Game For Love_The Beautiful Game Read online

  When Patrick’s training intensified, his absence made it possible for Stephanie and Ryan to grow closer, and that first Christmas Patrick spent in London, Ryan went home on leave and asked Stephanie to marry him.

  Stephanie turned him down. Ryan had been inconsolable, but all Patrick could do was run up a five-hundred-dollar phone bill he didn’t have the money to pay. His advice, coming all the way from London, was seldom heeded. Patrick had helped Ryan compose letters to Stephanie, counseled him what to say. Eventually it began to soften her tough veneer, and she had finally agreed to marry Ryan. They had set the wedding date for this fall, just three months away.

  Today, he’d thought about Ryan all during the first half of the game. He’d made two outstanding saves he was proud of. The coach was beaming. The players, all except the backup keepers, were happy.

  At halftime, they were up one zip. The coach gave them the “most dangerous score for the beautiful game,” meaning it was wrong to get overly confident or think the game was won, because the other side would be working overtime to change the odds and, if they evened the score, the momentum would definitely be in the opposition’s favor.

  “Dangerous, gents. We’re ahead, and Patrick will work miracles for us, right Paddy?” The coach liked to bring an arm around his neck, treating as if he’d been raised as the coach’s Irish son. Patrick was pleased the antics of the previous day were all but forgotten. “But he needs your help. Even Patrick can’t do it all. You show up, or you go home having been beaten by American pussies.” The team chuckled, like they always did when he said that. “Later you can get yourselves some American pussy and play your own games, but tonight, we do what we’re known for.”

  They stood up and cheered, ‘To Dare Is To Do,’ their Tottenham Hotspur motto.

  A security guard entered their hallowed waiting room while the team re-applied hair gel, re-taped their shin guards, re-tied their shoes and drank sparse sips of energy drink.

  “Got an urgent phone call for Patrick Harrington.” The guard scanned the room. Patrick had been listening to a CD Ryan had made for him with some of the workout songs his SEAL Team 5 used, but he heard the booming voice and saw everyone turn toward him. He stood and was ushered out the rear door and down a narrow corridor with a flickering neon light that made him feel like he’d just stepped onto the set of a sci-fi flick.

  His cleats were loud. In White Hart, their home stadium, they’d have carpeting, protecting the shoes that cost the club nearly five hundred dollars a pair, but he tried to be casual about it. Besides, they’d said the call was important, and he didn’t have time to unlace and re-tape his shoes.

  He was careful on the slippery concrete with his longer spikes. He’d worn them because they’d overwatered the lawn, as they often did in Seattle. He was breaking in a new pair, since this was a friendly, and their real season would start in three weeks.

  The stench of cigarettes hit him when the security office door was first opened, revealing several overweight gentlemen in uniform and a pretty blonde wearing a hat way too big for her head.

  “Right here, Patrick.” She pointed to the handset.

  “Hello?”

  “Patrick, this is Molly Rosen, Ryan’s mom.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Rosen.” He was happy to hear from his best friend’s mother, but the call sent a chill down his spine. “Is Ryan okay?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but I have some bad news. Ryan was killed the day before yesterday in—I’m not sure how to pronounce the name, but it was somewhere in Afghanistan. He comes home tomorrow.”

  Ryan was gone? He sat down without being offered the chair. He planted his forehead into his palm.

  “Oh, nooo. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe it.” Patrick’s ears began to buzz, and he recognized signs of heightened blood pressure.

  “Pat, I hope this isn’t imposing, but I read you were in Seattle doing “Friendlies.” I wonder if your club would give you time off to attend his funeral. We were hoping you’d speak at the service.”

  Given how well he’d been playing, he figured the manager might let him off. “Absolutely. I’ll request it.”

  The door burst open, and one of the assistant managers barked that he needed to get back with the team. Patrick gave Mrs. Rosen his cell number.

  “Text me your contact information, and I’ll ask the manager right after the game. Right now I have to get back on the field.”

