Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (7 page)

"Here you go, Iz." he's brought me my black Adidas
Sambas. The shoes are of the few contributions he’s made to my wardrobe. Diego
insists the proper shoe for football has three stripes.

With my shoes on, I make one more turn in front of the
mirror, nervous as shit about meeting Mr. Stafford and Diego playing in a new
league. I don't doubt his skill, but sometimes the newest superstar has a
target on his back. 

Diego comes up from behind in his away jersey, the colors of
his shirt opposite of mine. Where my shirt is red, his is black. Where there is
a black V stripe across mine, his has a red one. Of course, where mine is blank
below the stripe, his has one of the actual team sponsor's name and logo on it.
Holding me in his arms, my back to his chest, he stares over the top of my head
and smiles. We've done this hundreds of times. This is all part of the process
that gets him in the mindset for a game. A different country, a different city,
a different team, different soil and it changes nothing. Our routine is the
same.

"Let's get going,
bella,"
catching my gaze
in our reflections.

The trip to the stadium was short. We were parked and
walking in within fifteen minutes of leaving the house. As was customary, Diego
played his mix of Pantera, Slayer, and Metallica to help pump him up.

From the outside, I can see that this stadium is quite a bit
larger than most of the ones Diego has played in back in the States. Stepping
into this stadium was like walking into an alternate universe. While most clubs
in the US play on their own fields, the sport isn’t as highly regarded there as
it is here in the UK. One might actually call it a religion. Families divide
and houses crumple when rivalries face off. The amount of love this stadium and
their occupants have for the team graces the walls in murals and images from
games, tournaments, championships, and celebrations that tell of the long
legacy of this particular club.

We take the elevator up to the third level. The attention
that Diego draws hasn't escaped me. Men and women alike seem to just stop and
watch him walk by. Their awe isn't misplaced. I still find myself slack-jawed
with him at times. If you were one for myths and legends, you'd have to wonder
if he wasn't a demigod, the son of a mortal mother, built like a god and
blessed with god-like skills.

We walk down a short distance through the hall off of the
elevators. When we approach a set of double doors, Diego indicates with his
hand that this was the room we were entering. I steady myself, preparing to
represent my husband in the best way I can.

There are two voices coming from around the corner of the
short entry-hall into the suite, one male, one female. "Dad," the woman
pleads, "you need to get it checked out."

"Diego," I hear the man address my husband before
I see him. "Come in, come in," he invites us. "This must be
the
Izabella
."

"I am," I reply, offering my hand to whom I
presume to be the owner. "And you must be Mr. Stafford. My husband is
quite fond of you, sir. A weaker woman would be concerned over his obvious man
crush on you." 

"Aren't you a little minx," answers back Mr.
Stafford. "You remind me of my Sasha's mother." He wraps his arm
around the waist of the blonde to his left.
Ahhh! Sasha S. from the
airport. 

I reach out my hand to Sasha, but can't be bothered to shake
it.

Seriously?

I'm used to the snubbing from the players' girlfriends or
wives, but never an owner, or a daughter of one. If looks could kill, I'd have
died a thousand deaths with the once over she gave me instead. 

"Diego," she focuses her attention on my husband,
"do you think we could discuss next week's photo shoot for the cross
promotion for Zeus and London United?" She bats her eyelashes when she
finishes her question.

Ahhhh...now I get it
. It would seem that Little Miss
Owner's Daughter has a crush on my Diego.

I know she’s talking about the endorsement deal he signed
with the company known for its bath and hygiene products for men. Diego excuses
himself from my side and walks towards Sasha. I'm not afforded the opportunity
to hear what she has to say to him when Mr. Stafford starts asking me about my
shirt. Because I know my husband, I'm comfortable with switching my focus to
the adorable older man in front of me and am more than eager to explain the
shirt Diego had made for me.

However, just because I'm not concerned about my husband
wandering, it doesn't mean that Miss Touchy Feely isn't getting on my every
last nerve with every graze of her hands across his shoulder or down his arm.
"Are you dear?" I hear break through my fiery gaze.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask apologetically.
Embarrassed that I got distracted from the conversation I was having with Mr.
Stafford.

"Are you a fan of football?"

"That's such an odd question considering my husband is
a professional footballer, Mr. Stafford."

"I suppose it could be. Many of the WAGS—" the
look that streaks across my face stops Mr. Stafford mid-sentence. He waits for
me to express my confusion.

"WAGS, sir?"

