Читать книгу One to Love - Michelle Monkou - Страница 9

Chapter 1

“One more, Jesse. Come on. Concentrate!”

Jesse gritted his teeth, grabbed the handgrips and grunted out five more leg presses. After the last push, he swore into the exhalation. Pain from no single source exploded throughout his legs. His back ached, as if wanting in on the torture. He stayed put in the chair until he trusted his legs to hold him upright. Sweat bathed his face and body like a second skin. With the sweep of his arm, he wiped his face dry. It didn’t really help when his skin sprouted another layer of perspiration.

“Good. You did good.” Olivier, his trainer, clapped his shoulder.

Jesse nodded. He kept his doubt to himself. Recovering from a cracked pelvis and lower back injury felt like scaling a sheer rock face with his legs tied. The last thing he wanted this morning was a chipper lecture about his future. Finally, he stood and extricated himself from the machine. A groan of bitter frustration escaped. “Thanks for coming to my side of the world.”

“Yeah, well, three days with you are more than enough. I’ll be heading back to Madrid tomorrow. Scouts are presenting their reports to management. Otherwise, I’d stick around to make your life miserable. Make sure you’re keeping up with your strength exercises.”

Jesse nodded. “Don’t worry. They work me hard here. Not quite at your kick-butt level, but they don’t mind seeing me walking, instead of crawling, out of the gym.” He hated to see his friend leave. It was good to see a familiar face, even if Olivier didn’t let up one inch on the workout.

“I’m hoping that you’d changed your mind.” The older man didn’t bother to look up from his task. He sprayed the length of the seat and handgrips with antibacterial cleanser and wiped off the surfaces.

“You and everyone else.” Jesse shook his head. “Can’t deal with any pressure right now.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It’s not a debate.”

“You’re right.” Olivier held up his hands in surrender. His tone softened. “Take your time. Then come back better than new.”

Jesse didn’t respond. The last time he opened his mouth about his future, he’d announced his retirement from professional soccer at twenty-nine years old. Walking away from the game had sent an earthquake-size ripple through the league. The frenzied media still stirred like rabid dogs at any possibility of his comeback, although he had barely six months of physical therapy under his belt. On everyone’s breath was his place on next year’s World Cup team.

“We all care about you.”

Jesse shrugged, which was his favorite gesture to get anyone off his back.

Olivier motioned toward the exercise mat. Time for the dreaded stretches. Another fifteen minutes of agony. “Ease into it.” His trainer gently coaxed Jesse to hold the position until his stubborn muscles improved their range of motion.

If the pain and stiffness could be colors, the torture would be dark bloodred and stark winter white. That’s what he saw with his eyes squeezed shut, jaws clenched, while he was concentrating on not shouting out in pain.

Screaming or cussing, either option didn’t matter. Both had their place in his recovery. Bad luck had screwed him royally with a freak collision by a defender as he gunned it to the goal. For his trouble, the human bulldozer scooped him up, carried him for several feet and dumped him facedown with a crushing cleat imprint on his hip for good measure.

Most didn’t have to experience a body-numbing injury. Its suddenness felt like the quick snap of a light switch. Nor did most have to deal with panic that rushed through the body with the power of a flash flood. In its wake were thick layers of fear—could he walk? Could he finish the game? When his gaze had slid away from the concerned faces, and their voices had faded, he stared upward at the sky in all its brightness with one pressing thought—his career was over.

After the surgery, his fears continued to press on him, but they were his to keep, deal with and to hide from prying minds of the analysts, his agent, the team and those behind the moneymaking decisions. It was better for him to toss out retirement as an option before they tossed him aside in a trade or to a lower division, for not meeting expectations of his contract. Although his body shifted into high gear with its healing, Jesse still didn’t retract comments about his retirement. Something held him back.

“Have you been following up with the doctors?” Olivier turned attention to the other side of Jesse’s body.

“They recommend another round of surgery, depending on how well I complete the physical,” Jesse shared.

“You’re sounding doubtful, son.”

Jesse shrugged. “All the tinkering is not going to put me back together again.”

“You don’t know that. Leave it to the experts.”

