Someone Like You (4 page)

Sometimes she didn't know if she'd ever be ready for that. The thought of it exhausted her, frankly. She was in a good place now. At peace with being on her own. It'd certainly have to be a hell of an amazing man to change her mind about dating again—someone honest and trustworthy and solid, who could also make her burn with passion and shine with happiness. And she just wasn't sure men like that really existed.

Chapter Three

Breathing heavily, Pierce slowed his pace as he eased into the last half mile of his run. He had to admit his morning run had been more enjoyable here, with the Long Island Sound as scenery, instead of the busy streets of London. It was quiet, the air was fresh instead of filled with diesel fumes, he could look out at the water instead of old buildings, and he felt calmer. Two towns over, in Edgewater, the biking/jogging trail that went along the coast of the Sound and ended at the park was a godsend.

He'd spent some time in Edgewater in his teen years; a solid middle-class town with nice, normal people, it had seemed like a different world than Kingston Point. And he preferred it. His few friends came from the expensive private school he attended, and his best friend from there, Troy Jensen, had grown up in Edgewater and attended on scholarship. They'd been tight since the ninth grade, and ended up as co-captains of the soccer team by junior year. After graduation, Troy had gone to Dartmouth and Pierce had gone to England, but they'd stayed in touch.

Pierce slowed to a jog as he neared the last quarter mile. Flicking a glance at his watch, he saw it was already close to eleven. He'd gotten a bit of a late start that morning due to the hangover he'd woken with. The night before, he'd gone into the city to check out the bar and lounge at Dane's new hotel. He'd never hung out with his brother as if they were friends, but last night, they had.

Pierce had to admit he'd had a great time. Dane was fun to hang with, doing his nickname “Golden Boy” justice. They caught up and then watched Julia sing. What a voice. She'd been fantastic, as good as any pro singer he'd heard. And he felt wrong thinking it about his sister-in-law, but she was sexy as hell. Her hourglass figure had been poured into a deep blue dress that shimmered under the lights and hugged every voluptuous curve. Coupled with the fact that she was nice, smart, and had a sharp edge, he could see why Dane had fallen so hard for her.

And man, was Dane a goner. The guy could barely take his eyes off his wife. Pierce knew he would've made fun of him in years past for how obviously whipped Dane was over her . . . but he was happy for him. He never thought Dane would settle down with one woman, much less get married. But his brother was visibly, deeply happy. Maybe there was something to be said for how it could be if you found the right person . . . though God knew after the debacle in London, dating was far from his mind. And dragging some girl into his shitstorm of a life? He wasn't cruel enough to do that, to subject some innocent person to the ruthless scrutiny of the media just to get laid.

At the end of the night, Dane had called a car to take Pierce back to Tess's house. Who knew how many vodka tonics he'd had in Dane's bar? He'd stumbled up to bed around two
A.M.
This morning, he'd actually been able to smell the alcohol as it sweated out of his pores. The first mile had been damn rough, though. He was thirty-one years old; he had to stop doing this so often. He was getting too old for long nights out that left him demolished the next morning.

As he slowed to a walk, he realized the other thing he had to get a grip on was that he wasn't a football star anymore. And he wasn't living that lifestyle anymore. Scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, he looked up at the clear blue sky, wishing he had some answers. He didn't know what the hell he'd do now, but he did know it was time to grow up. Getting away from his hard-partying friends in London had been a good start. Coming back to Long Island . . . well, he wasn't sure about that decision yet, but the last week had been better than he'd thought it would be. As long as he kept away from his father, things could be fine, maybe even good.

Getting to his Range Rover in the parking lot by the park, he grabbed his water bottle and gulped half of it down, leaning against the side of the truck. Tess had offered him free use of her BMW while he was staying with her, but he'd rented his own vehicle, not wanting to take too much from his generous sister.

His eyes scanned the park. Troy, who'd moved back to Edgewater after his brief marriage had tanked, had asked Pierce to meet him there at noon. His six-year-old daughter's team played then and Troy would be alone on the sidelines, so it was a good time for the guys to hang out and catch up. On the left, there were parents with young kids at the playground. He remembered getting drunk with Troy and a few others there in their late teens, and had to grin. Over on the largest expanse of green, a soccer game was in play. Judging from the size of the players, the boys couldn't be more than nine or ten years old. Pierce was early, but he'd take watching a live football game over going back to the Harrison estate any day. And he liked watching kids play. To them it was still fun, not a bloody stressful competition where the stakes were always high. Innocent fun, played for nothing but the love of the sport.