  Santa Rosa was the county seat, in the heart of Sonoma County’s wine country. Their warm summer days and nights meant he’d been able to play outdoor sports nearly year round. There was a healthy mix of players from Mexico and Central America who populated the soccer teams especially, but also baseball.

  But Patrick’s six-foot-four height and agility made him a natural goalkeeper. He also had the basketball coach bending his parents’ ears about playing for him. The football—American football—coach wanted him to be a punter for their high school team. And he held the school record for the number of home runs his sophomore year, before he’d had to limit his sports to three, and then two, and then in his senior year down to just soccer because of his heavy training schedule.

  Ryan elected to play junior varsity in everything but soccer, which always had been his first love, as it was Patrick’s, too. Patrick knew part of his desire to stay with soccer had been so they could play together. Ryan was a defender, and worked closely with Patrick. Their communication was almost telepathic.

  But today, after he picked up his rental car at the airport terminal, the breeze wasn’t gentle. It was piercing cold, like his insides. He wondered if the plane bringing Ryan home had already landed. He didn’t see the motorcycle escort his mother had told him would be there.

  Hang on there, buddy. I’m coming.

  He still couldn’t believe Ryan was gone.

  Patrick’s parents were going to arrive tomorrow, barely in time for the service. They’d retired and moved to Oregon to be close to Patrick’s sister and her kids.

  He dialed the Rosens and told them where he was staying.

  His thoughts drifted off to Stephanie. He’d spent most of his high school nights dreaming about her, and then beating himself up about it. He felt guilty for thinking about her now, but she was one of those women who just made him feel happier to be around her. He felt like more of a man. She was uncomplicated and didn’t require he play the kind of role he felt other women expected of him.

  And she had been devoted to Ryan, which meant she’d be devastated right now. His heart reached out to her, wishing he had her cell. There had been a time he believed he’d had a chance with her, but when Ryan wrote to him, telling him of his intentions, Patrick took two long goalkeeper leaps backward and stayed in the shadows of their relationship. It wasn’t hard to do. He was halfway around the world.

  He hadn’t seen her for two years now. He wondered how she’d make him feel. With equal parts apprehension and anticipation, he wondered if she’d be at the Rosens’ home tonight. He lay out his shave kit, stared back at himself while mentally talking to Ryan, and began to lather up his face. The shaving soap and boar bristle brush, the only things he’d inherited from his grandfather, went with him everywhere. At first, Ryan had given him a hard time about his “old-fashioned” shaving kit, but then he started to do the same thing, even using the same soap from an English toiletry catalog they both ordered from online.

  Miss you already, buddy. I wished we had many more years of friendship.

  This was all backwards. For a brief second he thought he caught a glimpse of Ryan in his reflection, as if his best friend were somewhere behind the looking glass, guiding his hand while he shaved.

  Chapter 3

  When Stephanie got the news about Ryan, she’d been in shock for a while, and then she found it impossible to concentrate. By mid-afternoon she finally had to give up trying to make phone calls, took a bath and then put herself to bed early.

  Tonight she was supposed to go over to the Rosens’
house. Her eyes were red and burning. She didn’t think she could shed another tear this century, she’d cried so much over the evening, waking up confused, wondering why she felt so bad, and then remembering, which brought on another wave of tears until she cried herself to sleep again.

  This pattern had been repeated many times. In the morning, after looking at herself in the mirror, her eyes red and so puffy she could hardly see out of them, she wished it wasn’t so important for to greet the guests who would gather tonight at the Rosens’ to honor Ryan. But it was her duty, and it affirmed her love and respect for the man she’d been about to marry.

  Every time she thought about the finality of his being gone the tears flowed. She put cool washcloths on her blotchy face and chest and lay down again. The phone had been ringing and, outside of her parents, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She’d made all the calls to former high school friends yesterday. She’d asked for their help in spreading the word. That was all she could do. Thank goodness it was summer vacation at the preschool, but, then again, perhaps it would be easier if she had something to do other than think about how much she missed Ryan.

