The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
Page 6
“Do you know how many hours a day I spent at home while I was running Taste of Ireland? Maybe six and most of that was to sleep. In fact, I often slept in my office.” She toyed with a slice of papaya. “If I’d had children, they’d never have seen me. I wouldn’t do that to a kid.”
“You’d have a husband.”
“And he wouldn’t have seen me either.” All the familiar frustration vibrated through her. “You can’t have it all. You have to make choices in life, especially if you’re a woman.”
He had the grace to look sympathetic. “I don’t deny it. But if anyone could have managed both work and family, it’s you.”
“Don’t be a bloody gobdaw,” Frankie said, weariness blunting any edge in her insult. “I had to work twice as hard as any man, just because I don’t have a Y chromosome.”
He held up his hand in surrender. “It’s a man’s world. God knows I work in a sea of testosterone.”
“I’d rather not fight with an old friend. Let’s talk about your team,” Frankie said, tamping down her anger. “You’ve got a solid midfielder in Graham Bradley.”
Liam hesitated a moment, as though he was going to argue with her change of topic. But then he gave a half-shrug. “Graham certainly thinks so. I’m more interested in Kyle Hyndman. He’s going to be a standout with the right coaching.”
“So it’s your coaching that will be making him great, is it?”
Liam raised his eyebrows. “Everyone knows it’s the coach who turns a team into champions.”
She snorted. “You told me it was the center midfielder who won championships.”
“And it was…when I was the center midfielder.”
Frankie relaxed. As long as she didn’t touch him, she could settle into their old, easy dynamic, and let the physical pull of him recede to just a simmer in her veins. It felt good to spar with him, to hear the lilt of their home in his voice, and even to let the Irish filter into her own. She hadn’t called anyone a gobdaw in years.
After she’d complimented the chef on the clever chocolate soccer balls filled with spice-infused chocolate mousse, Liam brought out her coat. “Let’s step into the outside box and get some fresh air.”
He held open the glass door leading to the rows of cushioned outdoor seats that looked out on the silent, snow-covered baseball field. She could see the outline of the diamond under the coating of white. She drew in a lungful of crisp, winter air and blew it out in a cloud of vapor.
Liam stood with his hands shoved deep into his overcoat pockets, his gaze on the huge expanse of the empty arena. “I’m going to make the New York Challenge so exciting to watch that we’ll fill every one of those 50,000 seats by the end of the season.”
“You’re playing the wrong kind of football to do that in the U.S.,” Frankie said. “If you sell 30,000 tickets you’ll be doing well.”
He shook his head. “New York loves winners, and I promise you we’re going to make the playoffs.”
This was a Liam she hadn’t seen before. A man forged and tested in the fiery competition of the top tier of professional sports. His confidence was born of being a champion many times over.
Suddenly, she felt a shift in their relationship. He was her equal now. And that was a dangerous thing.
Liam held the limousine door for Frankie while he inwardly cursed himself. He’d screwed up somehow. He’d felt Frankie soften through dinner, but then he’d taken her outside to impress her with his new kingdom, and all the walls had come back up again. He should have realized that fancy locations wouldn’t win her over. After all, she was so rich that she had access to almost any venue she wanted. The chocolate dessert had been a point for him, though. And the candle. He hadn’t seen Frankie cry more than twice in the years he’d known her.
As he slid onto the back seat beside her, he sifted through other options. Frankie was the one who’d told him that there were many paths to the goal, and he needed to have his eye on the whole field to see them all. He’d put her advice to work in becoming the best center midfielder in the premier league. But he’d known even then that she was talking about more than just soccer.
The limo had gone about three blocks before he formulated a new approach.
“You’ve gone quiet. Planning your strategy for filling all those seats?” Frankie asked with a smile.
“No,” he said. She had moved into the corner of the limo, half-turning so she could look directly at him. He hated every inch of the space between them. “I’m planning our day out tomorrow.”
She raised her finely arched eyebrows at him. “I have a club to run.”
“It’s Sunday, the day of rest.”
“Ha! When you’re in the hospitality business, there is no rest.”
Donal had told him that Sundays were quiet at the Bellwether Club. Most of the high achievers who frequented it did so during the business week. “Surely, you trust your staff to handle things for a few hours.” His tone was a deliberate challenge.
“Why tomorrow?” she asked with her usual brutal directness.
Because it was her voice he had heard encouraging him when the coach reamed him out and he wanted to quit the academy. It was her face he saw when his aching body kept him awake after a long, miserable practice or a dirty, hard-fought game. And nowadays, it was her toughness he channeled when coaching a prima donna of a player who forgot there was no “I” in “team”. Sometimes he would close his eyes and imagine he could even feel the way her body had fit against him their last day together. The time she’d kissed him with a desperate longing that had matched his.
“Because I’m new here, and I want some company to go exploring with,” he said. “Who better than my oldest mate?”
“I’m sure you could round up plenty of company,” she said, her tone dry. Then her face softened and she rested her hand on his forearm. “It’s so good to see you again, Liam.”
“I’m going to be staying here in the city.” He didn’t like that she looked at him as though he were a ghost or a memory, not a living, breathing man. “So I expect to see you often.”