“That’s just the thing. I’m tired of the experts.”

“You’ll be one hundred percent. With the physical rehab, you’ll be the powerhouse that you are.”

“Were.”

Olivier’s frown ascended his face and settled in the narrow space between his thick eyebrows. “Cut the pity party, Jesse. You were known as a raging bull on that field. Players saw you coming and hoped they’d live to see another day. You can maneuver a path to the goal with the precision of a shark. It’s what you were born to do.”

“Now you sound like my father.” Jesse pushed Olivier’s hand away from his sore hip. Not that he was in extreme pain, but the site of his shattered bones was his personal demon that haunted him. He could barely look at the long scars, much less touch them.

“Talk to someone. Get the anger out. It’s easy for your thoughts to be scrambled. That was a major shake-up.”

“So now you want me to talk to a shrink. I know what I want...”

“To quit? Walk away? I’m not accepting your retirement. No one is, actually.” Olivier stood over him, open frustration evident in his thin lips clenched together. “You have enough time to get ready for the World Cup.”

“World Cup?” Jesse snorted. If this was any other moment, he would spring to his feet and walk away. “I’m done. I’m not having second thoughts. And now with soccer out of my life, I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

“You have money, trophies. Fans adore you. Women want to...”

“Enough.” Jesse wanted no reminders about his carefree, have-it-all mentality. Only supermodels and hot, sexy A-list actresses interested him. Used to. They never lasted long enough as his girlfriend to cause drama. His blunt attitude nipped that in the bud, but did little to shake off the determined ones.

Flashbacks of his behavior sickened him. A lot of things sickened him. Anger and sadness rotated their position in his head and heart. Recuperating for weeks in a body cast had drawn back the blinds and let the brutal reality shine in because, straight up, no one—sportscasters, any talking head expert on the sport, and fantasy-soccer aficionados—gave a damn about him now.

“You’re down, but temporarily. I get how frustrating it all feels. I’ve been working with athletes for twenty years. Trust me. This will pass.” Olivier lowered his hand to help him. The thick, bushy eyebrows twitched over his eyes, which regarded his client piercingly.

Jesse wanted to slap away the hand. He didn’t want any help. Or pity. Or comfort. He wanted to be alone without his usual flashy trappings. But even that, he couldn’t do. With nowhere else to retreat, he’d stepped back in time with his return to his hometown. At the end of the day, all he had was family. His parents were willing to offer him more than a helping hand, while he rehabilitated. They offered sanctuary until the speculation about his injury died down a bit. The supportive shoulder wasn’t quite his brother’s—Diego’s—style. Well, Mr. Ivy League could get in line with those who gloated over soccer’s “show pony” hitting rock bottom—a six-month tumultuous downward slide.

“Are we good?”

“Yeah.” Jesse swallowed his pride and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He couldn’t be angry with Olivier. The man had become more like a substitute father and mentor when Jesse first crossed the hallowed ground of soccer by becoming a professional player with the youth soccer academy at seventeen years old.

They shook hands and parted ways in the parking lot. Olivier would return to the management of the Spanish team with no headway to report. And Jesse would get in his car to head home and soak his overworked body in the tub. Nursing a bottle of beer, he could tune out nagging doubts about his future.

Hours later, instead of grabbing another drink, Jesse tossed back two pain relievers and gulped down a glass of water. Sleep eluded him. And he was in no mood to chase after it. Rather than head for his bed, he walked out onto the deck of his houseboat and flopped into his favorite lounge chair.

The early spring season had just enough of a warm edge for him to enjoy being on the deck. Without the harsh lights from street lamps, the brilliance of the stars stood out against the inky dark sky. Stargazing was the perfect cure for his restless thoughts. Out here, he didn’t have to worry about annoying reporters. The marina had solid security and so far the sports journalists didn’t know about his temporary residence. Unfortunately, they tended to stake their reporting platforms near his parents’ home.

His cell phone rang. Probably his mother or father. He answered for the usual nightly check-in.

“Where were you tonight?” This wasn’t his mom or dad.

