Chapter 8
Erin shivered on Brendan’s porch in the pre-dawn chill, waiting for him to answer the door. She glanced from side to side, doubtful any of his neighbors would recognize her but paranoid nonetheless.
Then again, it was Brendan who’d insisted they meet at his house to place their first round of bets, so he had to be reasonably confident they didn’t run the risk of discovery.
Or stupid, she reasoned unhappily.
Her finger hovered over the bell, about to press it a second time when he opened the door.
Be cool, she coached herself, managing to keep her jaw from falling open as she took in his early-morning appearance. Finger-combed hair, white cotton T-shirt, slim-fitting gray joggers that weren’t quite long enough. She fought the urge to fling her arms around his neck and kiss his stubbly, drowsy face.
“Nice of you to dress up for the occasion,” she said tartly instead.
“The invitation didn’t stipulate formal attire.” His gaze swept her from head to toe.
“I don’t own anything else,” she fibbed. Truthfully she’d put an inordinate amount of thought into her jeans-and-dressy-top combination, particularly since he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything more than a business partnership. She was fine with that—she was, really—but it didn’t hurt to let him know what he was missing.
He motioned her inside. “Coffee’s brewed. I assume you remember the way to the kitchen.”
“Hard to forget those granite countertops.” She stepped over the threshold and followed him into the spotlessly clean kitchen. “I hope your neighbors aren’t nosy. I can’t think of any non-shady reasons I’d be on your doorstep at five o’clock on a Saturday morning.”
“Unlikely any of them would notice, but I see your point. I’ll give you a garage remote when you leave. Next time you can park inside and come straight in.”
“Next time? Why can’t we do this over the phone?” She propped one elbow against his expensive counter as he filled a mug with coffee and passed it over.
He shook his head disapprovingly, opening a bakery box and arranging a delicious-looking series of doughnuts on a large plate.
“Do you have any idea how many people would love to be here right now, and to see what I’m about to show you?”
“Ooh, pink frosting.” She snatched up a doughnut and took a bite.
“I’m serious. I’ve been offered enormous sums of money to teach people my system. I was even approached by this day-trader guy in Brazil to fly down there to do a group lesson.” He picked up his coffee, the plate, and headed to the door to the basement.
“I thought this was all super secret. How do these people know who you are?” She opened the door and held it while he descended the staircase with his hands full.
“Technically they don’t know they’re approaching Brendan Young, goalkeeper extraordinaire. There are some online forums where people trade tips. I was a frequent flier when I lived in England.”
“Signed to one of the best clubs in the world and he spent his time trolling online message boards.” She sighed.
“Visit Liverpool in November. You’ll understand. Eventually I got nervous about being identified and stopped posting. Also I moved to Spain, and sunshine became a real thing again instead of an abstract concept.”
“Nice work if you can get it. I still don’t understand why I need to learn your system at all, though. Can’t I just be your minion, carrying out your bidding?”
He took up a stool in front of the bar and motioned her to join him, setting down the doughnuts. He slid over a stack of two marble composition books, taking a tattered one off the top and passing a brand-new one to her.
“How do you think you got into all that debt?” he asked.
“By losing more than I won?”
He shook his head. “By being compulsive. Reckless. Disorganized.”
“It’s not possible to be strategic on a slot-machine app. That’s the point.”
“It is. I can’t tell you how—not my game—but trust me, everything can be won and nothing is insurmountably random. With a little discipline and dedication, not to mention a way to keep the league from finding out, I promise you’ll pay off that debt and generate some nice income, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “You sound like an infomercial. No, I don’t want to buy a timeshare on the Lake of the Ozarks, but thanks.”
“I’m serious. Gambling is an art and a science. I can’t just start texting you my bets. You have to understand the framework behind it, even if you decide never to try it yourself.”
“Whatever. As long as doughnuts are involved, I’m in.”
He passed her a pen and opened his notebook. She did the same.