"Oh, yes. WAGS is what we call the wives and
girlfriends of the players. Welcome to the club," he jests. "Lots of
these ladies don't have a clue about the sport or the game. Many of them are
here for the fame and notoriety."

"
Ash
...well, thank you for the welcome into such
an exclusive club," I quip. "However, unlike some of these women you
describe, I very much enjoy soc—football. Although, I'll admit that before I
met Diego, I couldn't stand the sport."

"Did I hear my name? I swear, it wasn't me," he
jokes.

"Izabella was just telling me about her adventures with
football."

"True story, right babe? I wasn't a fan of football
when we met."

"Not a fan is a bit of understatement. I'm pretty sure
you going into depth about how boring the sport was and breaking a wrist to
avoid going to a game paints a better picture," he chastises.

I shrug, "While I'm still not the biggest fan of the
sport, I am mostly certainly a fan of my husband. I haven't missed one of his
games in nearly five years."

"And on that note, I have some prepping I need to get
to. Walk with me down to the balcony?"

"Of course. Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Stafford. I
need to wish my husband a good game," I smile in his direction.

"That Sasha is quite the character," I start as
we're descending the stairs from the box suite to the balcony of the third
level of the stadium.

"Yeah...she's a lot of ‘all work and no play,’ it
seems."
Ha ha. Men are so clueless sometimes.

At the furthest point I will go, Diego takes me in his arms.
His kiss is less eager, but no less knee buckling. I gasp for breath when he
releases his claim on my mouth. "Watch for me, okay?" he asks.

"But how will I tell you apart from the rest of the
soccer studs on your team? Or the other team for that matter?" I play
along.

"You'll see me," he declares simply. "I'll be
the one jukin' fuckers and scoring."

He's said this to me every game since the first one I ever
went to.

August 2006

After our customary good-bye, I spend a moment looking at
the pitch, the field that is. My years of supporting Diego and hanging out on
our down time watching his favorite teams before he went pro has given me sound
knowledge of the sport and its vocabulary.

I've seen him play a million games—or so it seems—and I
shouldn’t feel like this, but today...today, I'm nervous.

I don't know if it's the newness of the venue, the team, our
residence, but the nerves are making my already unstable stomach flip and flop.
Starting a new team hasn't always worked in Diego's favor. In fact, fate has
been unkind where Diego and his first game with a new team is concerned. His
first appearance with the San Diego Football Club was tragic, if I'm being
honest. As fate, or the schedule, would have it, he was facing off against his
former team, the Los Angeles Athletic Club.

Playing in L.A., and Diego being the superstar he is, his
appearance was welcomed with fans standing for him and chanting his name. A few
of his former teammates, whom were green with envy over Diego's superstar
status when they were on the same team, were not pleased with the warm
reception from the home team fans. This was evident in their game play,
constantly hacking at Diego's legs and getting more physical than the game
called for. There were about ten minutes left in the game and the coach had
called Diego's number, eighty minutes of play will gas even a god like my
Diego. While the ball was still in play, Diego remained on the field. Up three
goals to none, the guys were playing more defense, but fate does not care about
running up the score or the team's plan to play it careful. The field opened up
like a cloud-filled sky does when the sun breaks through after a storm and
Diego was at the right place, at the right time to take the shot on net.

I still don't know if what happened next was some sick twist
of fate or an unlucky coincidence, but I'll never forget that scene. The ball
arced through the air in Diego's direction, landing perfectly at his feet in
stride to the goal. Never missing a beat, he planted his left foot and brought
the right one back to drill the ball into the back of the net. And then the
unimaginable happened. Out of nowhere, one of Diego’s green with envy former
teammates comes at him from his left side, slide tackling into his planted leg
cleats up. The collective gasp in the stadium of eighteen thousand fans was
nothing compared to the roar of pain coming from Diego.

Neither could hold a candle to my stomach dropping to my
feet watching Diego writhing in pain on the field, grasping at his leg with one
hand and pounding the ground with the other. When he was being carted off the
field, I was tearing through the crowds to get to him.

Not everyone loves a superstar. Not everyone loves an
American superstar. From what D tells me, his teammates have been very
welcoming and have shown him the ropes of the facility and the lay of the land.
I just hope the other team is as amicable.

"Izabella!" hearing my name shouted, I turn in the
direction it's coming from. There at the top of the stairs is Mr. Stafford.
He's waving his hands, gesturing me to him. The man's smile is beaming and
quickly erases the dark thoughts chasing me towards the rabbit hole.