“Diego?” Jesse didn’t expect to hear his younger brother’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

“We were expecting you for dinner. Mom and Dad had the Tompkins family over to meet you.”

Jesse swore. He’d forgotten. After the workout and the conversation with Olivier, quiet and solitude were all he craved for the remainder of the day. His parents had set up a steady stream of brunches and dinners with him trotting, or rather limping, in to meet church members, coworkers and his mother’s crochet—or was it cross-stitch?—group. After these past several weeks of smiling, signing autographs and posing for photos, he’d come to dread the invitations. Instead of saying anything, he’d come up with excuses not to attend, arrive super late or be stoic and unresponsive to occasional flirtations. But this was the first time that he’d completely wiped it from his mind.

“And they brought their kids.”

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t know kids were coming.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Diego pushed.

“I’ll make my apologies to Mom. Is she around?” Jesse didn’t want to get into anything with his brother. Not tonight. They could fight tomorrow or the day after when there was no threat of them running out of things to irritate each other.

Apparently, Diego didn’t want to let up. “This was a waste of my time, too.”

“I didn’t ask you to attend. Never did.” Jesse rubbed the length of his thigh. His mood turned sour.

“No, you didn’t ask, but still I came. Mom expected us to be there.”

“And you’re not one to disappoint.” Jesse stared out into the night.

No longer focused on the stars, he looked out at the lakeside houses’ lights dotting either shore. His temper brewed. Friction that had been in the making for most of their lives bubbled like a volcano. Their disagreements waxed and waned, depending on their parents’ involvement to push a peace process. While his busy soccer schedule and obligations once provided a safe zone, lately signs warned that the turbulence was on the rise, a change that he’d noticed when he returned home for his indefinite stay.

Jesse continued, “Tell Mom that I’ll call her in the morning.” No matter how much he’d rather not have to meet his parents’ friends, he never wanted to disappoint kids if he could help it. They mattered, especially with their unconditional loyalty and support. He had hundreds of letters since his injury to prove his point.

Tomorrow, he’d be on it. If he had to go to the Tompkins’ home and take the kids for an ice cream treat, he’d make the experience fun with selfies and autographs.

But Diego didn’t let up. “Sure thing. There’s always an event or woman that is more important. Let me remind you that the false love and adoration won’t last. Because, then what happens now that the soccer god is shown to be human?”

Jesse didn’t reply. He didn’t have to respond since Diego abruptly ended the call. His brother’s challenge had echoes of truth, though.

His thigh throbbed—a final punishment for the night. He leaned back his head and closed his eyes to will away the ache.

Anger was all he mustered up for himself. Disappointment was all he seemed to stir from others. So why on earth had he felt compelled to come back to the city of Midway, New York?

Three months later

Belinda Toussaint had barely nestled her butt onto her office chair for the morning when Tawny, her assistant, hovered in the doorway. At least she came with a proffered mug of coffee. Steam curled enticingly upward from the hot elixir. The robust scent magically jolted her brain awake.

“I’ve got good news.” Tawny held her position in the doorway, only extending the hand that held the coffee, a gift from the gods. “And I’ve got bad news.”

Was the mug with the words Professional Badass supposed to energize her for the good news? Or stroke her ego for the bad news?

Belinda beckoned Tawny to come closer. She relieved her assistant of the offering. “Thanks.” She took a careful sip, letting it wash over her tongue, before closing her eyes with a grateful sigh. “Okay, what now? Lay down the yucky stuff. This Wednesday is starting on the wrong side of my emotions.”

“Mail already arrived.” Tawny raised the cluster of envelopes clutched in her other hand. Today, the fingernails were painted bright periwinkle blue. Her burgundy-dyed hair was styled in spiral curls. Bright eyes blinked out at her behind black-framed glasses.

What Belinda noted more, however, was that Tawny didn’t hand over any of the mail. “Are those bills?”

Tawny shook her head. “It’s worse.” She scrunched her nose.

“Worse than having to pay out money?” As far as Belinda was concerned, things couldn’t get much worse than starting a new business, specifically a nonprofit.