“Step one. Comfortable surroundings, free of distraction.” He gestured to the replica pub.
“I’m not writing that down.”
“You shouldn’t. That notebook is for your odds, fixtures, and bets. In fact, that’s step two—make sure you have a tidy, well-organized central database. In my case”— he tapped the notebook—“I get through one of these every couple of months, but I save them all, ordered by season, so I can refer back to my previous wagers and whether or not they panned out.”
“Step three. Doughnut.” She helped herself to a blueberry one and lifted her coffee mug in salute.
“That’s probably part of step one, but never mind. Step four… Or three… Forget the steps.”
He waved one hand distractedly and shoved the other through his hair, and it hit her again, that almost irresistible tug of affection that had her gripping her pen to keep her hand from touching his shoulder.
An unbidden, unfamiliar, and unwelcome impulse, she frowned at the blank page in front of her in an effort to ignore it. She’d never been the gooey lovey type, never dreamed of a doting husband, got bored halfway through most of her dates and over the years had developed a preference for skipping straight to sex. Scratch the itch, enjoy the night, and move on.
Brendan stood out as a lifetime exception. He’d ingratiated himself early with his act of kindness toward a naïve freshman, and so maybe she’d been predisposed to think generously on everything he did thereafter, but he was special in other ways, too. In college she’d been drawn to his quiet intensity, the introversion that lay just beneath the surface of his otherwise affable, polite persona. He seemed to approach life with a gravity lacking in other guys, particularly other athletes. He studied hard, trained hard, fulfilled all the social expectations of a number-one-ranked soccer team yet always seemed slightly aloof. Like he’d rather be somewhere else, probably alone.
At first she’d trailed him like a typical fangirl, her heart leaping whenever she caught sight of him on campus yet never approaching him, deciding it wasn’t the right moment or she wasn’t wearing the right outfit. If she knew he’d be at a party she dressed to the nines, spending hours perfecting her hair and makeup and then posing prettily near him, laughing too loudly with her friends, anxiously glancing his way to see if he noticed.
If he did, he never said anything. He certainly never made a move.
By Thanksgiving she’d more or less given up, distracted by her studies and her sport. Over Christmas she went home to New Jersey and promptly lost her virginity to the brother of one of her high-school classmates, having decided it was a complicating burden she was tired of working around. She started her second semester with greater confidence and authenticity, and although she still had a flutter when she ran into Brendan, she invested far less energy into caring what he thought of her.
They didn’t exactly become friends, but they became friendly. Instead of staring at him at parties, she talked to him. Instead of stalking him around campus, she waved and continued on her way.
The following year she was a sophomore and he was a senior, and their paths diverged more than ever as he attracted attention from scouts for several international teams. She still thought he was mega hot and certainly wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d asked, but sex had fallen so far down her list of priorities she barely remembered how it worked. Meanwhile he was almost a celebrity, the constant subject of awed gossip amongst the players, already rising so far above the rest of them that he seemed untouchable.
The last time they spoke was that spring, at a lunch during families’ weekend, when most of the players’ parents and siblings visited campus for two days of events. She watched him move through the dining room, the tallest in a tall-person family. His dad and older brother were both big and heavyset, with football-player builds. His mom was slim and sharp-eyed, clearly the mobilizing force in the household. His younger brother, Liam—gregarious, playful, unself-conscious—instantly became the center of attention as he showed anyone who would look his head-to-toe Notre Dame outfit printed with his brother’s name and number.
Seemingly by chance, their two families ended up at the same table, but as Brendan took the seat next to her she wondered if she’d been a safe option, offering no risk of teammates’ jealous parents ruing his disproportionate success. The meal was short and only slightly awkward. Her parents were their usual charming, diplomatic selves, downplaying their affluence as her dad asked earnest questions about Keith Young’s car dealership and her mother made appropriate noises during Marie’s tale of fighting the public school system to offer Liam a more mainstream curriculum. Maggie and Aidan—the eldest brother—both looked like they’d rather be somewhere else but had the good sense not to say anything.
