The Set Piece

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www.ylva-publishing.com

To Peggy, who should be here to read this

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How lucky am I? I got to work with the very best right out of the gate. Golden Crown Literary Society opened the door with its incredible mentor program and in walked Jae, the best-selling author. Her instruction was patient, generous, and invaluable, and I know that I would not be on this journey if it weren’t for her.

My editor, Gill McKnight, pushed me when she needed to and spoiled me when she could. The story is certainly better for her careful attention, thank you.

And finally Astrid Ohletz and her amazing team at Ylva Publishing, who took a chance and then supported me every step of the way.

Of course, my family is also some of the very best people I know. My wife and son always believed in me even when we all realized what I had gotten us into. Writing is so much easier when I have the wind of their love at my back.

And then there is soccer, the best game in the world! It gave me a wonderful childhood, an introduction to my wife, and the inspiration for this novel!

CHAPTER 1

The Los Angeles Atoms’ midfielder
rushed toward the left corner of the soccer field, the ball glued to his feet. He cut around a defender and sent a lovely precision pass into the middle of the penalty area. Diego Torres, star forward of the Atoms, hunky underwear model, and all-around great guy, collected the ball with an outstretched foot. His brilliant first touch sent both defenders guarding him in the wrong direction and left the goalie exposed to the blistering shot that was surely only seconds away.

The crowd jumped to its feet, ready to cheer the goal.

Torres’s foot met the ball with a thunderous clap. It spun, like the charged atom it was dyed to resemble, and sailed toward the left-hand corner. And then, unbelievably, continued to drift wide, hitting the retaining wall with a thud.

Every patron in the Valley Arms pub sat glued to the game on the huge TV screen. They groaned as one with disappointment.

“Dang it.” Amy snapped her damp bar rag against the oak counter top.

“There goes our tips,” Simon, her co-worker, said, his South London accent turning sour.

“Forget the tips. There goes the game,” Amy said.

Loud grumbling erupted from every corner. The Valley Arms, a genuine English pub transplanted into the middle of the hot San Fernando Valley, was also the official “Atomic Center” for the LA-based soccer club. It was the hub where the Atoms’ fans got together to support their team. Bright red and white banners hung from the ceiling; free snacks landed on the tables throughout the game, and half-time giveaways created a fun atmosphere. The Atoms’ stadium was forty miles away, so the Valley Arms was the next best place to be if you couldn’t make it to their home turf.

But not today. On the screen, Diego Torres dropped his face into his hands. He stood still for a moment while the goalie retrieved the ball. Then Torres began a slow trot back up the field, pain and disappointment etched all over his face.

“Well, there you have it, folks,” the TV commentator said. “Torres’s drought continues. That’s his fourth shot in today’s game, and not one has been on target. With a run at the play-offs coming down to the wire, Torres has to find a way to fight through this dry spell.”

“You suck, Diego,” a loud male voice called out from the back of the pub.

“How do you know, Fernando? You got experience with that?” another man asked.

Three burly men sitting at the table nearest the bar laughed.

“Leave him alone. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with that choice.” Amy shook her head as she pulled back on the tap handle and expertly shot beer into the pint glass in her hand. She came around the counter, carrying three full beers over to the guys’ table.

The men all zeroed in on her chest as she set the beers down. Thanks to the ridiculous uniform with its Union Jack bra top, her breasts were front and center. She tugged at her short black jacket, but it did little to cover her curves and left her stomach completely bare. Her running joke with Simon was that, along with the short tartan skirt, the uniform looked like the bastard child of a Hooters’ bar costume and a Beef Eater uniform. Simon could afford to laugh; at least his Union Jack T-shirt covered his midriff.

She deposited two beers at a table where the customers both wore the bright red Atoms jerseys. TORRES, in big, black letters, adorned the back, along with his number ten. She took the last beer to the back corner and slid it in front of Fernando.

“On the house. Drink up your sorrows and support the man. He’s a great player, and when times are tough we need to stay true to our motto.” She pointed to the huge banner hanging over the taps, “Atoms #1 Fans Drink Here.”

