For the Win (3 page)

4

“Just because the weather outside is gray doesn't mean your skin needs to be. I'm Gabe Havelak, and when I want to look my golden best, I go to the Tan Man. And so should you. Because you can't shine like a star if you're as pasty as a ghost.”

DAMN RAIN. THE PAIN
in Gabe's knee was always worse on damp, gray days. A twinge spiked down through his Achilles and up into his thigh as his foot connected with the cracked cement step. It would only get worse once he was practicing on that ridiculous, Astroturf-covered Cricket Field. He already used enough ice after each practice to sink the
Titanic
.

Gabe took another step and cursed. Looking down, he realized he'd accidentally stepped on one of the cracks. He exhaled in frustration and reached into his pocket to rub the rabbit's foot he carried everywhere with him. Silly, sure, but it worked. If only the good luck charm could do something about the weather. And his knee.

Most people thought it was bizarre when, seven years ago, Gabe voluntarily left the sun and the paycheck that came with his spot on Valencia CF. The prevailing assumption was that Gabe craved the fame and adoration that came with being Seattle's golden boy. In Spain, he was a second-tier American footballer. But here in the United States? He was an unparalleled star of the soccer world.

No question Gabe liked the attention, but the real reason he accepted the significant pay cut to play out his days like a drowned rat was right in front of him: a seventy-year-old, crumbling, stucco bungalow.

He pushed the unlocked door open. Warmth spread through him as he stepped over the threshold, burning away the chill in his bones. He was greeted by the familiar sight of dated peach wallpaper and hundreds of decorative plates commemorating everything from the exotic locales Gabe had played in to various royal families throughout Europe, and even the occasional baby animal.

“I'm here, Ma,” he called out. He'd offered to buy his parents a newer and bigger house hundreds of times. Though he wanted to give them the world, just as they had done for him, he was secretly glad they continually refused. His best memories were rooted within these 1,300 square feet.

Mama Havelak, clad in a bright tracksuit and an apron with an image of Gabe and his sister silk-screened to the white fabric, emerged from the kitchen to greet him in the foyer. He held out his arms for a hug, but she brushed past him and glanced outside the front door.

“Just me, Ma.” Gabe hadn't brought a date home for dinner since he was seventeen and naive as a fresh-dug turnip. The girl, whose name he could no longer remember, didn't even last through the first course. Nowadays, none of the women he went out with was worthy of a second date, much less meeting his family. He hated disappointing Mama, but he hated the thought of bringing an airhead to his sacred family dinners even more. One of the pitfalls of being a minor celebrity is that most of the women who flocked to him did so because they wanted to latch on to his fame. Genuinely interesting people—ones with their own ambitions and passions—didn't purposely seek out fame. For Gabe, fame was nothing more than a side effect of doing his job well. Something he could occasionally leverage to help him with his charity work. But it seemed that the more famous he got, the smaller his dating pool became.

“You're late,” Mama huffed in her thick eastern European accent before smacking him in the head with a slotted spoon. “Now sit down and eat. I made cabbage rolls.”

“My favorite,” Gabe said with a smile, rubbing the side of his head as he followed her to the dining room. “But I don't have a game tonight.”

Cabbage rolls were Mama's special dish. A labor-intensive show of love and support before each of his matches. His fame and fortune could get him into any five-star restaurant in the city on a moment's notice, but Mama's cabbage rolls were a priceless good luck charm. Call him superstitious, but the Surge never won a home game if he didn't fill his belly with cabbage rolls beforehand.

“They're not for you. They're for your sister. It's her special night. Now sit.” She pointed to the table, where his dad and sister were already digging in. She then cleared the extra plate she always set out “just in case” with a disappointed sigh, as per her usual routine.

That explained why his parents were clad in matching unfamiliar red-and-gold tracksuits instead of the usual white-and-blue Surge ones. Their entire wardrobe seemed to consist of tracksuits and soccer jerseys with the number sixteen. Getting his lucky number back was one of the less widely known reasons he'd jumped at the chance to move back to the United States. His mama's cooking was, of course, number one on that list.

“Since when are you playing soccer, kiddo?” he asked, digging into the delicious meal set before him. Despite her natural ability, his younger sister never wanted to join any leagues.

Tessa rolled her big brown eyes. It seemed to be her preferred way to communicate lately. There were a lot of challenges to having a sibling twenty years younger. In addition to being old enough to realize that a baby sister meant his parents were actively doing the dirty in their mature years, it was difficult to bond with her given that he'd spent most of her life playing overseas. Still, the kid was pretty awesome even when she wanted nothing to do with him.