Brendan kept quiet beside her, and instinctively she didn’t press him. Something told her he liked to disappear on occasion, to slip between everyone’s lines of attention and withdraw into whatever was happening inside his handsome head.
Toward the end of lunch, he seemed to collect himself and turned to her. “Do you have plans for the summer?”
“I’ve got an internship in New York City, working in the sports department at a TV network,” she replied proudly.
He smiled, rare and so fulfilling. “Nice.”
“It’s only three days a week, and it’s not paid, but I figure that gives me time to train and maybe get a part-time job, too. Last summer I worked at my dad’s law firm and the money was definitely helpful, but I didn’t feel like I was moving my career forward, and you only really get three summers before…” She trailed off, deciding he probably wasn’t that interested. “Anyway, what are you up to this summer?”
She regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. She knew what he was doing. Everyone did.
But if he thought it was a stupid question he gave no sign. “Hanging out at home for a while. Then, in July, I’m moving to England.”
“Awesome,” she said softly, unsure how to follow it up. Luckily she didn’t have to, as chairs started scraping the floor around the room. Another event started in five minutes.
Every occupant at their table stood, ready to go their separate ways. As the dads shook hands and the moms insisted it had been nice to meet each other, she turned to Brendan.
“So, good luck in—”
He cut her off with a sudden, tight hug, one of his hands cupping the nape of her neck beneath her ponytail. She closed her eyes against his firm chest, inhaling the scent she didn’t know then she’d still remember when she sat next to him at a wedding more than ten years later.
His grip lingered, its pressure so much more than friendly, but she was young and confused and he was a shooting star bolting away from her and when he let go she didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. She stared at him dumbly, arms at her sides, bewildered and excited and suddenly on the verge of tears.
“Be good,” he said simply, as remote and inscrutable as always. She nodded as though she had any idea what he meant, and then they both turned and walked out in separate directions.
Months ago, brimming with champagne and triumph at finally catching the biggest fish in her romantic sea, she’d alluded to that moment in one of their postcoital calms. He just shook his head, and although she wasn’t sure whether he meant he didn’t remember or he didn’t want to talk about college, she decided not to push it. Like it or not, she treasured that hug for years and years. It would hurt too much to finally be told it never meant anything.
“Are you listening?”
She jerked back to the present, blueberry doughnut still clutched halfway to her mouth. “Not at all. Sorry. Start again.”
“I said, the reason we’re up so early is the time difference. England is five hours ahead of Atlanta. Most of the matches are in the afternoon, but today we have a midday kickoff because—”
“It’s a big derby and they schedule those at noon so the fans don’t have too much time to get wasted and punch each other,” she supplied. “I may not have reached the dizzy heights you did, but I did play professionally. I know my sport. Try not to patronize me.”
He held up a hand. “Fair point.”
“Is there a reason we can’t place bets on the English games the night before?”
“If absolutely necessary, we can. This week I’m playing on Sunday, but if I’d had a game this morning I would’ve put in the bets last night. Ideally, though, you want to bet as close to kickoff as possible, so you have the maximum amount of information. We won’t really know which players are in, and in what formation until they walk onto the pitch.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I can see that in the tight matches, but what about when the number-one team is playing number twelve? Surely that’s a safe choice, even if one or two players from the top team pick up unexpected injuries.”
He patted her hand. “Oh, Erin. So much to learn.”
She polished off her doughnut. “All right, then, Maestro. Go for it.”
“Here’s the thing. Anyone can pick Manchester United to beat Swansea City at Old Trafford. The bookmakers’ odds will reflect that. The upsets are where you make the real money, and those can be predicted with detailed analysis and a whole lot of thought.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Thought takes the fun out of gambling. I prefer the instinct-and-luck method.”
