For the Win (20 page)

“Are you sure you're not brokenhearted? Because I brought the perfect romantic comedy from my DVD collection for wallowing in misery,” Alyssa insisted.

“I don't want to wallow.”

“Then what do you want to do? I need some entertainment here,” Jaime bemoaned.

For a moment, her reckless heart protested, reminding her that her friends might be right. Maybe Gabe did love her. But that train of thought would only lead to more heartache. Instead, Lainey let instinct take over. She took a breath and sharpened her mind, homing in on the one thing that always gave her clarity. “I want to win. I want to take him down in the Battle of the Sexes and show him he never should've messed with me.”

“Then we need to step up our game,” Jaime added sagely. “This curse stuff is messing with your head.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think it's only fair we mess with his a little, too.”

Lainey felt her lips curve into a smile, despite herself. Even sick as a dog, Jaime was proving why she was a great cocaptain.

GABE CAREFULLY TUGGED
THE
laces on his cleats while humming a Billy Joel song. If anyone ever asked him what the tune was, he'd probably lie and say it was Metallica, but “Only the Good Die Young” was his dad's favorite song, and it always brought him good luck.

“Yo, I'm out of deodorant. Can I borrow yours?” Johnny asked, interrupting his concentration. Gabe didn't know why the kid even bothered asking, considering he was already rummaging through his bag.

“Not a chance.” Gabe swiped the Old Spice out of Johnny's hand, ignoring his protests. He looked down at his cleats and swore under his breath, realizing he'd forgotten where he left off. He unlaced his boots and started the entire process again. It was only a preseason game, but the vibe in the air was off, and this was not the time to deviate from his pregame rituals.

Even as he relaced his boots, something didn't feel right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He scanned the room to see if anyone else felt it. Joe was doing his goofy, exaggerated side lunges, as usual. Zazu was pumping himself up by doing push-ups. Johnny was preening and fixing his hair in the small mirror at the back of his cubby. Aiden kissed the photo of his fiancée while standing in his boxers.

Gabe quickly scrolled through his routine in his head. He'd put on his lucky underwear this morning. His rabbit's foot had spent the night inside his right cleat. He'd eaten Mama's cabbage rolls for dinner. What was he missing?

“Game on, man. Time to grab your jersey. And try to cheer up a little. Your mood is sapping everyone's energy,” Joe said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Shit. It was him causing the bad juju. His pathetic “my girlfriend just left me and took my balls with her” attitude was sucking all the oxygen from the room. His teammates looked to him for leadership, and instead of providing it, he was sitting around pining for a woman who hadn't answered his calls the last three days.

He'd been so worried about the stupid curse ending his career that he forgot the only thing giving him a reason to play anymore was Lainey. She was the spark that had reignited his passion. He needed to knock it off with the moping. As long as he was captain of this team, he needed to act like it.

“All right, let's go kick some Denver ass,” the coach roared, gesturing to the players to head to the field. Gabe grabbed the jersey that was hanging on the hook at the back of his locker and headed to the corridor leading to the field.

Panic jolted through him as soon as he entered the darkened hallways. He couldn't go out on the field feeling so unsettled. Quickly he ran back in the locker room and fished the tattered rabbit's foot from his jacket pocket. He held it to his lips and wished away the bad juju.

“C'mon, Havelak. Time to go!” Joe called out to him.

Gabe replaced the rabbit's foot in his jacket and jogged back to his team.

In the temporary sanctuary of the concrete corridor, he shook out his limbs, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling that had been stalking him all afternoon. Fortunately, the nervous tingling of excitement started to creep upon him as he approached the field. Just as the bright sunlight drew close, Gabe and his teammates threw on their jerseys and ran onto the grass. They were met with explosive cheers from the stands. The Surge waved to the fans and promptly took their spots on the field while Gabe jogged to the center of the field for the coin toss.

“How are the twins, Rick?” he asked the gray-haired referee, remembering the man had become a first-time grandpa in the off-season.

“They're wonderful. Two happy, healthy, beautiful girls, who are learning to crawl. Who knew people so small could take up so much energy?”