“So did the cutest boy at school tell you soccer was cool, and that's why you joined the varsity team?”

Tessa blushed deep crimson and looked down at her food. Their dad, a normally taciturn man with an impressive mustache, let out a rumbling growl punctuated by a questioning glare.

Whoops! Clearly his teasing hit the mark a little too close to home. “So, did you hear we're being moved to Cricket Field for our practices?” It was bound to come out, and he wanted his folks to hear it from him rather than the sports page.

His mother gasped and made the sign of the cross, despite their not being even remotely Catholic. She turned to his father and sputtered off a rapid-fire sequence in Czech. Gabe spoke a bit of the language, but he couldn't keep up with his mama when she went off like that. His father nodded along, stoic as ever.

“Don't worry about it, Ma. You know nothing can take me down. Not when I've got your cabbage rolls for good luck.” He was worried enough for the both of them, but he wouldn't show it. His physiotherapist promised him that his knee was strong enough to handle the additional stress of practicing on fake turf.

She lit the creepy, luck-inducing blue candles she kept on hand for times like this. When the eerie glow had been cast throughout the room, she turned back to Gabe and pointed a finger at him. “Gabriel Allen Havelak. If you get injured again, you will be traded. You swear to me you will not move across the globe again. You left us for eight years. I am an old woman now. My heart cannot take it again.”

“You're only fifty-six.”

She clutched her heart, feigning an attack.

“We do not have the luxury of ignoring curses. Let me tell you the story of your father's hex,” his mother said solemnly. Gabe fortunately managed to keep a straight face when Tessa mouthed the word “again.” They'd been subjected to their mother's melodramatic retelling of the Havelak curse many times while growing up.

“Thirty-five years ago, in the old country, I was a young woman living in Soviet poverty, with few options in life. And I did something I've been ashamed of ever since. Your father was a local boy who became a rising soccer star in the Czechoslovak First League. He was the most handsome, talented boy I had ever laid eyes on. However, my best friend Irina felt the same way. We would fantasize about marrying dear Peter, and raising a beautiful family full of football stars. When Peter came back to our town for his great-grandmother's funeral, we realized it was our chance. Irina and I made a pact that we would cast a love spell on him. We each put in one copper koruna into the potion and let fate take over which of us he fell in love with.”

Mama Havelak took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “That night, I . . . I took Irina's coin out of the potion. Your father and I met the next day and fell in love. Somehow Irina found out what I did. She went into a jealous rage and put a hex on our family. Four months later, your father injured his foot and never played professionally again.”

Gabe nodded patiently. “I know, Ma. And then you married and moved to the US and put all your hopes and dreams into your children.”

His mama smiled mournfully.

“And now Tessa and I are happy, healthy, and blessed beyond measure. You don't need to worry about us. Especially not me. I'm not going anywhere. Any dessert tonight?”

“Apple pie.” She rushed out to the kitchen and returned with the warm dish of cinnamon and happiness. Gabe reached for the first slice but was once again met with a smack. Mama raised her eyebrows and looked in Tessa's direction. His parents' pride and adoration was a little over the top, but at least it was distributed equally between him and his sister.

“So, you're finally deciding to follow in my footsteps?” He passed the enormous slice of heaven to his sister, which she accepted enthusiastically.

“I'm not following in your footsteps,” she said between chews. “I'm going to be like Lainey Lukas. I'm going to be the star of the AWSL one day.”

“Our girl scored a hat trick last game,” Mama cooed, scooping heaps of ice cream onto everyone's plates, as though her children's success directly correlated to how much food she could shovel into their mouths.

Gabe gave a good-hearted chuckle. He was glad to finally have something in common with Tessa, though he was slightly disappointed to hear his kid sister had no intention of being a center fullback, like him. She was obviously destined to be a left forward if her idol was Lukas. “Good for you, Tessa.”

She rolled her eyes again.

“My children. Such stars!” Mama gushed. “Gabriel, I saw you on TV last night. You looked very handsome.” Gabe racked his brain for a few moments, trying to remember what she was referring to. “Oh, the new deodorant commercial?”

Mama shook her head. “Channel 7 News. You were so charming. We recorded it and made a copy to send to your great-auntie Greta. But I didn't like how that angry Ballbuster woman kept trying to take the attention off you.” She harrumphed for good measure.

Gabe groaned. Aside from worrying about what he was going to do about the Surge's unceremonious booting from their rightful place at Chester Stadium, he hadn't given much thought to the press conference yesterday. He didn't realize his antics had diverted attention enough to get him featured on the nightly news.