As fit as I am, I'm winded when I reach the top and Mr.
Stafford. "My dear," he starts, "I wanted to be sure we have
something for you to snack on before the start of the game..."

How long was I down there? The look on my face must show my
confusion. "You were down there for some time. Game will be starting in
about thirty minutes. Diego and the rest of the lads should be taking the pitch
shortly."

Sure enough, a glance back down at the pitch and Diego and
his teammates are spreading out to stretch and kick the ball around. As if he
can sense my eyes on him, Diego snaps his attention directly to me. With a
touch of his fingers to his lips he blows me a kiss. Aware of the potential for
a new audience, I grab it out of the air rather than turn to let his kiss fall
on my ass. I can see him laugh. He has to know that I wasn't comfortable with
performing my normal response in front of his new boss.

I make my way into the suite to find Sasha glaring at me. I
can imagine why, but whatever the fuck ever, he's mine.

"Izabella is there something I can get you to drink?
Champagne?" he asks holding up a bottle of my favorite bubbly.

"Mr. Stafford, while that sounds lovely, I'll just have
a bottle of water. The bubbly kind if you have any."

He chuckles at me, "My dear, I'm the owner. If I didn't
have any, I could have it stocked in twenty minutes."

I respond in kind. "Of course," I shrug,
"what was I thinking?"

He hands me a glass filled with the sparkling water and
places the bottle on the table in front of me. "So, Izabe—"

"Please, it's Izzy. It's a mouthful to say Izabella
every time."

"Then I insist you call me Bean." I quirk an
eyebrow up at his request. Silently questioning whether he really thought it
was okay to be so informal with him. With a shake of his head, "Izzy, it's
only fair. Besides, I see no reason why we would need the formalities of a
title."

"If you insist," I pause, mulling over what is
clearly his nickname. “Bean, huh? Is there a story to go with that?”

"I do insist," he delivers emphatically and with a
laugh he continues. "We’ll save the story for another time. Now, Izzy, why
weren't you a big fan of football?"

"I see you're starting with the hard and heavy
questions," I chuckle. "Well, to be honest, I probably wasn't so
honest earlier about my fondness of the sport. I think I'm just in denial. In
fact, I catch myself watching random games on the television when Diego isn't
there to watch with me.

"In my early years, soc—football," I correct
myself, "seemed so slow, so boring and admittedly, a lot confusing. I grew
up on American football and it was fast paced to me and action packed whereas
'proper' football," that gets me a big smile, "seemed like ninety
minutes of kicking the ball from one end of the field to the other."

Whether he tried to or not, Bean didn’t disguise his
distaste for my uninformed and unenlightened early perception of the sport and
then, gave me a nod. "That just means you weren't watching the right
league or team for that matter,” he delivers with a wink. "Not all
football is created equal. I'm sure you know by now that there are regional
nuances within game play and game planning."

"Yes, of course. I actually find that my favorite
leagues to watch are the Italian Premiere League and the Queen's Premiere
League." His eyebrow says everything. "No, I'm not just saying that
for your benefit,” I chuckle. “I find that I'll sit and watch more of the teams
in those two leagues longer than any other team on any other league...with the
exception of any team Diego plays for," I finish hand over heart.

"They have a word for feisty things like you,
Izzy," Bean teases. "Trouble," he roars out, laughing at his own
jest.

"It is my middle name," I quip, but before I can
continue, I'm halted by the announcer on the television.

“Good afternoon and welcome to today’s matchup between the
London United Football Club and the Fulham Football Club. Today’s match should
be a good one. Both teams made some exciting changes during the off season, but
what we’re all looking forward to seeing today is Mr. Stafford’s newest
addition Diego Santo." The announcer continued on about Diego’s career in
the States and talked about “the youngster” being the missing key.

They zoom in on Diego and I'm speechless. He's so handsome
in his uniform. They pan out to the rest of the team and I'm floored. There
next to Diego on the field is Sasha.
How the fuck? Time to pry.
"That's
funny, I never even heard Sasha leave," laying the bait.

"Oh, she's down by the bench for most home games. I
swear she’s like another coach out there. I am constantly reminding her that
I’ve hired coaches to handle the pitch.

"But that’s my Sasha, she has to be in the thick of it.
She sometimes forgets this is my team," he starts. "And it will be
hers, when fate decides it's my time to step down, but that's not happening
yet," he guffaws heartily. “She loves the sport and is a natural with the
business of owning a team,” he boasts.