She just shook her head and started to pull her hand away. He covered it, holding it in place, savoring the feel of her delicate bones against his palm. “It’s the Christmas season, Frankie. I want to spend it with someone who’s like family to me.”
“You’d have a husband.”
“And he wouldn’t have seen me either.” All the familiar frustration vibrated through her. “You can’t have it all. You have to make choices in life, especially if you’re a woman.”
He had the grace to look sympathetic. “I don’t deny it. But if anyone could have managed both work and family, it’s you.”
“Don’t be a bloody gobdaw,” Frankie said, weariness blunting any edge in her insult. “I had to work twice as hard as any man, just because I don’t have a Y chromosome.”
He held up his hand in surrender. “It’s a man’s world. God knows I work in a sea of testosterone.”
“I’d rather not fight with an old friend. Let’s talk about your team,” Frankie said, tamping down her anger. “You’ve got a solid midfielder in Graham Bradley.”
Liam hesitated a moment, as though he was going to argue with her change of topic. But then he gave a half-shrug. “Graham certainly thinks so. I’m more interested in Kyle Hyndman. He’s going to be a standout with the right coaching.”
“So it’s your coaching that will be making him great, is it?”
Liam raised his eyebrows. “Everyone knows it’s the coach who turns a team into champions.”
She snorted. “You told me it was the center midfielder who won championships.”
“And it was…when I was the center midfielder.”
Frankie relaxed. As long as she didn’t touch him, she could settle into their old, easy dynamic, and let the physical pull of him recede to just a simmer in her veins. It felt good to spar with him, to hear the lilt of their home in his voice, and even to let the Irish filter into her own. She hadn’t called anyone a gobdaw in years.
After she’d complimented the chef on the clever chocolate soccer balls filled with spice-infused chocolate mousse, Liam brought out her coat. “Let’s step into the outside box and get some fresh air.”
He held open the glass door leading to the rows of cushioned outdoor seats that looked out on the silent, snow-covered baseball field. She could see the outline of the diamond under the coating of white. She drew in a lungful of crisp, winter air and blew it out in a cloud of vapor.
Liam stood with his hands shoved deep into his overcoat pockets, his gaze on the huge expanse of the empty arena. “I’m going to make the New York Challenge so exciting to watch that we’ll fill every one of those 50,000 seats by the end of the season.”
“You’re playing the wrong kind of football to do that in the U.S.,” Frankie said. “If you sell 30,000 tickets you’ll be doing well.”
He shook his head. “New York loves winners, and I promise you we’re going to make the playoffs.”
This was a Liam she hadn’t seen before. A man forged and tested in the fiery competition of the top tier of professional sports. His confidence was born of being a champion many times over.
Suddenly, she felt a shift in their relationship. He was her equal now. And that was a dangerous thing.
Liam held the limousine door for Frankie while he inwardly cursed himself. He’d screwed up somehow. He’d felt Frankie soften through dinner, but then he’d taken her outside to impress her with his new kingdom, and all the walls had come back up again. He should have realized that fancy locations wouldn’t win her over. After all, she was so rich that she had access to almost any venue she wanted. The chocolate dessert had been a point for him, though. And the candle. He hadn’t seen Frankie cry more than twice in the years he’d known her.
As he slid onto the back seat beside her, he sifted through other options. Frankie was the one who’d told him that there were many paths to the goal, and he needed to have his eye on the whole field to see them all. He’d put her advice to work in becoming the best center midfielder in the premier league. But he’d known even then that she was talking about more than just soccer.
The limo had gone about three blocks before he formulated a new approach.
“You’ve gone quiet. Planning your strategy for filling all those seats?” Frankie asked with a smile.
“No,” he said. She had moved into the corner of the limo, half-turning so she could look directly at him. He hated every inch of the space between them. “I’m planning our day out tomorrow.”
She raised her finely arched eyebrows at him. “I have a club to run.”
“It’s Sunday, the day of rest.”
“Ha! When you’re in the hospitality business, there is no rest.”
Donal had told him that Sundays were quiet at the Bellwether Club. Most of the high achievers who frequented it did so during the business week. “Surely, you trust your staff to handle things for a few hours.” His tone was a deliberate challenge.
“Why tomorrow?” she asked with her usual brutal directness.
Because it was her voice he had heard encouraging him when the coach reamed him out and he wanted to quit the academy. It was her face he saw when his aching body kept him awake after a long, miserable practice or a dirty, hard-fought game. And nowadays, it was her toughness he channeled when coaching a prima donna of a player who forgot there was no “I” in “team”. Sometimes he would close his eyes and imagine he could even feel the way her body had fit against him their last day together. The time she’d kissed him with a desperate longing that had matched his.
“Because I’m new here, and I want some company to go exploring with,” he said. “Who better than my oldest mate?”
“I’m sure you could round up plenty of company,” she said, her tone dry. Then her face softened and she rested her hand on his forearm. “It’s so good to see you again, Liam.”
“I’m going to be staying here in the city.” He didn’t like that she looked at him as though he were a ghost or a memory, not a living, breathing man. “So I expect to see you often.”
She just shook her head and started to pull her hand away. He covered it, holding it in place, savoring the feel of her delicate bones against his palm. “It’s the Christmas season, Frankie. I want to spend it with someone who’s like family to me.”