“That wasn't my press conference, Mama. That was for the Falcons. And that Ballbuster woman is Lainey Lukas, Tessa's new hero.”

“Yeah, that was a pretty dickhead move you pulled,” Tessa burst out.

Mama and Pop gasped. Tessa shrugged. “What? It's true. He totally embarrassed her on national television. That was supposed to be about the AWSL and you made it all about you! Did you know that the last three attempts to create a women's league in this country all folded within three years? God, why can't you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

Ah. So that was why Tessa was giving him an added dose of cold shoulder tonight.

Mama jumped up from her seat and pointed to a chair in the corner of the adjoining living room where she kept her wall plate shrine. “Such language! Five minutes in the chair, Tessa. Do you know what happens to young women in America who speak like that? You sit with Mother Teresa and think about your future.”

As far as punishments went, it was pretty effective. As a kid, Gabe was often forced to contemplate his decisions beneath the decorative plate of Mother Teresa's haunting, knowing gaze while sitting in the ancient wingback chair, which was enough to scare any teenaged guy away from acting out. But Tessa's point still hit home. His attempt to help the woman his little sister looked up to had backfired spectacularly. His heart sank when he realized how much Tessa's dreams of playing soccer hinged on the opportunity to one day play professionally—something he'd always taken for granted. He gobbled up the rest of his pie in one bite and kissed his mama on the cheek.

“I gotta run. There's something I need to take care of. Love you, Mama. Love you, Papa.”

On his way out, he stopped by Tessa's chair of shame.

“I know you're mad at me, but I'm going to do my best to make it up to you. Can I come watch your game tonight?”

Tessa sighed exaggeratedly, scrunched her face like she'd just been asked a deep philosophical question, then answered, “I guess, but you have to promise to stand far away and not talk to me. And wear a hoodie.”

“Sure thing.”

“With the hood pulled up,” Tessa emphasized.

“I'll even pull the strings tight.”

“Fine, but just remember that I already have a coach. No shouting from the sidelines.”

“Deal.” Gabe wasn't offended. Tessa was fourteen. With awkward fourteen-year-old girlfriends who swarmed any pseudocelebrity with the suctioning power of a giant squid. She rarely got the spotlight to herself. “I'll see you in a few hours.”

“Hey, Gabe?” Tessa called out just as he was walking through the front door.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Anything for you, kiddo.” And he meant it. Gabe shut the door behind him and pulled out his cell phone. He had an important call to make.

5

“What an incredible run by Jaime Chen. She's deep in the box, cuts right. She's still going. Lukas is open. Chen takes the shot aaaaaaaaaaaaand . . . Save! Edgington gets a hand to the ball and parries it over the crossbar.”

LAINEY TRUDGED TO HER
locker and banged her head against the cool metal. Her leg muscles ached and wobbled like Jell-O. Though she was drenched in rain, mud, and sweat, her skin burned like it had been stretched over hot coals.

She hadn't expected a small crowd of reporters to wait around like hungry vultures and accost her about their dismal performance the moment she left the field. She probably should've come up with something wittier than telling them all to fuck off as she stormed past them, but the “Ballbuster” nickname seemed to have stuck. To make matters worse, some anonymous asshole left a giant batch of lilies in her locker. Probably an effort to sabotage her before the Falcons' first preseason match. Even though she'd tossed the flowers in the trash down the hall, her allergies were still flaring from their lingering scent.

Seconds later, a chorus of groans marked her teammates' lumbering entrance.

The somber mood wafting from the ragged group of women was suffocating. Their first official performance as a team was a disaster. Lainey struggled to think of what to say to them as she peeled off her sticky jersey. It was her job as captain to get them back on track, especially since their coach was notoriously inarticulate and communicated his mood through varying degrees of physical punishment. Maybe the girls needed a rousing pep talk? Or a stern lecture? They definitely needed focus. They needed discipline. They needed—

“Hey, Lukas! Cock or spoon?” Jaime called out in a flat voice as she flumped sideways onto the wooden bench. A few teammates chuckled halfheartedly.

“Huh?” Lainey asked, unsure if she'd heard correctly.

“Hot guy or ice cream?” Jaime said with a slur, as half her face was smooshed into the bench. “Judging by the flowers, you obviously have a date with one or the other tonight. Why the hell else would you be in such a rush to get through the postgame wind sprints? So, cock or spoon? Which one is going in your mouth when you get out of here?”

