Tackle (15 page)

R
iding
a brand-new sky blue Vespa to my boyfriend's house – could anything
be
more European?

Of course, if Alex actually was my boyfriend, not just a fuck buddy, then maybe that would be an accurate comment.

And the circumstances sure as hell didn't help.

I slowed down as I entered the neighborhood, wary of the fact that Alex likely hadn’t yet done anything about Ken and Frank. I had the helmet to protect me…but better safe than sorry. I was in luck, there wasn’t a reporter in sight. But what there was, was a hell of a lot of trucks.

As I pulled up next to Alex's villa, it looked like he was moving out. Surely, I thought, he wasn't giving up on Spain – at least, not so soon. Hell, he'd only got out of the hospital a couple of days before! My stomach sank as I wondered whether I should have gone to see him sooner. After all, he didn't have anyone other than me to visit him…

I killed the motor and rode the moped to a shuddering halt, parking it up next to the sidewalk. I grabbed the heavy metal chain from the lockbox underneath the leather seat, threaded it around a lamppost and then through the Vespa's front wheel. Alex's wasn't exactly the kind of neighborhood I expected petty thieves to be wandering around in, but nevertheless – it paid to be careful.

I stood up and took a look around. The old cobbled street was filled with badly-parked delivery trucks, the nearest of which had
Athletix
emblazoned on the side.

I walked through the heavy stone archway that held the old wooden door, which was currently propped open to help accommodate the enormous and unexpected amounts of foot traffic that seemed to be entering the lush gardens of the villa, and saw a delivery man, his arms stacked high with a tower of packages wrapped in brown paper.

"Can I give you a hand?" I asked.

He peered around the tower. "Sorry, lady, no can do – insurance."

I shrugged. "Your loss. Hey, can you tell me what's going on here? Is the owner moving out?"

He shot me a funny look. "Buying all this would be a funny way to go about leaving, lady." I smiled. He had a point.

I walked through the rose-covered arbor, this time crunching through the gravel pathway in significantly more appropriate footwear – sneakers, not heels. It was the first time I'd seen the villa's gardens by daylight, and they were, if anything, even more beautiful. Except I couldn't help but notice that there was a slightly more industrial vibe about the place now…

In the distance, deeply tanned men with tool belts around their waists scurried like ants, carrying poles of scaffolding slung over their shoulders, or pushed carts stacked high with strange materials.

I looked down at the pool and put my hand to my mouth in surprise. A scaffold structure was beginning to rise over the shimmering blue water, and long black support lines fed out of all four corners, tied to thick metal stakes hammered into the ground.

"What the hell's that?" I asked a construction worker loitering around the corner smoking a cigarette. He looked me up and down salaciously. "Hey," I said firmly, "eyes up here."

He looked into my eyes, chastened. "Hell if I know," he grunted. "I just do what I'm told."

"Okay then," I sighed, irritated more by the man's apparent lack of interest in the world around him than by his misogyny, "take your best guess."

The man shrugged. "Seriously, I've got no idea. Rehab something or other?"

"Thanks," I said ironically, "you've been a lot of help."

He took the thanks in good faith. "No problem."

I headed towards the house, quickening my pace. All of this was altogether too weird for my liking…

With the amount of workers scurrying around – at least half a dozen by my count, and those were just the ones I'd seen – I'd half expected that Alex had started the redecoration of the villa that he promised last time I visited, just for something to do while he recovered. Yet, as I looked around, I saw no signs of any building work going on – other than a loud hammering from somewhere on the bottom floor.

I followed the source of the noise, finally stumbling across piles of fallen brickwork and construction dust – evidence that something, at least, had been torn out.

"Alex!" I said, catching sight of his uncharacteristically pale face. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I rushed into the room, shocked by what I was seeing. "Seriously, stop that – you'll hurt yourself."

Alex's cheeks puffed out as he lowered the bar of the leg press machine back down to a neutral position and blood seemed to rush back into his body. "You mean – hurt myself
more
," he said blackly.

I put my body in the way of the weight machine. "Hell yeah, I mean hurt yourself more! What on earth do you think you're doing? Your leg's in plaster, for god's sake!"