Mentally, she ticked off what she could tout as a new owner. One employee—Tawny. No real clients to speak of...yet. In this one-room converted barn-turned-office, they shared the work space and had carved out a storage area. Belinda framed her office with thin drywall and equipped it with a salvaged door that was more for aesthetics than for privacy. Other than her desk and two chairs, a single column of file drawers that hopefully soon would contain a large number of clients’ information filled a corner in her office. A small clay pot with a thriving ivy plant draped the top.

“Got a response about my complaint.” Tawny’s mouth pursed. “The secondhand store where we bought these so-called antiques won’t give us back our money. Stuff wasn’t even fit for a yard sale.”

“At least we were able to decorate the welcome room. And part of the donation went to a good cause.” Belinda wasn’t surprised. The hodgepodge furniture selection was from one of the large thrift stores in the city.

“Please. You need to check to see if the soup kitchen did get any of that money. Those people saw an easygoing, prone-to-guilt woman. And they got paid. Next time, don’t buy anything based on online pictures.”

Belinda waved off Tawny’s constant dig that, when it came to her business, she should stop giving her heart and soul. That she needed to toughen up. It was funny how the advice sounded similar to what she’d said to Dana, her youngest cousin, who now ran the family media empire.

Tawny cleared her throat. “Not done.”

“Okay, bring on the bad news. In an hour, we have a prospective client coming in to see the facility and get more information. I want to make sure that she’s blown away with the work in progress. More important that she’s willing to sign up.”

“Once we start, those good reviews will roll in, and we’ll be busier than you could’ve ever imagined.” Tawny flopped into the only chair. She pulled out the letter and unfolded it. “From the Brandywine Gazette, ‘Dear Mrs. Belinda Toussaint—’”

“Good grief. I’m not married. I’m thirty and single. They’re giving me bad news and don’t give a damn to address me correctly.”

“‘We have enjoyed being a part of building the Dreamweaver Riding Program. Your dedication to assisting young people to overcome challenges with equine-assisted therapy solutions is admirable. We treasure this opportunity beyond measure.’”

“Get on with it,” Belinda prompted. Her fingers on one hand restlessly chipped away the ragged polish on her other hand.

“‘Due to budgetary constraints, we are unable to continue to be part of the sponsorship program. We look forward to working with you in the future. Good luck with your endeavors.’”

“You could’ve paraphrased all of that into we’re screwed.” Belinda leaned back in her chair and swiveled around to face the wall that held her vision board for the riding program.

Her ideas, from small thoughts to grand dreams, covered the wall in the form of pinned drawings and pictures. In a separate space, a timeline displayed the renovations for the stable and riding ring and arrival dates of three additional horses, along with the training and rehabilitation equipment. In big, bold letters, the launch date mocked her goal to have a facility to open in three months.

This massive undertaking hadn’t been a smooth one. Many times, she’d had to adjust the timeline. Once she’d suffered a major meltdown and wanted to quit. Her cousins Fiona and Dana had rallied around her until her fears had retreated, somewhat. Their push was enough to get her mind back firmly on the goal.

At the start, this riding-therapy program would cater to children and teens experiencing physical, cognitive and even emotional stresses and disabilities. Success rested with using the right-tempered horses in the program. The animals had been documented to successfully help with patients’ physical and emotional challenges. Moreover, the beasts’ gentle natures coaxed children to emerge from behind their shells of shyness or low self-esteem, to learn to trust in their own abilities and to show them, through caring for the horses, how to develop connections outside of their comfort zones, with others. Eventually, her program would expand its services to include adults, especially war veterans, a need that she’d realized recently after completing research.

Right now, she had a small number of clients who used her horses for their once-a-week or weekend rides. However, regardless of her best intentions, it took money to run the operation. Where insurance or income couldn’t pay the fee, she expected donations would fill the gap. Starting at the beginning of this year, under the Dreamweaver logo, she’d held a small number of fund-raisers, strategic PR advertising and networking events that had netted a handful of donors and their financial pledges. Of course, there was more money in the flashier charities. Donors with the deep pockets preferred the major publicity that came as a result of their newsworthy gifts. All she could offer was a sincere thank-you, a glowing write-up in the local newspaper that no longer would be a donor, and a heavy piece of crystal with their name etched for all posterity to see.