  Dammit. Here come the tears again.

  Early evening fell and, exhausted, she drove over to the Rosens’. She greeted guests, feeling disconnected, the sounds muffled. She was the daughter-in-law-to-be, as opposed to the real daughter-in-law, but her grief was every bit as bad, and so was theirs. But they were not her parents, and Stephanie missed her parents now more than ever.

  Nearly everyone at the gathering was a friend of the Rosens’, and she didn’t see anyone even close to her own age. There were a few of their Jewish relatives and, though Ryan had not been raised in the Jewish tradition, it was part of his family’s heritage and was more visible today than she’d remembered. A rabbi would be attending the graveside service tomorrow, as well as the Presbyterian minister who had agreed to marry them. That brought on even more tears.

  She could feel Ryan’s absence, a yawning, empty place among the nicely dressed and polite company of the elder Rosens. The gathering was catered. She wondered why none of his friends from school showed up. She knew some of the younger crowd planned to attend tomorrow’s graveside funeral, at least she hoped so. Everything seemed so rushed, though.

  It was silly, but she kept looking for Ryan, who should have been sitting in a chair, nodding in quiet agreement. He had a gentle way about him, listening respectfully when an elder gave him advice, which was more pronounced after he’d made the Teams. She’d loved him before, but as he filled the SEAL uniform and carried out his missions, he seemed to get taller, his chest broader, and he stood straighter. He was more patient, and he focused on her and her alone when they were together. She didn’t know which Ryan she loved more, the one she’d known her whole life, or the man he’d become.

  He always had respected his parents and their friends. She’d never heard him speak an ill word about anyone the last couple of years. He was their only son, since Ryan’s older brother died as a child. So, she kept searching the crowd, between the gnarled hands and kisses to her wet cheeks. She shared tears with people she didn’t even know, but she understood their pain, because it was her own. Wrinkled faces with kind smiles and concerned brows spoke softly to her. These were people, they said, who had planned to attend their wedding.

  Dang, the tears again.

  Like some tragic Shakespearean actress walking across the stage, she was feeling heavy, infected with a kind of sadness pox. If it was a funeral for someone else, she’d be invisible, and how she wished she could be invisible now. She wasn’t a bride or a widow. She was the tragic fiancée of a man who had given his life and had left behind, incomplete, all their hopes and dreams. It just wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He was too good a man to be lost to the world forever.

  Her own parents had moved to Florida after she entered college. They would fly out next week, but wouldn’t be in time for the funeral, and Stephanie understood this, although she so wished she had someone in her corner. Ryan had always been that someone. Ryan would have known exactly what to do to calm her down. She told herself yesterday she’d be okay, but now she wasn’t sure. It was so unfair.

  She continued searching as more guests arrived. A small roar developed when a new person arrived in the foyer. Someone very tall, whose head poked up above the large philodendron in the front room. A man with dark brown hair, not gray. Her heart fluttered a bit, almost faltering, reaching for the connection to a kindred spirit, for someone who might understand her. Someone who knew her, who spoke her language. She set her wine glass down, resisting the urge to run, to fling herself into his arms, to bury her face in his chest, and have a good cry.

  Patrick.

  He was just stepping back from his embrace with Mrs., and her friends were standing around, giving him appreciative glances, with nodding faces, hands clasped together, and the titter of nervous laughter. As he uncoiled from the respectful bear hug, and his eyes lifted, she could see the blue-green hue she used to dream about when she wondered as a young girl if it was possible to marry two men and still be a good girl. Later, they’d all talked about it, laughed about it. Ryan had gotten quiet afterward several times, and, when she’d agreed to marry him, questioned her about her feelings, her decision to marry him after so many refusals. He was right about one thing. A tiny piece of her had never stopped loving Patrick.

  “Hey Sis,” he said, bringing up his favorite nickname for her.

  “Hey Bro,” she answered back. It was as close to the secret handshake as any two long-term friends could have.