“Most people do. That’s why they end up in a church basement talking about their feelings instead of a nice, big house like this one.”
She picked up her pen. “Where do we start?”
“The midday derby in London.” He pointed to the relevant line on his whiteboard. “Those are the bookies’ odds for a win, a loss, and a draw, plus whether both teams will score. You can get into really detailed bets, like who will score first, which striker will score and how many times, but for the most part I stick with the overall result. With so many matches, it’s better to hedge across the whole league rather than put too big a wager on any one specific occurrence.”
She squinted at the chart. “Where did you get those odds? Are those from a particular site?”
“Yeah. The slight downside to winning a lot is the bookies tend to shut your account or put a ceiling on your wagers, so you have to move from one to the other. These are from the one my account is still live on—but I guess now we can start over since we’re using your details, not mine.”
He turned to her, thoughtful. “You’re sure no one can trace this? I get that no one has an eye out for you like they do for me, but are you absolutely certain—”
“Totally,” she assured him. “First, I have about a million credit cards. Second, they’re all under my initials—E. Bailey or E.P. Bailey. The likelihood of anyone linking that back to me is tiny.”
“Okay. Okay,” he repeated, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself. He looked up. “What’s the ‘P’ for?”
“Patricia.”
“Nice.”
“I guess. What’s your middle name?”
“David.”
“That’s a good name.”
“Sure.”
They looked at each other for a few seconds, the atmosphere softening along this random personal detour. She summoned her memory of the young man he’d been that spring afternoon, comparing the twenty-two-year-old at the table with the thirty-three-year-old in front of her, taking the time to measure the changes.
His hair was longer, cut better, no less thick or blond for the years in between. He had a strong jaw, a straight nose, green eyes darkened by the shifting shadows of what went on behind them. Lines spliced his forehead now, and although the other physical changes were surprisingly minimal, his expression was always underlined by a slight weariness that was hard to ignore. As though he’d grown used to disappointment, expected it, but felt its full weight nonetheless.
He returned her gaze for another second before dropping it to his notebook. She wondered if he’d attempted to make the same comparison she had, the present versus the past, and what he’d concluded about the woman she’d become.
“London derby,” he announced, bringing them both back to the task at hand. “Historic rivals, managers are sworn enemies, both teams sitting near the top of the table. Each one wants the three points as much as they want to deny the other from getting them. So. Who will win?”
She tapped her chin, considering what she knew about each team, then pointed. “One-nil to them.”
“Why?”
“They finished higher last season, and they bought that Congolese guy who’s a goal machine.”
He shook his head. “Here’s what we do.”
He turned to a blank page in his notebook and jotted down two sets of names on either side, representing the full squads of both teams.
“How do you remember all this?” she asked, impressed as he easily recalled more than twenty names with no Google in sight.
“I just do. Anyway.” He pointed to the Congolese player’s name. “Let’s take your striker. He was a late purchase in the transfer window after this club supposedly outbid one up north. As a result he only landed in London at the beginning of August, so he’s had relatively little time to train with the team. He’s also never played in England before.”
He looked at her expectantly, but she shrugged.
“You have to consider each player’s mindset, not just their stats.” He tapped his temple. “This guy doesn’t know his teammates very well. His English probably isn’t great, so he’s feeling a little isolated in the dressing room and in a new country. He hasn’t played for the club long enough to be truly invested in this derby, or to understand beyond an academic level what it means for the fans. I think the quality of play in this match and the intensity of the atmosphere is going to make him stumble. If he scores, it’ll be a lucky header. He’s not going to beat the keeper.”
She frowned, simultaneously impressed and skeptical. “But that’s all speculation. He’s a professional. Maybe he can put aside all these emotional issues and just play.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “That’s why it’s a gamble.”
“It works for you, though. This system, this psychological approach.”
He nodded. “Always has.”
“Here goes nothing.” In her own notebook, she wrote down the striker’s name and added a hyphen and a zero afterward, indicating that he wouldn’t score.