She turned back to her desk, reached for the chewable antacids and waited for them to take effect.

“Don’t worry, Belinda. It will happen. What you’re doing is a really good thing.”

“Yeah, but sometimes good isn’t good enough.” The current operations cost a fortune. Her plans to expand would take her expenses over the edge. Chasing donations wasn’t her shtick. Tawny was a good organizer and cheerleader, but she hadn’t shown any prowess for prying dollars out of prospective donors, either. And that wasn’t why she had been hired. Dana had helped provide part-time volunteers for fund-raising, but it was time to have a full-time person on staff solely dedicated to fund-raising. An added expense to the profit and loss statement. She sighed.

Tawny held up her hand. “More news.”

“We’re still on the bad stuff, right?”

Her assistant nodded. “But not as bad. It’s a tweak and could work out to be better. I think—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, get on with it.” Belinda rubbed her forehead and waited for the next drop of the hammer.

“Ed Santiago, your contractor, called a few minutes ago. Actually, his wife. Ed is on bed rest. Angina.”

“Oh, no. Should he be home? He shouldn’t mess around with heart issues.”

“He’s got to follow up with his doctor. For now, he’s home and they’ve adjusted his pressure meds.”

“I’m glad that it wasn’t worse.” Belinda didn’t want to think of the dire possibilities.

“Not to worry, though. He’s sending his son Jesse to finish managing the renovations.”

Belinda waved off the additional news. “I’m going to send him flowers.”

Tawny nodded. “I pulled up a couple arrangements on my computer. Pick the one you like and I’ll have the order there by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Belinda hated to hear about the nosedive Ed’s health had taken. The man wasn’t exactly at the youthful end of the age spectrum, but he was active and a conscientious worker. She couldn’t help but feel uneasy with his unexpected absence. Well, she felt more guilt than unease because the clock on the project ticked loudly.

“Jesse will be arriving soon to meet you and go over the remainder of the schedule.”

“I don’t want this...Jesse. I’ve never met him. There’s no way that he can replace Ed’s expertise. There’s no time for someone new to come in and putz around.”

“This isn’t just a regular person. It’s Jesse Santiago.”

Belinda shrugged and shook her head. “And?”

“Football star.”

“I don’t need a quarterback here.”

“No. I mean soccer. He’s a soccer superstar, really.”

“Calm down with the giddy smile. We don’t need a sports jock.” Belinda’s fingers had managed to clear the red nail polish completely off two fingernails.

Tawny rolled her eyes. “That term is so ’80s. Because I’ve heard of Jesse and his mad skills, I did research.” She placed a one-page printout on the desk that had a small photo image in the right corner of the page. With her blue-painted nail, she slid a finger over the information.

“A résumé?” Belinda didn’t bother picking up the paper. She really wasn’t interested in whatever the internet had captured, unless he had a mug shot or arrest record. Tawny’s nail-tapping for her attention finally motivated her to act interested. She picked up the page and scanned the details.

Jesse Santiago was a former professional soccer player for Madrid’s El Sol team. All the teams he’d played for, wins, athletic accolades, modeling contracts and other endorsements took up most of the page. Being independently wealthy at twenty-nine years old, he had accomplished a lot in his short life. But though everything in his current and future life appeared to be looking rosy, he’d walked away from his career. Who does that? That tidbit of mystery was added to the list of why Jesse wouldn’t be a suitable substitute for his father.

“This doesn’t change my mind. Nothing on this page makes me believe he can finish the job.” Irritation tightened Belinda’s shoulders, heightening her tension. “This is too much of a big deal and an important part of the rollout to rely on the unknown, even if it’s Ed’s wish to send his soccer-playing son as a replacement. And did you really read this? Why is he home anyway?” Belinda pushed the paper back to Tawny. “He worked on a few charities. In addition to being a real pro with the soccer ball, he had set a few records with female groupies and celebrities. I’m surprised he had energy to play the game.” A man with the sexual stamina of a bull wasn’t in her list of requirements. Not even if he had the lean, angular pretty-boy face that could melt away her inhibitions. And what was up with the sensual cast of his lips? Was that a pout, or the natural plump and curve of his mouth? Who knew soccer players were so hot? “This is so not the right man for this job. I need a man with real skills, not a professional panty chaser.”