  “I didn’t know Stephanie was your sister, Patrick,” one of Mrs. Rosen’s friends said.

  Patrick apprised her respectfully and then said in that proud way only he could do, “In every way but blood, Cici.” He tore his eyes off Stephanie to make the point to the older woman, but soon he was scanning Stephanie’s face again, intensely. She felt the unaltered attraction there in her belly again, just like she used to do as a young girl, when they played co-ed soccer and he’d tackle her and then help her up and ask carefully if she’d been hurt.

  “You can’t hurt me, Patrick,” she’d always said, to prove how tough she was, kicking a lump of muddy grass from her cleats. He would look at her and grin, just like he was doing right now.

  Mrs. Rosen led her bevy of friends from the foyer and left Patrick and Stephanie alone.

  She let him see her breaking heart, her tears, the quiver of her lower lip, the way her chest heaved when she tried to stifle a sob. She was still being the brave little soccer player, and the protection he’d given her when he tempered his tackles on the field was there still. He was the tall tree she needed to lose herself in. Unaware of who moved first, they were in each other’s arms.

  And, dammit, was she losing her mind? She could smell Ryan.

  After the final farewells were said, she overheard Patrick and Mr. Rosen discuss details of the funeral the next day. Then he joined her and walked out the front door to a warm Sonoma County night. She began to head toward her car. It jolted her when he put his arm on her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “How you holding up, Stephanie?” he asked in a whisper, facing the traffic in front of them.

  “Oh…” and then she sighed, taking another deep breath, trying to quell her tears yet again. “This has been such a shock. Day before yesterday was his last day…” she wrapped her arms around his waist and released the restraint she’d been holding onto for the past hour, sobbing into his shirt.

  He was so tall he had to bend down to kiss the top of her head. His long fingers massaged the back of her skull and sifted through her hair, rubbing her scalp in small circles. “Just let it all go, Steph. Get it all out of your system.” His warm, buttery voice was such a pleasant and familiar thing, like a child’s favorite blanket or stuffed toy.

  “I just…can’t…believe…he’s gone,” she sobbed.

  “I know. Me, too. Talked to him that morning. It was nighttime there.�
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  “God, I hope he didn’t suffer,” she said between sobs.

  She could tell he wanted to say something but held back. Instead, he squeezed her harder. “It’s going to be okay, Steph. You’re strong. You’re a strong woman.”

  “Right now I don’t feel very strong. Now I wish I hadn’t made him wait so long. Patrick, he wanted to get married last time he was home. I told him no. I didn’t want a…” she couldn’t finish.

  “Shhhh. Now you’re talking gibberish. No way we can change the past. You have to live for the future, Steph. He’d want you to do that. He’d want both of us to do that.”

  He was right, of course. She didn’t know why, but she blurted out something she immediately regretted. “You smell like him. Sort of.”

  Patrick flinched, but covered it up quickly. “I know you miss him, sis.” He steered her around a large hedge.

  “I kept looking for him all evening, like he’d just appear, walk with you in the front door. I expect to see him still. I just can’t…”

  And then his mouth was on hers. He didn’t push, but fed her a gentle kiss, a touch of passion to remind her she was in the present and not in her dreams or in the past. It worked, too. Her thoughts immediately shifted. The scent of him was familiar, even though the taste of him was new. In spite of her grief, she felt her bones unthaw. Her excitement heightened in a nonsexual way, and she gave herself to the kiss before logic began a steady pounding on the door she mistook for her own heartbeat.

  What am I doing?

  As quickly as it had happened, she pulled away, breathless, needing to see something in his eyes that wasn’t pity or pain. She soon confirmed it had not been a sympathy kiss. His eyes sparkled with lust, focused on needing another taste of her. He licked his lips and leaned forward again, but she ducked back this time. He was telling her in the only way she’d understand that she was alive and not ready to be buried in the coffin with Ryan tomorrow morning. He wanted more of what she could give him, and he’d give her what he could in return.