Lainey felt her flushed cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “Coach Labreilla set those wind sprints as punishment for our awful performance tonight. I pushed us so hard because we half-assed it through the match.” Men were the last thing on her mind these days. Judging by her own romantic history, the best thing she could say about men is that they were an unnecessary distraction. And right now, Lainey was in no mood for distractions. If it weren't for her goal, which she practically earned single-handedly, the match would've been a zero–zero draw. Not the kind of result that created excitement about their team. Lainey could tolerate an off game here or there—it happened to everyone—but the Falcons had so much on the line. Any hope of saving their team depended on a lot of impossible things happening. Generating a buzz about the Falcons through amazing soccer was the only part of it that was in their control.

“Chill, Bruce Banner. No need to go all Hulk-smash on us, it was just a preseason game. Besides, we won,” Jaime said, drawing out the last word into two long syllables.

“By one goal! One–nothing is hardly a win. It's not enough to please the fans or to sell tickets.” Lainey purposefully cut herself off at that point. She still hadn't figured out how to inspire her teammates, but in her heart she knew that the stress of their franchise's imminent demise would only be another distraction. Most of them were blissfully ignorant of the severity of the problem, and Lainey had no intention of enlightening them. As captain, the burden of that worry fell squarely on her shoulders. They needed to stay focused on being the best and it would all sort itself out. That's how it always went for Lainey in the past. Work harder and longer than anyone else, and no one can beat you. She just had to get her team on board with that philosophy.

“It was a shutout. I did my part. Now you go do your media princess thing and it'll all be fine,” Lynn, the starting goalie, announced in her heavy Scottish accent, which always sounded like an impossible mix of genuine amusement and absolute derision.

“Our defense held the Belles off well, but we didn't advance the ball as a unit. A good offense starts with the defense and that starts with the goalie. We were playing kick-and-run soccer—”

“Like Jaime said, the important thing is we won,” Lynn said, grabbing a brush from her locker and running it through her long red curls. “And that you get laid tonight because I can't handle another beating like that at tomorrow morning's practice.”

“Nah, I'm thinking ice cream. And probably some awful flavor like rum raisin that defeats the entire purpose of eating ice cream,” Alyssa, their center mid, added unhelpfully.

“I don't have a date and I don't eat sweets during the season,” Lainey explained calmly. Besides, she always chose vanilla. Not that she had allowed herself to eat ice cream in at least three years. Or was it five? “Now back to the game. We need to work on—”

“Seriously?” Jaime asked, eyes wide with shock. “No sweets at all? Not even chocolate? What about salty snacks?”

Lainey rationalized that getting ribbed over her nonexistent sex life and eating habits was a step up from being ridiculed for her wretched media promo spots, so she answered honestly. “No treats of any kind. Our diets are a key part of our livelihood. In fact, Coach mentioned that the staff nutritionist for the Surge is willing to do a pro bono consult for us next week. It would probably help if we all kept a written record of our eating habits over the next few days—”

“Oh man. I couldn't live without chocolate,” Jaime groaned.

“Mmm. Definitely chocolate,” Alyssa agreed. “I would do another hour of wind sprints for unlimited chocolate. And wine.”

“Beer!” Lynn added. “Thirty laps around the field for an endless supply of beer.”

Before Lainey could reel them back in, the room erupted in a cacophony of favorite vices and worst punishments.

“Hang on a sec!” Jaime shouted, slowly climbing to her feet atop the bench. “Lukas is right. We need to bond as a team. Become a true, impenetrable unit.”

That caught Lainey off guard. In the two short weeks the Falcons had been together, she and her Canadian assistant captain had never agreed on anything. Finally, Lainey hoped, they might get somewhere.

“Which is why,” Jaime continued emphatically, “it's imperative we hit up the Stinging Kiss tonight, that new Martini bar in Belltown. Sweet, salty, alcohol—martinis will unite us!”

While her teammates cheered, Lainey returned to her locker and continued banging her head.

GABE WAS TOO OLD
for this shit. Too many girls barely older than his kid sister were parading in front of him in outfits so glittery his eyes hurt. Johnny was soaking up the attention, though, dancing up a storm with every wide-eyed beauty who looked his way. Christ, the nineteen-year-old wasn't even legally allowed in the place, but the owner of the Stinging Kiss was willing to look the other way if it generated some hype for the new club. And Gabe was reluctantly willing to overlook the nasty mixed drinks that kept being delivered on the house as long as the owner followed through on his promise to make a generous donation to the Gabriel Havelak Pro-Stars Soccer Camp.

He took a sip of the most recent concoction set in front of him, then spit it out all over his lap. Melon? What the hell was that flavor doing in a drink? Seriously, can't a guy just get a beer?