Tossing his iPod onto the passenger seat, he finished the bottle of water and reached for the duffel bag in the back. It was a warm morning, had to be over eighty degrees already, and he was dripping. He peeled off his damp T-shirt and tossed it into the back of the truck, toweled himself off, then slid on a clean, sleeveless sky-blue tee. Grateful he'd thought to bring a second shirt despite his hangover, he grabbed a banana and another bottle of water from the bag, shoved the key into the deep pocket of his gray mesh shorts, and headed for the football field.

Aaagh, it was soccer here, dammit. He'd have to get used to calling it that again if he was going to be back in the States. He huffed out a disgruntled breath. After over a decade abroad, that habit was going to be a hard one to break.

The two teams were playing hard, with plenty of parents along the sidelines loudly cheering on their kids. Pierce sat on the grass by the far end, not wanting to be in anyone's way or seem like a creeper as he watched the game. By the time he finished eating his banana, it was easy to see the red team was trouncing the blue team. The blue team was all over the place—missing shots, not making connections, and messing up plays. Lyndon's soccer club was outplaying the Edgewater club by a mile.

“Come ON, Nicky!” the Edgewater coach shouted. “Stay with the ball!”

Pierce searched for the source of the insistent female voice, scanning across the field where the other members of the blue team were clustered. A woman with a short, blond ponytail and sunglasses, wearing the royal blue Edgewater gear, paced the sidelines frenetically, holding a clipboard. The corners of Pierce's mouth quirked at the sight of that. What the hell was she marking down on that clipboard of hers? Couldn't be plays—the kids weren't making any. She had great legs, though. He could make out that much from where he sat. Her shorts revealed toned, shapely legs. Even from a distance, he could tell she was cute . . . especially as she barked out commands at her team throughout the game.

“Pass, Scott, PASS the ball!” Or, “Dylan, come ON, dude, follow him, stay on him!” Or, “Andy, eyes open, watch where he's going!” She had the crisp efficiency of a good coach, but the game was getting away from Edgewater. Those kids needed help. Training? Something. Jesus. Kids that young could still be taught a lot. The blonde was spirited, but must need some training herself to explain this mess.

Lyndon's coach, a short, stocky man, shouted at his team harshly. Yeah, they were winning, but Pierce didn't like his tone. It was a step short of nasty, demeaning. You didn't have to yell at kids that way. Even the blond coach whose players sucked seemed to grasp that. Being too hard on kids would take the joy out of the game for them. Who wanted to strip kids of that? Pierce sighed inwardly as he sipped some of his water and leaned his forearms on his knees.

When the halftime whistle blew, he watched as the teams went to their huddles to have drinks and a snack. Pierce scanned the scene lazily, enjoying his solitude under a sunny sky. Some of the Edgewater kids barely stopped to have a drink before taking one of the soccer balls and kicking it amongst themselves. First three boys, then four kicked the ball, fooling around. One of them went hard and the ball sailed across the field. Reflexively, Pierce jumped up to get it as it rolled in his direction. He stopped it with his foot, and dribbled it back toward the Edgewater kids. Damn, the ball between his feet felt good.

Reinvigorated, he dribbled it all the way back to the group of kids.

* * *

As the boys sucked down Capri Sun pouches and ate orange slices, Abby tried to explain to them what they needed to do to improve in the second half. They wouldn't win; but at least if they weren't shut out by an embarrassing number of goals, it would be easier on the kids' self-esteem.

But it was like herding cats. Some of the boys listened, but the rest were either more interested in their peeled orange slices or playing around with the ball behind her. Sure, eight-year-old boys had energy to spare, but she'd tried so hard to come up with strategies, good plays. This group just didn't respond. The basics were all she'd gotten from them. Were they not capable of what she was trying to teach them? Or was she just the world's lousiest soccer coach?

A few of the kids' parents came over, either to say hi to their sons or to ask her questions about upcoming practices. Feeling inadequate, she held her clipboard against her chest and tried to smile as she spoke.