His face was black with anger. "Get out of here, Di," he muttered. "I need to do this."

I didn't move. "No – you need to stop this, right now." I looked around, taking in the scene. The room was a construction site – a wall had been ripped out to make space, pieces of fitness equipment were in different stages of completion, and there was even a man lying on the floor, pretending to be in the middle of putting together a weight bench, but really staring at our quarrel with outright curiosity. I jerked my thumb at the door. "Beat it."

He scrambled to do my bidding.

"Tell me what the hell's going on here, Alex. Then I'll leave – and not a moment before." I stared at his face, even grabbed one of his hands and implored him to open up. He didn't say anything for a hot minute, but I waited, and waited, until he realized he didn't have a choice.

"You're serious," he grunted, "aren't you?"

"You got it."

"Can't seem to keep you when I want you, and can't get rid of you when I don't," Alex muttered gruffly.

"I'm here, aren't I?" I said, rebuking him.

He sank back onto the leather backrest. "Shit, I'm sorry, Di. My head's all up in the air right now – I don't know if I'm coming or going."

"That's fine," I said, squeezing his hand, "just tell me what's going on. Let me in!"

He shrugged and pointed at the massive plaster cast that encased his right leg. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"God, you're infuriating. You know exactly what I'm talking about. What's this," I said, gesturing about the room, "about? And why the hell are you on this machine now, instead of on the couch recovering?"

"The couch?" He laughed shortly. "Like that's an option."

"Isn't it?" I said uncertainly. "It's what I'd be doing…"

"You don't understand," he groaned.

"Then help me to," I begged. "Or do you want me to leave?"

Alex grabbed my hand and squeezed it with an intensity that shocked me. "No!"

"Then you know what you have to do…" I murmured.

""Fine," he sighed. "See it from my point of view. I finally get signed by a European team – one of the biggest around, then this happens."

"How long are you out for?"

"About six to eight months, judging by the scan. I think five, the doctor thinks six, before I'll even be out on the training field. Worst case, it's eight."

"Okay, okay," I said, trying to get my head around the situation, "I get all that, but what the hell are you doing here? What's that monstrosity over the swimming pool, and why the hell are you sitting here in a half-built gym, covered in sweat and plaster dust risking your other leg? What the hell did you think would happen if your good leg gave way? Are you going to use your crutches to hold that weight off?"

Alex looked at me, startled. "Whoa," he muttered, "where the hell did that come from?"

"I'm worried about you, Alex. Seriously worried. Can’t you see that?"

He squeezed my hand. "I can, I promise. I'm sorry. Here, give me a hand," he said, stretching out an arm. I helped him off the leg press machine and acted as a crutch until he got his feet sorted out. "Come on, I need a cold drink."

"You're not trying to distract me, are you?" I glared.

He chuckled. "Hell no, I wouldn't dare! I've been pumping away in there for hours, ever since they put the first couple of machines together. I kind of… lost track of time."

I fixed him with a steely stare. "Living room, now," I ordered. "I'll get us something to drink." Alex started to protest, but I quickly retorted, "How are you going to carry anything – you need those arms to crutch with."

He shot me a sulky stare, but did as he was told. I joined him a couple of minutes later with two ice cold, clinking glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.

"What are those boxes on the kitchen counter? I asked, curious.

"What boxes? Oh – those," he said, remembering. "Sorry – I've spent most of the last couple of days on Amazon. They're supplements."

I spluttered on my juice. "All of them? Christ – what are you taking?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Anything that'll help me get better quicker."

"What's the obsession?" I begged. "Your contract runs for another four years, doesn't it? You won't be out on the street anytime soon – that's for sure."

Alex sighed. "I wish it were that easy, Di. Sure, I'll clean up the next four years, but if I don't recover properly – what then? Then my career's over, and I'm a twenty-five-year-old orphan without a college degree. I'd have to start at the bottom, and I can't have that. I just can't."

"You'd hardly be starting at the bottom," I said. "What’s your contract worth – twenty million bucks?"

"Ballpark. Less Spanish taxes," he grunted.