Brendan pointed to one of the winger’s names. “Right, let’s figure out whether this guy will score.”
It took nearly an hour to go through each player and settle on a result, which would draw a decent but not enormous payout if it came good. Erin sat back and exhaled, picking up her coffee mug to discover it was empty.
“That took forever. How do you manage to make any money out of this? It must suck up all your time.”
“It’s quicker when I do it by myself, mostly because I read all the news in the week up to the game so by the time the team is announced I have a pretty good idea of the result to expect. Anyway, I enjoy it.” He shrugged.
“No one could fault your attention to detail. Now let’s put our money where our mouths are.” She unlocked her phone screen. He scooted his stool closer to hers to get a look.
“I’m signed up on this site as E.P. Bailey, under a credit card with the same name,” she explained, scrolling to the betting coupon for the match they’d just analyzed. “Here are the odds they’re offering me. Happy with these?”
His gaze darted between his whiteboard and the screen of her phone. After a minute he nodded. “These are slightly better than what I was offered.”
“Probably because it’s a brand-new account. I’ll shop around, though. We can spread today’s results over a couple of sites, hopefully keep getting such competitive offers.”
She tapped a few keys, hit “enter” and the bet was placed.
“Voila,” she announced.
“Is that it?”
She looked up to find his expression slightly crestfallen. “What, did you want to hold hands or something?”
“No,” he shot back so defensively she thought maybe that’s exactly what he wanted. “I just thought the first transaction of our new enterprise might be a little more…ceremonial.”
“I’ll cue up the Notre Dame Victory March on my phone for the next one.” She stood and stretched, and as she finished she was ninety-nine percent sure she caught Brendan glancing at her breasts.
She arched a brow. “Does this pub have a bathroom?”
He shook his head. “Upstairs.”
She collected her mug and nodded to his. “Do you want a refill while I’m up there?”
“Yes, please. Be quick, though. We have two more matches today.”
* * * *
“Mark him. He’s wide open. Mark him, you idiot, he’s…shit,” Brendan swore at the screen as the team they’d picked to lose came close—too close—to scoring the first and only goal of the sixty-minute-old match.
Erin blew out her relief, rising to pace behind the sofa in Brendan’s family room. She got the feeling he normally watched the games in his bedroom—he’d struggled to find the remote for this TV—but she appreciated his temporary relocation on her behalf.
She’d been at his house for hours, far longer than she intended. She’d had to cancel a lunch date and she’d eaten so many doughnuts and drank so much coffee she felt nauseous.
She didn’t care. They won their London derby bet, splitting it to take a hundred dollars each. In only two hours she’d doubled her slots winning for the last week.
This match, though, was one of Brendan’s meticulously predicted upsets. They stood to triple what they’d pulled in on the derby. Her doughnut-filled stomach was in knots.
Which is why, when he suddenly flicked to the other match on another channel, she screeched, “What the hell are you doing? Put it back!”
“Just checking. Still two-nil. We should be fine.” He tapped the remote to return to the previous channel.
“Oh God. Set piece. I can’t look. Tell me what happens.” She slapped her hands over her eyes as their team—picked to win—arranged themselves to take a corner kick.
“The German’s taking it. He’s not going to—get over! Fucking move! Dammit!”
She dropped her hands in time to watch a spectacularly tragic missed opportunity, as one of the defenders jumped for a header that missed the winger’s perfectly placed ball by a hairsbreadth.
“Morons,” she hissed. “Where was that French guy? Why is he all the way over there?”
“Because he has the mental capacity of a goldfish,” Brendan muttered gloomily. “Have you ever heard his post-match interviews?”
“Are they funny?”
“Let’s say he’s unlikely to find a second career as a motivational speaker.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I played against him a couple of times. He was pretty young then, but his ego was already fully grown.”