Mr. Morales seemed to be more interested in something behind her than what she was saying to him. She turned to see a tall young guy approaching her team, dribbling what looked like one of their soccer balls between his feet. With nimble agility, he lobbied it back and forth, then started tapping it into the air, ankle to knee to other ankle to other knee and back again. Damn. Even she had to admit it was a cool trick. The boys all responded with awed excitement, instantly crowding around him, demanding to know how he did that.

From behind her sunglasses, Abby did a quick once-over. The guy was about her age, with tousled dark hair, dark sunglasses, and a scruffy jaw that could have used a shave. He wore a sleeveless blue T-shirt that exposed nicely muscled arms . . . but along his upper right arm, it seemed there were more tattoos than unmarked skin. A few were on his left arm, too, but not the almost total sleeve of his right arm. Scanning the rest of his lean, taut frame, below his knee-length mesh shorts she spotted another large tattoo on his left calf, and something around his right ankle. Whoa . . .
great
legs. He had muscles like rocks in his calves.

Abby scowled. Okay, the guy had a fantastic body, and his tricks with the ball were impressive, but who was he, and what was he doing there? She'd let a grown man, a stranger, approach her kids. She could only imagine the complaints some parents might make, and she wouldn't blame them. Excusing herself to Mr. Morales, she quickly joined her players gathered around the stranger. At this range, she couldn't help noticing he was really good-looking.
Whoa.
Oh boy. But still, hot or not, he was a stranger. “Excuse me,” she said sharply, in her best teacher voice. “Do you know one of these boys?”

The hot stranger stopped, catching the ball and holding it in his hand as he looked her way. “Um . . . no.”

Something roiled in her chest. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I just—” he started to say.

“If you don't know any of these kids, it's highly inappropriate for you to just wander over here, don't you think?”

He froze, seeming to grasp what she meant. With a quick sweep of his free hand, he removed his sunglasses to earnestly stare at her with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. “Wait, I'm no creeper. Slow down.”

“Then what—”

“They were fooling around and kicked this ball all the way across the field,” he explained quickly. “I was just bringing it back to them.”

Abby heard the murmurs of the three dads behind her and cringed. They must've been discussing her competence, or lack thereof, to keep their children safe. “Well,” she said in a clipped tone, “thank you. You did. You can go now.”

“Does he have to go, Coach?” young Andy asked.

“Yeah, Aunt Abby,” Dylan piped up. “Didja see what he could do? He's awesome!”

“Look, boys,” she said as sternly as she could, “we don't know this man. You're not supposed to talk to strangers, right?”

The boys all looked at the ground and mumbled assent.

Noticing two of the kids' fathers, Mr. Morales and Mr. Esdon, were suddenly standing on either side of her, she reassured them, “I appreciate the show of support, but I'm sure he'll just leave on his own now.”

“Wait!” Mr. Morales said to the man. “I know this sounds crazy . . . but by any chance, are you Pierce Harrison? From the Spurs? Because you sure look like him, and you definitely know how to handle that ball.”

The man's bright blue eyes narrowed, suddenly wary as he said, “And if I am?”

“Then can I have your autograph?” Mr. Morales smiled, obviously starstruck. “I mean, Premier League! You're a great player!”

“Thank you . . . but I'm not anymore,” the man said flatly. He put his sunglasses back on. “I left the league, I'm out.”

“Yeah, I know. But still. You were always great to watch.” Mr. Morales stepped right up to him and held out a hand. The stranger finally cracked a grin and shook it.

At that, all the boys started to yelp and surrounded him like a pack of puppies.

“What the hell . . . ?” Abby said under her breath.

“It's okay, Ms. McCord,” Mr. Esdon said. “The minute he took off his sunglasses, Diego recognized him. Look.” He held up his cell phone for Abby to see.

She peered at it and felt a gut punch of embarrassment. There was the hot stranger, in a soccer uniform—no, football, if he'd been in the Barclays Premier League in England, as it said in the caption. Looking back over at him, she suddenly saw he was every bit the professional star athlete, flashing a megawatt smile as the kids posed with him for pictures. The parents with their cell phones were like a swarm of paparazzi. It had become an instant mob scene.