“You are harsh.” Tawny laughed hard. Even Belinda’s dark, scolding gaze didn’t subdue her assistant’s amusement. “Based on that photo, he might have just cause to earn that label, though.” Tawny pretended to kiss the photo. “Should’ve seen the pics of him without his shirt. In one magazine spread, he only held a towel in place between his legs. Hello!”

“I didn’t pay attention to the picture.” Liar. “And I don’t plan to waste time drooling at a computer screen.” Maybe later. It still wouldn’t change her mind about what she thought of his skills. “He could have one eye in the middle of his forehead, for all I care. I need someone to make that happen on time.” She pointed at the wall, where various parts of the project still had to be completed. “I need a project manager on-site, someone who can get his team moving and roll up his sleeves, when and if necessary. This is all I care about.”

“Ed won’t have led you wrong. I’m not the only one who believes in you and what you’re doing. You will have a place that is special and a haven for a lot of kids and teenagers. I’m crazy confident that you will.”

Belinda heard Tawny’s loyalty in her voice. As the project passed each milestone, that enthusiasm and co-ownership of the dream were more than welcomed. She needed to stop calling it a dream. The goal was on the verge of reality. The final stage. She felt through every cell of her body duty-bound to protect her project. As the bad news tumbled out, one item after the other, not even Jesse Santiago’s unplanned substitution could put an exclamation point on the sucky morning. By September, Labor Day, the facility would be, should be, opening its full-service programs.

Belinda continued voicing her reservations. “You do realize this write-up of Mr. Sexpot doesn’t explain why he’s here in upstate New York and why he’s now working on his daddy’s business.”

Tawny shrugged. “He suffered a brutal injury while playing. Now it’s too late to do any further digging on the matter. He’ll be here soon.”

“Okay, Grim Reaper. You said good news. It better be darn good.”

“Now I’m feeling pressure to appease your grumpiness,” Tawny groused, before a wide grin spread across her face.

“Spill. I’m going to need a mimosa instead of this coffee in a hot second.” Reluctantly Belinda felt drawn to Tawny’s suddenly upbeat attitude.

“Miss Grace is coming over.”

“When?” Her smile fumbled and disappeared. Her grandmother didn’t do visits.

“This morning.”

“And you’re only telling me now.” Belinda fixed her clothes, leveling a glare at Tawny.

Tawny waved away her protests. “She needs to talk to you.”

“I don’t have time for my grandmother.”

“You never do. If you don’t call her by nine o’clock...” Tawny looked at her watch. “Yikes. It’s nine thirty. Anyway, if you don’t call, then you don’t get to find out what she wants before she visits.”

“Not today. Not in the mood for my grandmother and her commands. And you can stop acting as if you’re the president of her fan club.”

Tawny remained silent. Wisely.

“Any other news?” Belinda hated to ask.

“I bought a box of donuts.”

“That you didn’t bring with the coffee.” Belinda patted her belly. “Anyway, after that double helping of Chinese food last night, I’m on a diet, at least for the day. Let me get to work since my office will have folks in and out all morning. Only one of them, hopefully my new client, is someone I really want to talk to.”

As Tawny left her office and disappeared from view, Belinda yelled, “I’ll take one instead of two donuts, please.”

“More coffee, too?” Tawny shouted back.

“Yeah. Bring it on.” Belinda shifted her mind to pressing matters. She turned on her computer and waited for it to power up. After a series of keystrokes, she pulled up the list of remaining donors. One donor leaving did hurt. Two would cause her to make harsh cuts before the operation manager could start. Contracts with the therapists would be terminated. Training of the horses would be curtailed. And the loss of three donors would cripple her in a matter of months. Who was she kidding? The downfall would happen within weeks. The Dreamweaver Riding Program, her heart and soul, could not be an epic fail. It was the only way she knew how to say sorry.