A lot of things sickened him. Anger and sadness rotated their position in his head and heart. Recuperating for weeks in a body cast had drawn back the blinds and let the brutal reality shine in because, straight up, no one—sportscasters, any talking head expert on the sport, and fantasy-soccer aficionados—gave a damn about him now.
“You’re down, but temporarily. I get how frustrating it all feels. I’ve been working with athletes for twenty years. Trust me. This will pass.” Olivier lowered his hand to help him. The thick, bushy eyebrows twitched over his eyes, which regarded his client piercingly.
Jesse wanted to slap away the hand. He didn’t want any help. Or pity. Or comfort. He wanted to be alone without his usual flashy trappings. But even that, he couldn’t do. With nowhere else to retreat, he’d stepped back in time with his return to his hometown. At the end of the day, all he had was family. His parents were willing to offer him more than a helping hand, while he rehabilitated. They offered sanctuary until the speculation about his injury died down a bit. The supportive shoulder wasn’t quite his brother’s—Diego’s—style. Well, Mr. Ivy League could get in line with those who gloated over soccer’s “show pony” hitting rock bottom—a six-month tumultuous downward slide.
“Are we good?”
“Yeah.” Jesse swallowed his pride and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He couldn’t be angry with Olivier. The man had become more like a substitute father and mentor when Jesse first crossed the hallowed ground of soccer by becoming a professional player with the youth soccer academy at seventeen years old.
They shook hands and parted ways in the parking lot. Olivier would return to the management of the Spanish team with no headway to report. And Jesse would get in his car to head home and soak his overworked body in the tub. Nursing a bottle of beer, he could tune out nagging doubts about his future.
Hours later, instead of grabbing another drink, Jesse tossed back two pain relievers and gulped down a glass of water. Sleep eluded him. And he was in no mood to chase after it. Rather than head for his bed, he walked out onto the deck of his houseboat and flopped into his favorite lounge chair.
The early spring season had just enough of a warm edge for him to enjoy being on the deck. Without the harsh lights from street lamps, the brilliance of the stars stood out against the inky dark sky. Stargazing was the perfect cure for his restless thoughts. Out here, he didn’t have to worry about annoying reporters. The marina had solid security and so far the sports journalists didn’t know about his temporary residence. Unfortunately, they tended to stake their reporting platforms near his parents’ home.
His cell phone rang. Probably his mother or father. He answered for the usual nightly check-in.
“Where were you tonight?” This wasn’t his mom or dad.
“Diego?” Jesse didn’t expect to hear his younger brother’s voice. “What are you talking about?”
“We were expecting you for dinner. Mom and Dad had the Tompkins family over to meet you.”
Jesse swore. He’d forgotten. After the workout and the conversation with Olivier, quiet and solitude were all he craved for the remainder of the day. His parents had set up a steady stream of brunches and dinners with him trotting, or rather limping, in to meet church members, coworkers and his mother’s crochet—or was it cross-stitch?—group. After these past several weeks of smiling, signing autographs and posing for photos, he’d come to dread the invitations. Instead of saying anything, he’d come up with excuses not to attend, arrive super late or be stoic and unresponsive to occasional flirtations. But this was the first time that he’d completely wiped it from his mind.
“And they brought their kids.”
Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t know kids were coming.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Diego pushed.
“I’ll make my apologies to Mom. Is she around?” Jesse didn’t want to get into anything with his brother. Not tonight. They could fight tomorrow or the day after when there was no threat of them running out of things to irritate each other.
Apparently, Diego didn’t want to let up. “This was a waste of my time, too.”
“I didn’t ask you to attend. Never did.” Jesse rubbed the length of his thigh. His mood turned sour.
“No, you didn’t ask, but still I came. Mom expected us to be there.”
“And you’re not one to disappoint.” Jesse stared out into the night.
No longer focused on the stars, he looked out at the lakeside houses’ lights dotting either shore. His temper brewed. Friction that had been in the making for most of their lives bubbled like a volcano. Their disagreements waxed and waned, depending on their parents’ involvement to push a peace process. While his busy soccer schedule and obligations once provided a safe zone, lately signs warned that the turbulence was on the rise, a change that he’d noticed when he returned home for his indefinite stay.
Jesse continued, “Tell Mom that I’ll call her in the morning.” No matter how much he’d rather not have to meet his parents’ friends, he never wanted to disappoint kids if he could help it. They mattered, especially with their unconditional loyalty and support. He had hundreds of letters since his injury to prove his point.
Tomorrow, he’d be on it. If he had to go to the Tompkins’ home and take the kids for an ice cream treat, he’d make the experience fun with selfies and autographs.
But Diego didn’t let up. “Sure thing. There’s always an event or woman that is more important. Let me remind you that the false love and adoration won’t last. Because, then what happens now that the soccer god is shown to be human?”
Jesse didn’t reply. He didn’t have to respond since Diego abruptly ended the call. His brother’s challenge had echoes of truth, though.
His thigh throbbed—a final punishment for the night. He leaned back his head and closed his eyes to will away the ache.
Anger was all he mustered up for himself. Disappointment was all he seemed to stir from others. So why on earth had he felt compelled to come back to the city of Midway, New York?
Three months later
Belinda Toussaint had barely nestled her butt onto her office chair for the morning when Tawny, her assistant, hovered in the doorway. At least she came with a proffered mug of coffee. Steam curled enticingly upward from the hot elixir. The robust scent magically jolted her brain awake.
“I’ve got good news.” Tawny held her position in the doorway, only extending the hand that held the coffee, a gift from the gods. “And I’ve got bad news.”
Was the mug with the words Professional Badass supposed to energize her for the good news? Or stroke her ego for the bad news?
Belinda beckoned Tawny to come closer. She relieved her assistant of the offering. “Thanks.” She took a careful sip, letting it wash over her tongue, before closing her eyes with a grateful sigh. “Okay, what now? Lay down the yucky stuff. This Wednesday is starting on the wrong side of my emotions.”
“Mail already arrived.” Tawny raised the cluster of envelopes clutched in her other hand. Today, the fingernails were painted bright periwinkle blue. Her burgundy-dyed hair was styled in spiral curls. Bright eyes blinked out at her behind black-framed