The reminder that she was watching the world’s best soccer league with someone who’d once been a part of it stopped her pacing. An unsettling mixture of awe and empathy tightened her throat as she watched him lean forward on the couch, muttering instructions to players three thousand miles away.
By all accounts his career was enviable for their sport. He still played at thirty-three, and he’d reached international heights that maybe a handful in a generation of American players attained.
She carried some degree of jealousy for any reasonably successful male player, resenting that the road was so much longer and more lucratively paved for them than for any woman. She never gave much thought to the end, though, and how it felt when they got there. She had her post-playing plan in place from the beginning—she had no choice.
Brendan had a pretty soft landing, transferring to one of the best teams in the league in his home country. He should’ve ridden out his twilight period as a big fish in a small pond, waving to stadiums full of ecstatic fans, delivering spectacular saves and finally leaving the pitch with the reputation he’d earned over more than a decade.
For the first time, she realized just how painful that SportBetNet leak and the subsequent public shaming must’ve been for him. He’d been a star amongst soccer fans, but he’d never been a national headline until he was one of a handful of professional athletes discovered to be betting on their own sports.
That was the risk of flying so high. The fall back to earth could kill you.
She propped her hands on the back of the couch, her fingers an inch from his shoulder. She fought the sudden, inappropriate urge to touch him, to trail her hand down his back and soothe him.
You deserve more, she assured him silently. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get it.
“Look.” He pointed to the screen. “Look at their number ten, arguing with the referee. I knew it.” Brendan snapped his fingers as the famous goal-scorer was booked for dissent.
Erin rounded the sofa and dropped down beside him. “Oh my God. He never gets a yellow.”
“He’s had run-ins with this referee before, plus he’ll be annoyed that the manager didn’t start him. Watch, he’ll go missing now. He can’t handle being booked. Doesn’t jive with his cover-model, golden-boy persona.”
“He’s the only one who’s had a remotely on-target attempt. If he loses steam…”
“Then our boys win in a huge upset.”
“Twenty minutes to go.” She knotted her fingers together, nerves and exhilaration flipping her stomach.
He pivoted to look at her side-on. “I thought I would hate watching with someone else, but it’s actually not bad.”
She spread her palms. “Thanks?”
“I mean I’m enjoying your company. It’s nice to have someone here who knows the sport, and who doesn’t keep asking why one team got a corner and not the other or how many minutes are left.”
“Is that a problem you’ve had in the past?”
“Not, like, a lot.” He raised a shoulder, clearly regretting turning the conversation in this direction. “Just, you know, other women I’ve… When I’ve watched with…”
“Ex-girlfriends,” she supplied bluntly. “Or hadn’t they earned that title, even?”
“Not necessarily. Come on, ref, that’s a high boot,” he insisted, unsubtly trying to change the subject.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t press him. What did she care how many women he’d been with? She wasn’t interested in his ex-girlfriends.
Actually, yes she was.
“Have you had many female viewing companions in the past?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“What number am I?”
He shot her a look that said he wasn’t answering that.
“Tell me about the most recent one, then,” she suggested, undeterred.
“That would be you.”
She shook her head. “Today doesn’t count. The last one before me.”
His eyes found hers with such unwavering focus that for a moment her breath caught.
“I mean you’re the last person I slept with,” he told her softly.
“Oh. Okay.” Well, that backfired. “Your last serious girlfriend, then. What was she like?”
“Why are you asking me this?” He turned back to the screen, his expressing growing irritable.
“You piqued my curiosity with your comment about soccer ignoramuses. Now give.”
“I’ll tell you about my last girlfriend if you tell me about your last boyfriend.”
“Deal.”
“Fine.” He leaned back on the sofa, eyes never leaving the action on the TV. “Catalina, when I lived in Valencia. Spanish, from Madrid originally, but she’d lived in the UK for a while so she spoke English. That was important—my Spanish was good enough for everyday stuff but not really for a relationship. Anyway, she was an art director for an advertising agency. We lasted about ten months. She was always skeptical about dating a footballer. Didn’t like photos of us popping up in the papers and was convinced I’d cheat on her eventually.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not,” he shot back, and she raised a hand in apology. “She got a job offer in Dubai and she went. El fin, as they say in Spain. Your turn.”