“Yeah, I know, Amy. Thanks.”

She patted Fernando on the shoulder and cruised back to the bar, gathering empty glasses as she went.

“Careful, Amy,” Simon whispered. “Reggie said he’d fire you if you gave out any more free beers.”

“Reggie’s not here, is he?”

“But somehow he always knows.”

“Loosen up, Si. It’s good business. Fernando needs to leave here either feeling good about the game or good about the pub.” She motioned to the screen where time was ticking off the clock in the top left corner. “It’s not going to be the game.”

The other reason that Amy had given Fernando the beer remained unspoken between them. Reggie, the English native who owned the bar, was a flat out racist. Whenever the English Premiere League was on, he was right there in the center of things, whooping and chanting as loudly as his customers. But when he had to deal with the Latino clientele that the Atoms’ games invariably brought in, he couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He always disappeared to see to other business when the Atoms played, though he was all smiles when the Atoms’ publicity people stopped by. Somehow, he had them all snowed, and the Valley Arms raked in cash for both home and away games.

Amy hated that Reggie got away with it and that she needed this job badly enough to put up with the pig.

A handsome, but balding man at the counter looked at Amy thoughtfully. “You make a good point,” he said smoothly.

“About what?”

“About the relationship between happiness and financial profit. They usually walk hand in hand.”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess.” Amy laughed. “What can I get you?”

“What do you have?”

“We have four quality ales and Stongbow cider on tap. Fosters is our most popular. Guinness, if you like it dark. Sam Adams or Heineken if you want something familiar.”

“I’ll take a Fosters.”

Amy moved over to the Fosters hand pump and pulled at it twice. She set the foaming glass down on the spill mat as the excess ran over. The man gingerly wrapped his fingers around the pint glass trying to get as little beer as possible on his hand.

“So you like soccer?” he asked.

Amy fixed her gaze on him. She hadn’t pegged him for a talker. Frankly, sporting an expensive suit and tapping on his big-screen cellphone while the game played, he didn’t fit their usual clientele profile at all. The idea that he might be from the Atoms’ organization ran through her mind, but those people introduced themselves immediately. They were annoyed at having to drive out to the Valley for business, and eager to waste as little time as possible. This guy’s fingernails were manicured, and he smelled of expensive cologne.

He could be hitting on her. Most men did the second they saw her skimpy top and long legs. Usually she shut them down so expertly, they didn’t even see it coming. But this guy wasn’t angling to get her into bed, either. It made no sense. He took a sip of his beer and looked at her expectantly for an answer.

“Do I like soccer? Yeah, I love it.” Her dwindling bank account popped up in front of her face. Any talkative guy with a suit and a phone like that could throw her a tip that could make a difference, so she slid down the bar to stand right in front of him. “I played in college. Now, I’m like everyone else here. I root for the Atoms through thick and thin.”

“Who’s your favorite player?”

“Torres, of course.”

“Good to hear. What university?”

“Sorry?”

“The university you played for?”

“One back east. The program was only so-so.”

“That’s because it’s in the Ivy League.” Simon threw the comment over his shoulder as he served another customer.

“Well, I already guessed you were smart. Which one? Harvard, Princeton…”

“No.” She cut him off. Why did she suddenly feel as if she were in a job interview? “Not the big three. University of Pennsylvania. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course, Penn. Wharton School of Business, right? Donald Trump’s alma matter.”

“Yeah, but I was in the College of Arts and Sciences. Our alumni aren’t nearly as famous, and our degrees certainly not as lucrative.” She tried to take the conversation back into the land of light and breezy, the place of big tips.

The man, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes as he ran his gaze up and down her body. Not in that entitled, obvious way when men check out women standing right in front of them. But more as if she were a prize cow he was sizing up for sale at market.

“And you work here? With a degree like that?”

“I do.” She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “Sometimes, life just robs you of your choices. You don’t have to like it, but you should make the best of it. Right?”