"Still – it's huge!" I said, trying to lift his spirits.

"You don't understand," he groaned, clutching his bad leg as a jolt of pain shot through his body. I squeezed his hand, distraught that the only thing I could offer in this situation was my presence – it felt like a small comfort. "I trained for this every day for years. I didn't have friends growing up – it's hard to when all you do is try and score against them. All I did, all day, was kick a ball against a wall until it felt like a part of me – just an extension of my foot. If I'm not a soccer player, then what am I?"

"A man," I whispered, "just a man. But a smart, kind, sexy one – do you need to be more than that?"

He looked me directly in my eyes. His answer was simple. "Yes." I knew what he meant, it was the same base desire that drove me to do what I did.

"Then let's do it," I said decisively. "Let’s do it together. But you need to be smart about things. Your body needs time to recover—"

"But—" he tried to interrupt.

"No buts," I said, lifting a finger imperiously to cut him off. "Like I said – if you hurt yourself in the gym, you'll put yourself out even longer. Give your body a week to get over the worst of the pain, then kick on."

"Di," he hissed, "you don’t understand – I can’t."

"Why?" I asked. I was genuinely curious – I wanted to understand what Alex
thought
his reasons were – not just what he said, but the emotions that lay behind his words. After all, he hadn’t reached the highest echelons of world soccer by succumbing to passing flights of emotion. No – there was clearly something deeper at play. I had my suspicions, but I was determined to find out for sure.

The pain behind his eyes was as palpable as the glowing ember of worry burning a hole in his chest. He moaned helplessly. "You wouldn’t understand…"

"Try me," I said firmly. If I was right, then I sure as hell would!

He fixed me with a worried stare, as though worried that revealing the source of his pain would somehow impugn his masculinity. Thankfully, he relented. "This is everything I’ve ever worked for. Every day when I was in care – this is what I dreamed of, what I worked towards…"

"I know," I whispered, to keep him talking.

"So, what if this is it?" Alex hissed. "What if I never play again?"

"You’ll play," I said encouragingly. He cut me off.

"On the big stage," he said dismissively. "I don’t care about just participating. I want to be the best."

"I know," I insisted. "You think this is easy for me? I had to look over my shoulder to even get here! I’m risking as much as you, Alex."

"No, you’re not."

I wanted to slap him.

I wanted to slap him. "What the hell do you mean by that? Are you trying to say that my job is somehow less important than yours?"

"Kicking a soccer ball around a field?" He laughed in spite of himself, and in spite of his misery, "get real."

"Then what!" I cried in frustration.

"Oh, nothing," he smirked, "it's just I don't think you'll be hearing from those reporters that were bothering you again. Not for a while, anyway…"

I looked at him, gobsmacked. "What did you do?"

"Nothing much," he beamed with a pride that made his words a lie, "except have them sent to Madrid, that is…"

I grasped his arm with shock. "You what?"

"Madrid," he repeated. "That's far enough away, isn't it?"

I choked with surprise. "Far enough… Are you kidding! How?"

"Oh, a guy's got to have some secrets, doesn't he?"

I fixed Alex with a glare, fully aware that as much as I wanted to find out, I was equally happy with the fact that for at least a few moments, his mind was off his future. That was almost enough for me. Almost…

"Oh, okay," he laughed, "I'll tell you."

"You better." I muttered.

"You remember Roberto?" He asked.

"Your press officer?" I replied. "What about him?"

"The club's press officer," Alex corrected me, "although sometimes I guess he probably feels he has to give me a personal service. But yeah, him. Turns out he's got quite a lot of sway when it comes to stuff like that. He simply rang up their papers and told them they wouldn't get access anymore if those guys were around. Madrid's the only place they
could
go, really. It's the only place with another really big club…"

I leapt towards Alex, holding myself back at the last second to make sure not to hurt him, and enveloped him with a hug. "Thank you!"

"No problem," he sighed. But as he did so, I got a sense of the worry that still pervaded his every thought. And worse, he had just cleared the blockage standing in the way of
my
career, but there was little to nothing I could do to help his…