“I'm sure you keep up just fine.” Rick was one of the fittest, sharpest refs in the league.

“Can we quit flirting and get the coin toss over with?” Brandon Carter, the Denver captain, asked.

Douche. Gabe offered a tight-lipped smile and tried to keep cool. Carter was known for being a shit talker who rarely performed as well as his ego liked to believe.

“Call it,” Rick said tersely, tossing the quarter in the air.

“Tails,” Carter said.

“Tails it is. Kickoff or side?”

“Sucker,” Carter said to Gabe, then lazily glanced around the field, weighing his options with exaggerated deliberation. “Huh. I always knew the Surge were pussies. Looks like you're being relegated to the girly league, where you belong.”

“What are you talking about?” Gabe asked just before he noticed the perimeter advertising boards. Every few minutes between ads, they were supposed to flash to the Surge's logo—a rounded, cresting tidal wave. Instead, they proclaimed in bright HD color that the Surge loved the AWSL. Moments later, the boards flashed “Go Falcons Go.”

“I'll be damned,” he said, half-annoyed, half-amused. In that moment, he knew unequivocally that Lainey had something to do with this. He turned his attention back to Carter, feeling his fading competitive streak come alive again.

“We'll take the south side,” Carter sneered at the ref.

“Good luck,” Gabe added, knowing he was about to kick some ass.

Forty-five minutes after the first whistle, that's exactly what he was doing. The Surge were up 2–0, thanks in part to Gabe's impenetrable defense. The flat-back-four system worked like a charm under his leadership, gracefully shutting down every possible angle of attack. Yet, that bastard Carter still had a smug look on his face with only a few minutes left in the half. Gabe had just blocked a play from the Denver offense, resulting in a corner kick.

The players positioned themselves in and around the eighteen-yard box. Gabe jogged to cover Carter at the far corner of the net, growing increasingly frustrated with the smirk on his rival's face. They jostled each other, perhaps a little rougher than usual, as the Denver midfielder set up for the kick.

“Nice jersey. Did your mommy forget how to spell your name?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Carter?”

“I could tell you, but I'd rather you chase yourself around like a stupid dog going after its own tail.”

Gabe reached over his shoulder and pulled at his jersey. It was difficult to read upside down, but judging by the letters that were visible, it read H-A-V-E-N-O-L-U-C-K. He swore, making Carter laugh louder. Gabe glanced at the backs of his other teammates. Every one of their jerseys was labeled with a mockery.

Distracted by the prank, Gabe barely noticed as the kick flew high above the players, cresting ten yards out from the near post and dropping in the perfect spot for Carter to get a head to it. Gabe bounded into the air, twisting and snapping his abs to head the ball away from the danger zone before Carter could get to it.

He avoided the immediate threat, but he didn't make clean contact with the ball. It managed to clear the box, but a Denver player was ready for it, hitting the ball with a one-touch volley in a fierce drive toward the net. Gabe watched hopelessly as Joe dived too late to the corner with his arm outstretched.

The ball flew just wide of the post.

Gabe breathed a sigh of relief while Joe readied for the goal kick. When the halftime whistle blew a few moments later, he and his teammates followed the coaching staff back to the locker room muttering their embarrassment and vow of revenge on the Falcons.

“What the hell was that?” Jim Heidermann, the Surge's head coach, screamed in his usual red-faced way.

“Some excellent soccer, sir,” Aiden responded earnestly.

Coach threw his hat onto the ground. “You're all distracted. And the only reason we're winning is because the Denver Peak are a team full of dumbasses who are more distracted by your gossip and drama than you are! Get your heads out of your asses and back in the game. Especially you, Havelak. You're the one who got your team into this whole Battle of the Sexes mess, and you're responsible for getting them out. How many times have I told you all to not get involved with women? They make you crazy.”

“Celibacy: it's not just for Catholic priests anymore,” Joe whispered to Gabe.

“Explains why Heidermann's so cranky all the time,” Gabe whispered back, despite the unease in his stomach. He listened carefully as the coach directed them through the game plan for the second half, but he couldn't shake the feeling the other shoe was about to drop. He knew Lainey had to be behind this. Only, Lainey didn't do anything half-assed. If the advertising boards were her stepping up the competition, it was only the first step. Things were going to get ugly, fast.