“Or sometimes you just need to seize the chances as they come up. If they come up. I mean, you and the chances would have to be the right fit.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll have to check it out. But I’ve got a good feeling.” He nodded twice to himself and then thrust his hand over the bar counter. “I’m Paul Knight.”

Amy shook off the weird vibe, and for the sake of gas in her tank that weekend clasped his hand. “Hi, I’m Amy.”

“Amy who?”

“We’re not allowed to give our last names out. Sorry.” Simon jumped to her rescue. Not that she needed it. He stood a little too close to Amy to hit the message home.

Paul Knight opened his mouth to say something else, but the pub erupted in another loud cheer followed by even louder groan. All eyes looked to the screen on the back wall as an instant replay flashed another razor-sharp pass to Diego, who received the ball yards from the goal. A quick turn and a shot. The goalie, barely able to throw himself in front of the ball, managed to deflect it for a corner kick.

“A real chance here for Torres and the Atoms as they line up for the corner kick. That was Torres’s first legitimate shot of the game. Let’s see if he can capitalize on it now with the set piece. They should send the ball into him. Torres has a real ability to place the ball in the back of the net with his head. In fact, twenty percent of his goals come from headers,” the announcer said.

The Valley Arms occupants watched with rapt attention.

“Come on, Diego!” Fernando called out.

Amy shot him a grin and then looked to Paul Knight. As tense as anyone in the pub, he sat straight-backed on the stool. Weird. When the Atoms were on defense, he couldn’t have been less interested.

An Atoms’ defender placed the ball in the corner spot, took a step back, and sent a lovely swooping cross into the center for Torres. “That could not be placed any better.” The announcer built the moment. It was up to Torres to deliver. Everyone in the vicinity of the goal jumped as the ball sailed toward the center of the penalty box. Torres, flanked by two burly defenders, mistimed his jump, crashed into one, and fell in a heap to the ground.

The other defender easily pounded the ball away from the goal, and suddenly the other team was on the attack.

Torres jumped up, protesting the no-call by the referee. His face in a close-up was big and ugly on the screen as he shouted at the ref.

“He better be careful,” the announcer said.

The ref turned to walk away, but Torres reached out to grab his arm.

“No! No!
No!
” Knight jumped from his stool, sending his beer sloshing over the glass.

Amy whipped around to stare at him. Suddenly, the theatrics inside the pub were as exciting as the ones on the field. She didn’t know where to look. Why on earth did this man care so much?

Back on the screen, Torres tugged at the ref’s shirt as he passionately continued to make his point.

“Shit!” Knight said loudly.

“Torres is in trouble here. Even youth players know you never touch the ref.” The announcer’s tone passed judgment on Torres and his actions.

The ref had no choice. He flashed the red card in Torres’s face. The soccer player threw his arms up in disgust, yelled a few more things, and stomped off the field. He was out of the game.

The pub erupted into intense discussion, almost loud enough to drown out the announcer, who was also trying to make sense of what had just happened. “Torres is too good a player to actually think he was fouled. Something more must be going on. And so the question remains: what’s wrong with Diego Torres? This is no longer just a dry spell.”

Knight’s eyes blazed with alarm and fury as he slammed cash on the bar. Without a word to Amy or anyone else, he strode to the door almost step for step with Torres who was marching to the locker room on the big screen. Knight banged his way out of the pub just as Torres disappeared into the stadium’s tunnel.

“That was strange,” Amy said to Simon, as she retrieved the paper money from the counter.

“Why do you think he cared so much?”

“Who knows. He was creepy.” She fished a single coin out of the cash register. “And he only left a quarter tip.” She forgot about Knight almost as soon as the coin hit the tip jar.

The game continued on the big screen as the broadcaster and his colleagues discussed Torres’s meltdown. The main question being, why would a player known as the gentleman of Major League Soccer create such a scene? It interested Amy only to a point. Diego Torres’s life and her own were oceans apart, and she would never sail on his starry waters.

“Hey, roomie. Can I borrow your bike?” Amy returned her car keys to the hook by the door. The gas gauge on her beat-up Civic had been hovering on empty for days. She shouldn’t chance it.