeper and win the South American Cup for Chile. It worked then, but it was too predictable to work now. Brendan prayed Rio realized that.
The little Chilean took his run-up in three slow, easy strides, which totally concealed the powerful shot he sent into the net. The keeper had stayed in the center, expecting the Panenka, and the ball fired way out of his reach into a back corner. Rio fell on his knees in celebration, crossing himself and raising his fist to the sky.
Brendan gathered himself as he made his way back to the goal. Rio’s score meant the pressure was all on him. If he saved this, they won. If not, each team took another turn.
He barely knew the midfielder stepping up for Miami. The twenty-two-year-old from Arizona had made his debut this year, fresh out of a college program and bursting with untapped potential. He was fast but he was young. And this was a big moment.
Brendan studied the tension in his shoulders, the placement of his feet, the line of his gaze as he looked up from setting the ball. His mind whirred like a well-oiled motor, analyzing probabilities, reviewing every fact he knew about this kid, recalling each move he’d made in the two hours preceding this moment.
The answer revealed itself with crisp, clear angles as the kid took his run-up. He thought he was being clever, thought he was better than he was, or thought he could make up in bravery what he lacked in experience. Unfortunately, he thought wrong.
He’s going for a Panenka.
Brendan remained still as the ball chipped into the air, straight down the line toward the goal. Time slowed, or his mind sped—either way, in the less-than-a-second of that ball’s trajectory he saw it all.
His mother grumbling over the sink as she scrubbed out the grass stains in his jeans after a lunchtime spent kicking a soccer ball on the playground.
His feet pounding up the stairs to take the call from the coach at Notre Dame, Liam hanging on his arm as he muttered a one-word acceptance into the phone.
The scratch of the pen when he signed his first professional contract, and the aftershave of the world-famous manager who’d flown him and his parents all the way to Liverpool.
His first game in England, the heaving crowd, the unrelenting rain.
His last game in Spain, applauding the fans before taking a final walk down the tunnel.
Atlanta. Roland. Pavel. The sideline seat digging into his tailbone, week in and week out. Hours spent alone in his pub. Stacks of notebooks piling up along the bar. The day the data breach broke, Roland’s fury, and his mother’s tears.
And Erin. At once soft and hard, distant yet closer than home. Strong, unapologetic, endlessly passionate. That she’d chosen him, out of all the men who had and would hurl themselves at her feet, made him feel anointed. Extraordinary. Undeserving but utterly ecstatic.
He saw the end, as surely as he saw the beginning, and he was sorry. Sorry that he was about to outplay this young midfielder who had so much ahead of him. Sorry that he would ruin his confidence, maybe even set him back next season. But it had to be done, and anyway, this kid had his whole career ahead of him. Practically a lifetime.
Time regained its normal pace and he squared his feet, holding his position in the center of the net. He bent his knees slightly and caught the ball, its impact knocking the air out of his lungs. Then he cradled it in his arms and fell on top of it for good measure, nose in the grass, eyes closed against the soil.
The stadium exploded into cheering. He heard his teammates whooping, his opponents cursing, Roland’s voice raised in uncharacteristic effusion. But he stayed still for just a bit longer. When he stood it up it would all be over. These were the final seconds of his career.
Hands plucked at his shirt before he was ready, and he had no choice but to drag himself to his feet. His teammates pressed around him and knocked him off balance, each one of them vying to hug him first. Someone took the ball from his hands and he felt its absence keenly. He’d never again hold a ball in professional competition.
His throat felt swollen, his lungs scratchy, but he forced a smile. The CSL trophy would be wintering in Atlanta.
As the cluster of his teammates broke apart he glanced around, bewildered and disoriented, not sure what happened now. He exchanged firm, smiling handshakes with Roland, with the other keeper, with the midfielder whose Panenka he’d just stopped, but he did it all numbly. His thoughts moved sluggishly, his tongue thick, and occasionally the earth seemed to teeter beneath his feet.
“Nice save, keeper.”
The hand on his elbow lingered, and he turned to see that Erin had joined the other wives, girlfriends, and kids that had rushed onto the pitch. She smiled, and his world found its axis.
She threw her arms around his neck and he held her tightly, anchored by her presence. She kissed him hard, and his shoulders slackened with relief. She was really here. She’d meant it all.
“I came clean to Randall,” she gushed when she pulled back. “I told him everything. I thought I would get fired, but he was great—he understood. He told Will he’d lose all access if he published. It worked. There’s no story.”
“Why did you tell him? I would’ve taken the fall for you, Erin. There was no reason to put your job on the line.”
She shook her head disbelievingly. “Don’t you get it? You’re worth more to me than any job. I love you, Brendan. Maybe I’ve loved you since I was eighteen, I don’t know. I’ll do whatever I have to so we can be together… If you’ll have me,” she added shyly.
He gripped her upper arms. “I’ll have you any way I can get you. I love you.”
He kissed her again, and again, and with such intensity that by the time he registered the reporter standing beside him with a cameraman and a microphone, the entire viewing audience had gotten a PG-13 romantic interlude in the middle of their sports broadcast.
The reporter smiled as if it was totally normal to interview a player who’d just been making out with a high-profile league executive, and raised the long microphone connected to the stadium’s speakers.
“Congratulations on your win, Brendan, and on that amazing save. This was a pretty spectacular end to your long and remarkable career. How does it feel to retire on such a high?”
He cleared his throat, glancing at the reporter’s patient smile, and up at the rows and rows of fans. Then he leaned down slightly to speak into the mic.
“What can I say? I’ve been so lucky to play the game I love professionally for eleven years, in three countries, and to finish with a CSL league win is more than I ever expected. I owe so much to the coaches and managers who’ve helped me along the way, to my family, to the fans, to my brilliant teammate Pavel Kovar, and to my…my girlfriend, Erin.”
She nodded encouragingly, tears brimming in her eyes. He turned back to the reporter.
“It’s been a privilege to finish my career at Atlanta Skyline, where I’ve played alongside some of the best guys in the sport. I’m sad to say goodbye, but it’s time, and I’m…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard to steady it. “I’m just really grateful.”
“Well done,” the reporter told him warmly, out of range of the microphone, before she mercifully brought it back to her mouth. “Thank you, Brendan.”
Applause and cheering echoed around the stadium before the fans broke into a full-voiced rendition of “Forever Young.” He waved his gratitude, taking one last look at what it was like to have tens of thousands of people supporting him.
Then he took the hand of the only person whose support he needed. She squeezed it tightly.
“I’m ready,” he told her. “Let’s go.”
They left the pitch together, hand-in-hand.