“Seriously, though. What are you going to do about this?” Joe asked, pointing to the lettering on the back of his keeper's jersey that read S-H-A-R-E-A-H-A-N-D.

“I don't know, man. How do I simultaneously get revenge on a woman and win her back at the same time?”

“Don't ask me; I'm just a goalie.”

“Now put on your goddamn proper jerseys and let's go out there and play like we mean it!” Coach screamed, waving them out of the locker room with giant swoops of his arm. Gabe's teammates jumped to their feet, hollering and clapping.

He needed just a little more luck to get him through the rest of the game. Risking the Coach's wrath, he ran back to his locker and reached into the pocket of his jacket for his rabbit's foot.

It wasn't there. In its place, he found a handwritten note on a yellow Post-it:

Let's see how you do without your good luck charm.
Smooches,
Lainey

20

Soccer's a physical game, but that's not the hard part. The hard part is waking up every single day mentally prepared to leave your guts and your heart on the field.

—
Gabe Havelak, quoted in the
Seattle Times

GABE SHOULD HAVE BEEN
excited for today's battle. This was the one event he was certain his team could win, seeing as beer and prattling off useless sports trivia was at the core of every one of their male-bonding sessions. All he had to do was keep his cool and smile for the camera, and his side would earn fifteen more points. But he didn't want to be Lainey's opponent right now. He wanted to drag her off to someplace private and force her to listen to his apology for what his mama had said at the party, then make love to her for hours.

The Channel 7 producers insisted on hosting the competition at Chester Stadium to ramp up the tension, like some gladiator-style death match. Each team was shepherded to separate locker rooms for their hair and makeup, so he hadn't even seen Lainey yet today. He waved away the makeup artist running around the room with a giant, fluffy powder puff. He already looked like a haggard old man with a five o'clock shadow and bloodshot eyes. A little forehead shine was the least of his worries.

“You do know this is going to be televised, right?” Joe said, leaning back into his chair with his eyes shut while a stylist massaged some kind of oil into his scalp.

“And yet, they're letting your ugly mug in front of the camera,” Gabe shot back.

Joe smiled, sinking lower into his chair while the stylist rubbed his temples. “I think the term you're looking for is ‘ruggedly handsome.' ”

“Sorry, dude. ‘Handsome' is not a synonym for one too many elbows to the face.”

“Then it's a good thing I'm here for my brains.”

“I hope to god that's true, because I'm not in the mood to lose.”

A few minutes later, they were ushered to the field, where a bright blue temporary stage with game show–style podiums was erected in front of one of the nets. A small crowd of fans was gathered in the lower bowl of the stadium, cheering as Gabe took his spot next to Joe and Aiden. As soon as they were in place, Grace Mallery announced the Falcons' entrance to the stage into her rhinestone-encrusted microphone.

It was strange that his first reaction was excitement when the crowds cheered even louder for Lainey than they did for him. Even though she wanted nothing to do with him and had stolen his most beloved lucky charm, he couldn't help but be sucked in by her radiant smile as she waved to the fans.

She didn't glance his way once.

“Remember,” Joe whispered while one of the producers scurried around, clipping microphones to their shirts, “they're our opponents. No mercy.”

“Except, I've never wanted to sleep with any of our opponents before,” Aiden chimed in.

Gabe leveled a hard stare at his teammate. “Who are you talking about?”

Aiden laughed. “I'm talking about you, lover boy. I'm engaged, remember?”

He tried to relax his tight shoulders, but he couldn't get his muscles to unclench. His body ached for her. Even his fingertips tingled with the phantom feel of Lainey's skin. Having to see her without getting to touch her or talk to her was torture.

“Welcome to the next challenge in the Battle of the Sexes!” Grace called out from the center of the stage. “It's time for our favorite soccer players to prove they really are geniuses on the field, with our Soccer Jeopardy Contest. The rules are simple. There are six cones lined up inside the net, each marked with a set number of points between one hundred and a thousand. All you need to do is knock over the cone with the number of points you want to play for and answer the question correctly. If you give me the wrong answer, your team will lose the points. Ready? Okay. Good luck, players.”