“Okay. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Done.”
He tore his gaze away from the screen long enough to give her a hard stare. “You’re lying.”
“God’s honest truth. I think five dates is my record. I’m not really the committed type. Friends with benefits are more my sort of arrangement.”
“You mentioned that,” he said grimly. “Tell me about the five-dates guy then.”
She tapped her chin, trying to remember him. “I was at one of the TV networks’ studios in New York. It was the anniversary of some milestone in women’s soccer, and they interviewed me about what it meant to me as a child and whether it influenced my career. The truth is I only ever watched the men’s game, but I gave them a couple of good sound bites and they were happy. Meanwhile this guy was hanging around in the background. I thought he was a production assistant, but afterward we bumped into each other in the lobby and he introduced himself. Caleb, went by Cal. In-house counsel for the network.”
“Cal,” Brendan repeated derisively.
“Hey, he was the five-date record-setter. Don’t knock him.”
“And what was so amazing about Cal that he reached that pinnacle of achievements?”
“He happened to catch me in a moment of existential crisis, for one. My sister had just gotten engaged and I had about a month where I decided to get serious about settling down.”
“But you moved on from that?”
“Completely. Anyway, to be fair to him, Cal was smart, funny, and successful. He had a gorgeous loft apartment in SoHo and wore the most beautiful bespoke suits I’ve ever seen. Also, he had an immense cock.”
He slapped his hands over his ears. “Jesus, Erin. I don’t want to know that.”
“Yours is better,” she offered conciliatorily.
“Stop. Just stop.”
“Excuse me.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t realize one of us took his Catholic upbringing so seriously. But then I wouldn’t have, given your performance at New Year’s. All the champagne must’ve helped you overcome your prude side because anyone who can do what you did when we…”
She trailed off, his head slowly turning until their gazes locked.
She’d read plenty of novels and seen tons of movies in which characters connect through a single look, a momentarily shared glance. She’d even had friends swear the catalyst to their loving relationship had been eyes meeting across a crowded restaurant, or lecture hall, or strobe-lit nightclub.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
Until now.
There was no love pulsating between them—not even a little, tiny, imaginary bit—but there was lust. Pounding, relentless, heart-quickening physical attraction. Instantly her nipples hardened to aching peaks, and the place between her thighs swelled and throbbed with unfulfilled desire.
She saw every inch of her reaction reflected in his face. His pupils dilated. The line of his jaw hardened. His chest moved more rapidly with the pace of his breath. When his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip she wanted to shove him back against the sofa, yank his joggers down his hips and find the hot, impatient flesh she knew was already steel-hard for her.
Maybe she should just do it. What could she lose? They’d had sex before—the best sex of her life. He said he wasn’t interested in something casual, but one time didn’t really qualify as something. A one-off. A Saturday treat. A nagging, insistent itch so deliciously scratched. She’d put her mouth on him, to celebrate their win, to thank him for taking so much time to show her how he bet, to satisfy the restless demand of her tongue to run up and down his shaft, to circle over his velvety tip, to bring him past the point of control and taste—
“And it’s good! Finally a point on the board in the eighty-fifth minute!”
They both jerked their gazes toward the TV at the enthusiasm of the announcer’s voice.
“They scored!” She was on her feet, gaping at the one-nil showing on the top left hand of the screen.
“I fucking knew it.” He punched the air, jumping up off the couch and taking her by the shoulders. “Didn’t I say they would score toward the end?”
“Hell yeah, you did.” Her own hands dropped to his waist.
“Seven hundred dollars,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “As long as they hold off the other team for five minutes, we will be seven hundred goddamn dollars to the good.”