Another hour and he could go home, having fulfilled his end of the bargain. He'd convinced a bunch of his teammates to come along and, to his surprise, the entire Falcons team happened to show up as well. Sitting on one of the uncomfortable white plastic stools, Gabe scanned their private corner of the club for the person he was most interested to see but had yet to set eyes on. She had to be there, though, since the rest of her teammates were accounted for. Where was she hiding? Since the disastrous press conference, he couldn't get Lainey Lukas out of his head. Something about the fiery determination in her pretty brown eyes, even as she wielded a death stare in his direction, intrigued him like no other woman had before.

“Tequila!”

Gabe's surveying was interrupted by Jaime Chen carrying an impossible amount of shot glasses in her hands. By the time she made her way over to him, their respective teammates lounging in the far corner of the club had divested her of all the shots. Gabe shrugged good-naturedly, secretly glad that he wouldn't be forced to imbibe the vile liquid. He was long past admitting that tequila hangovers weren't befitting of a guy his age.

“You wish, old man,” Jaime yelled over the throbbing bass, then pulled out two shot glasses tucked into her ample cleavage. “Drink up!”

Gross as it was, Gabe had no choice but to take the shot when presented to him in such an awesome fashion. He clinked glasses with her and downed the amber liquid. It was smoother than expected. Jaime obviously knew her tequila.

“Hey! Where are the limes?” Zazu pouted from a few seats down, his shot glass still full to the brim.

Jaime sashayed over to the aging Brazilian star and plopped into his lap. “No need. This is top-shelf.” When he pouted some more, she pulled a lime wedge from her well-displayed cleavage and shoved it in his mouth. At that moment, a dizzying beat flooded the room and Jaime jumped up from a stunned Zazu's lap and headed to the dance floor.

Zazu leaned over to Gabe and loudly asked, “How does she afford to buy all these rounds? They don't make a lot of money in the AWSL.”

Zazu must have been talking louder than he realized because Jaime turned around and called out, “Because I put it on your tab, sucka!” before disappearing into the crowd of dancers.

After a few minutes of gut-busting laughter at Zazu's expense, Gabe realized this was probably the highlight of the evening, and he was more than ready to call it a night. Hopefully the club owner wouldn't notice his early escape, or at least wouldn't hold it against him, since he managed to drag along a decent entourage. He stood up and downed the remaining dregs of his drink, then promptly spit it back in the glass. Ugh. Melon.

He'd made it about ten feet from the back exit when a commotion near the dance floor stopped Gabe in his tracks. He knew he should keep walking, but curiosity got the better of him. He turned around to find Lainey, looking like the ultimate girl next door in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, arguing with Jaime Chen. What was it about this woman that fascinated him so much? He watched in awe for a few seconds, captivated by the way her lush lips curled into a snarl.

“No, Jaime. I do not want a shot called the Leg Spreader. I said I'm fine with water!”

This was not good. He'd promised the owner to bring a certain kind of attention to the Stinging Kiss and a catfight wasn't what he had in mind. He knew things were about to escalate when Lukas leaned over so she was nose to nose with the much shorter Chen, who responded by cracking her knuckles.

Gabe snatched two tumblers from a passing waitress's tray in exchange for a wink and a generous tip. It took only a couple of steps to shift into gear, turning on his most persuasive smile and a healthy dose of “Hometown Hero” charm.

He tapped Lukas's shoulder, hoping to defuse the crackling tension.

“What? What could you of all people possibly want right now?”

Gabe widened his smile to cover his shock at the venom in Lainey's voice. Apparently she still wasn't over that whole press conference incident. “You look like you could use a drink.” She accepted the tumbler he thrust in her direction but made no motion to move it toward her lips.

“Thanks,” she intoned before turning back to Chen.

“I was hoping you would sign an autograph for me,” Gabe said hurriedly. It was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. For my kid sister, Tessa, actually,” Gabe improvised. “She's a big fan and it'd mean a lot to her. She has dreams of playing in the AWSL one day.”

Lukas stepped well into his comfort zone, getting right up into his face. “Maybe you should quit trying to sabotage the Falcons if you really care about your sister's dreams.”

“Hey, that's not fair. I sent you an apology.” Lukas made a skeptical face. “The flowers . . . ?”

Her eyes went wide and buggy, which Gabe hoped was a sign of appreciation. All women appreciate flowers, right? As an apology gift, they'd never failed him before.

“You sent those to me? I had to blow my nose on my sleeve a hundred times during the first half and I flubbed a free kick because I couldn't stop sneezing, thanks to you! Are you so insecure about the Surge that you had to massacre my sinuses before the Falcons' first game?”

“Oh shit, I didn't mean—”