His resolve crumbled, and he snuck a quick glance at Lainey. Her eyes met his briefly, mouth parting softly like a sign of guilt over his rabbit's foot. In an instant, her steely expression snapped back into place. It wasn't until Joe prodded his back that he realized Grace had called on him for the first question. He slapped a smile on his face, because it was easier to let his well-honed media instincts take over and set his brain to autopilot. Anything else took up too much energy.

He blew a few kisses toward the crowd and stepped into the slick white-and-blue soccer ball set at the penalty spot in front of the net, soaking up the cheers like oxygen in his lungs. He casually shot the ball toward the cone worth two hundred points. He wanted to start higher and send an early message to the Falcons that he was here to win, but he also knew that he needed to start low and ratchet up the tension to make for good television.

“Okay, first question in the World Cup trivia round. What was the first country to host and win the World Cup?”

So simple, he didn't need to look to his teammates for reassurance. “Uruguay. 1930.”

“Correct! Two hundred points awarded to the Surge.”

Lainey stepped up to the ball next. Despite wearing ballet flats, she blasted the ball so hard it nearly tore a hole in the netting.

“Looks like the Falcons are ready to gamble tonight!” Grace chirped. “For one thousand points, how many countries withdrew from the 1950 World Cup after initially qualifying? Oh, and you have to name them.”

Joe let out a low whistle.

Gabe's chest tightened uncomfortably as a look of panic seeped into Lainey's face. But then he remembered that she didn't want him feeling sorry for her. She didn't want him feeling anything for her at all.

She looked at her teammates with wide, pleading eyes.

“Three! Turkey, Scotland, and India,” Alyssa shouted.

“O-oh,” Grace stuttered. “That is indeed correct.”

Lainey pumped a fist into the air before bounding back to the podium to wrap Alyssa in a giant hug.

It turned out that wasn't the only obscure soccer fact Alyssa had banging around in her brain. The cheery midfielder was an entire encyclopedia of stats and trivia about every league, every stadium, and every player around the world, which meant by the end of the second round, the Falcons were ahead with 5,000 points, almost doubling the Surge's total of 2,600.

“Time for the final round! The Falcons are far ahead, but there is still a chance for the Surge to double their points and take the lead. Each team must choose only one player to answer the final question and can gamble as many points as they would like. The theme for the final round is: How well do you know your opponents? Each team will have to correctly answer one trivia question about their competitors to earn their points. Ready to place your bets?”

Alyssa stepped up to the front of the podium. “We'll gamble one thousand points.”

No surprise there. Just enough to secure their lead. Equally unsurprising was Aiden and Joe urging Gabe to take on the final question. He looked Lainey straight in the eye. “We're putting everything on the line,” he said, not caring that anyone watching would understand the thinly veiled subtext.

“Okay. Ladies first. Alyssa, what club did Zazu play for when he was traded to the Surge in 2010?”

Alyssa sucked in a breath, hesitating.

“Stumped?” Grace asked.

“I . . . I don't know.” Alyssa turned back to her teammates. “I'm sorry. He was technically playing for FC Porto, and I know he was on loan to one of the teams in the Bundesliga, but he never actually played any games because of a torn hamstring. I just don't remember which one.”

“Take a guess,” Grace said.

“Stuttgart?”

Grace glanced down at the bright blue index cards in her hand and frowned. Hope swelled in Gabe's chest, knowing Alyssa's first wrong answer had just put his team in a position to win. “The answer is FC Köln. Too bad. Now, Gabe, if you get this question right, the Surge will sweep the challenge. Are you ready?”

He nodded.

“How many hat tricks has Lainey Lukas scored while playing for the US national team?”

The entire stadium seemed to spin around him as his focus zeroed in on Lainey, heartbeat thudding against his chest. But there was no reason for him to be nervous. He knew this. “Lainey Lukas is one of the most impressive players in this country's history, with nine hat tricks at the international level.”