“They’re going to do it,” she promised. “I know they are. You’re a genius.”
“I know,” he agreed. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
It was everything and nothing she wanted, too much and nowhere near enough. His mouth was hungry, urgent and she responded in kind, their tongues circling and bumping and stroking exactly as their bodies had done so many months earlier. She moaned at the contact, at the memory of how much further they’d gone, at the wet heat and singular taste of him.
He tightened his arms around her, pulling her flat against his chest, the warmth of him making her nipples taut and sore with need. She shoved one of her hands beneath the waistband of his cotton joggers and savored the contours of his lower back, his smooth, bare skin, the ridges of muscle beneath it.
He shifted his grip, urging her hips closer. She accommodated him gladly, redoubling her pressure on his mouth when she found the jutting length of his erection. She ground against him, even the suggestion of his arousal between all those layers of cloth enough to completely soak her panties.
Forget sex. Another two minutes and she might just dry hump her way to climax.
Some segmented, annoyingly practical part of her brain registered a whistle and then another. Her player’s instinct took over at the familiar sound and despite her body screaming to the contrary, she broke the kiss to glance at the TV, prompting him to do the same.
“Full time,” he said breathlessly.
She looked back at him. “We won.”
He smiled, big and broad and eminently kissable. “We did.”
She leaned in to resume what they’d started but he stepped all the way out of the embrace, definite and deliberate.
“We got carried away. We shouldn’t do that again.” He dropped back onto the couch and picked up the remote.
She propped a hand on her hip. “Why?”
He flicked to the other channel to check the score. They’d won there, too.
“You’re beautiful, Erin. You know that. Beautiful and smart and so fucking sexy, I’m not surprised no man has ever been good enough to win a sixth date.”
“Thanks,” she preened, taking her seat beside him. “And those are reasons not to have sex because?”
“Because you’re soccer.”
She tilted her head quizzically. “No, I’m Erin. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re soccer,” he repeated. “Everything about you is the game I love. You understand it, you played it, and you’re one of the women’s game’s legends. It’s your job, too, and will be for a long time. Probably forever.”
“And?”
“Soccer and I are breaking up. We’re getting divorced. We’ve been together for a long time—childhood sweethearts—and now she’s moving out. We’re divvying up our books, splitting the cutlery, packing our boxes, and selling the house.”
She squinted at him, wondering if he really was as nuts as his whiteboard and notebooks implied. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“In six months I’ll be in Nebraska. I’ll be a retired pro—someone who used to be sort-of famous—and I’ll be at the beginning of the next phase. The post-soccer phase. Also known as the rest of my life.”
A pang of sadness for him poked at her heart, but she still didn’t follow his reasoning. “Spell it out for me.”
“Having sex with you would be like having sex with the woman I’m divorcing,” he explained. “You’re so deep in that world—the world I love and the world I’m leaving, whether I like it or not. I’ve spent the last six months emotionally distancing myself so it won’t hurt quite so bad when I finally say goodbye. You and I—this—would only make it worse.”
She frowned. “I think I understand, but I disagree. Strongly.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “I thought you might.”
“Yes, soccer is how we met, what we have most in common, as well as both of our current professions. But I am not a sport, Brendan. I am a woman. A woman you’ve slept with before. I am offering you no-strings, purely physical, mutually satisfying sex on tap. It doesn’t have to interfere with your emotional breakup because emotion won’t be involved. I’ve perfected the art of no-commitment intercourse. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
He took longer to respond this time, his gaze lingering on her face, and suddenly he was that twenty-two-year-old again, his inscrutable expression hiding a host of complicated mental machinations.
“I can’t,” he told her finally, and she knew from his tone there would be no further explanation.
“Whatever. Your loss,” she decreed, rising again, this time to find her purse and make her way home. He nodded his agreement but as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag and dug around inside for her car keys, she couldn’t help but think it was her loss.
Massively, overwhelmingly her loss.