Translation: She loves the men and is obsessed with the
power associated with owning a team.
She could be a really nice woman, but
my bitch-dar was raging from the moment I saw her. Her not shaking my proffered
hand was just a big confirmation. Her eye-fucking my husband and pawing at him
the smoking fucking gun.

Once the game starts, after the singing of the national
anthem and introduction of the starting line-up, we settle into a comfortable
silence. It never gets old watching my man play.

“Come on Santo, don’t let him take the ball from you so
easily,” talking to Diego like he’s sitting right next to me and not playing on
the pitch. It’s obvious to me, he hasn’t settled his nerves and he’s holding
back. “Yesss,” I shout as Diego relieves the opposing team’s center midfielder
of the ball.

I stand and track Diego as he makes his way past midfield
driving toward the goal. The defender missteps as Diego shifts his weight from
his left foot to his right and back. Diego continues past him with a spin,
keeping the ball on his foot all the way through. For a split second, the game
slows down and the defense parts like the Red Sea. Taylor, the left forward, is
two steps behind a defender and Diego has a straight line shot to him. Diego
takes one more step and skillfully launches the ball to his waiting teammate.
With one touch, Taylor drills the ball past the goalie and into the net.

Mr. Stafford is shoulder hugging me in his excitement. He’s
as elated with the goal as he likely is with Diego’s key role in it. I beam
with pride. My football stud of a husband is worth every penny of his expensive
ass. And right now, Mr. Stafford could not agree more.

“Mr.—Bean, with all the excitement the water has caught up
to me…could you point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?” I practically
beg realizing the urgency of the situation.

He points to the door in the back corner of the room.
“Luckily for you, there’s no line,” he jests.

There is less than five minutes left in the game and the
London United are up three to two. Diego has racked up another assist and a
goal. His scorecard for this opening match with London United shows three
points—a point for each of his assists and a goal, in as many team goals.

Bean has been joined by a couple of his old buddies and I’ve
moved to the seats just outside the box. The coolness of the air on my
overheated skin helping me cope, because I’m lacking in the adjusting
department since I have to fan myself through the rest of this heat flash.

In the final minutes of the match, the main objective is to
possess the ball as much as possible. This is definitely an area of expertise
for Diego. From the first time I saw him play to now, it looks like there’s a
magnetic connection between his feet and the ball. If you didn’t know any
better, there would be times you could swear he’s glued the ball to his shoe.

“DAMN IT!” Whoops, forgot that I’m not with my normal
company. I sheepishly turn to see the three older gentlemen shaking with their
chuckles brought on by my outburst. “Sorry,” I deliver with batted eyelashes,
aiming for sweet and demur.

“Oh, Izzy, dear,” he tsks and shakes his head.

It’s one of Bean’s buddies’ turn to shout an expletive. I
redirect my attention to the field to see the opposing team’s forward dribbling
his way past defenders left and right. “C’mon Red Dogs,” I shout out. “Just
gotta hang on for a few more minutes,” I say barely above a whisper.

There’s an opening between goalie and goal and the forward
doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Drilling his foot into the ball, he sails
it past two defenders and straight toward the goa—

Out of seemingly nowhere, Diego is sliding across the path
of the ball and altering the ball’s destination to the feet of his teammate.
Without skipping a beat, Diego is back up on his feet, indifferent to the fact
that his last move to sacrifice his body to stop the ball likely saved the
game. The trio of gentlemen with me are hooting and hollering behind me.

The London United manages to maintain their lead and win the
game. Diego was undoubtedly the Man of the Match. I couldn’t be more proud.
This was quite the debut for an international player in this super tough
league. “Izzy,” I hear from behind me, but the rest of the world fades away and
what I do see is through a red-filtered haze of hate. There, on the screen
before me, is
Sasha
with her arm around Diego’s waist.
Deep breaths,
Izzy.
It’s clear Diego is uncomfortable with the contact, but I presume
he’s just being polite and not pissing off the boss’ daughter.

Ugh.
I just know she’s going to be trouble.
Sometimes, I think the Fates have it out for us. Sure we’ve proven time and
again that we survive. Together we’re nearly bulletproof. But just once, it’d
be nice to start a new chapter in our life together without an ominous black
cloud challenging our love’s ability to break through.

I let out a sigh. Time to put on that happy face. There
comes a time when you just have to roll with the punches. Take the turns fate
puts in your path and persevere knowing that your love is strong enough.

Our love
is
strong enough.