The crowd went eerily silent. He searched Lainey's face for a reaction. Despite the tight line of her mouth, her eyes softened like she was finally seeing through the bullshit of these last few days. Seeing him again.

“That is . . .” Grace said dramatically, “incorrect!”

“What?” Gabe shouted.

“No, he's right,” Lainey said.

Grace shrugged her shoulders. “The card says eight, and the card is never wrong.”

“But—” Lainey's protest was cut short by the celebratory theme music blasting through the stadium sound system.

Gabe stood frozen with shock watching Jaime and Alyssa hug an equally staggered Lainey.

“I can't believe we just lost,” Aiden said.

Gabe nodded, but the loss wasn't what made his stomach feel like it was being crushed by an invisible weight. It was not knowing if he'd gotten through to Lainey at all. This was the first time he'd seen her since the party, and he couldn't pass up the chance to explain himself. He strode across the stage toward her.

“Congratulations, ladies,” he said, voice rough and low. Jaime and Alyssa immediately released her from their grip and backed off slowly. “Lainey—”

She shook her head. “Not now.”

“When?”

“Later.” She spun around and jogged offstage. He took after her down the stadium tunnel and didn't catch up to her until she was steps from the exit.

“I won't let you walk away from us, Lainey. We're too good together.”

She froze with her hand on the glass door. He was close enough to touch her, and the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss away her defenses was overwhelming, but he knew he needed to let her come to him first.

Her body stiffened and she let out a shaky breath. For a moment, he thought she'd turn around. But she didn't. She pushed the door open and walked out without another word.

TWO DAYS AFTER THE
trivia contest, Gabe answered the knock at his door in ratty sweats and with three-day-old stubble on his chin, not caring if it was a reporter prepared to hound him about the disastrous turn of events in the Battle of the Sexes.

“Dad?” he said, startled when the face registered.

His father lifted a six-pack of Coors Light and proceeded toward the loungers in front of his flat-screen. They were seventeen minutes into the third Premier League match of the day, and already Chelsea was up 2–0 over Liverpool. Gabe and his dad settled into their seats in stoic silence. It wasn't unusual for his dad to show up unannounced to catch a game whenever his mama decided it was time to polish the silver. After the first half, though, Gabe realized his dad wasn't here to escape his mama's quirks. His dad's thick mustache twitched erratically, his telltale sign of wanting to say something. It took another ten minutes before Gabe finally heard what it was.

“Son, some things come easy in life. They flow toward you. Like beer.” His dad took a swig, as if to prove his point. “Nice and smooth. Other things . . . they come at you like a flying rock. Hard, fast, difficult to catch.”

Growing up, these cryptic analogies were ever present whenever Gabe and Tessa needed to learn a life lesson. Most of the time they made no sense, but once in a while there were a few accessible glimmers of their dad's brilliance. Not yet knowing where this was going, Gabe tilted back his bottle and let the amber liquid flow. “I'll gladly choose the beer every time.”

“Yes. You always do.”

“What?” Gabe said. Before he knew it, his dad had leaned over and dumped a glug of pale ale over Gabe's left hand, leaving a sticky mess. He contemplated wiping himself off with one of the dish towels in the kitchen but decided it was futile. He'd just lost his woman, his good luck charm, and his lead in the competition and spent the last two days in the same clothes. A little beer stain would only add to the overall ambience of depressed, heartbroken loser he was cultivating.

“Beer flows away from you as easily as it comes, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. A rock, though, is rough and very difficult to catch when thrown your way,” his dad continued while staring intently at the TV, oblivious to the absurdity of each word coming out of his mouth. “But if you do catch one, you either use the rough edges as a grip to hold on tight, or you let it drop because it hurts too much.”

Gabe paused for a few beats, trying to decipher his dad's coded message. “Are you saying my girlfriend is a rock?”

His dad grumbled something in Czech.

“Are you saying she's not a rock?”

“I'm saying she is not your girlfriend, is she? When things got difficult, you chose the easy path. You let her go without much of a fight. You are a good man, son. You make me and your mother very proud. But you have had much come to you easily. Money, fame, soccer. The hard things, though, they are important, too. Eventually, you will have to learn that you can't have everything you want in life.”