Tackle (16 page)

I took a different angle, hitting the heart of the matter head on. "Do you know why my surname is Lopez?"

Alex faltered. "What?"

I repeated myself. "My name. I'm a bit pale to have a surname like that, aren't I?"

He shot me a curious look. "I guess so," he said. "I'd never thought about it."

"We'll believe me," I said, "I have. Every day, growing up. You want to know why?"

He nodded.

"I can tell you one thing – it's not because my mom took another man's name. I never knew my parents," I confessed. "My bio parents, I mean," I said, correcting myself.

"You said you were in foster care," he murmured, "I didn’t realize it was because you’d lost your parents, too."

I grinned, doing my best to break the tension. "I don't exactly go around telling people. Believe me, Alex – I know what it's like to not know who you are or where you're from."

"You don't—"

"I do," I said firmly. "Sure, I grew up in a happy family, and you didn't. But we lived hand to mouth most of the time, too. So, believe me – I know what it's like to grow up scrapping for every meal."

"I guess," he said, not looking entirely convinced.

"You had a harder life than me, Alex," I said truthfully, "but I think I know why this injury has hit you so hard."

"Yeah?" he said, noncommittally.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I get it. You didn't have much else going on, so you made soccer the thing to get you out of bed in the morning. You made it your goal, hung your view of yourself on it, because you didn't know what else to do – who else you were. I get it."

"Do you?" Alex said dubiously.

I nodded. "I do, seriously. I did it too. Not the same way – but you ever wonder how I'm fronting a news show from abroad at my age?" I caught myself. "And don't you dare say my looks!"

He grinned, looking me up and down and checking me out. "I wouldn't dare," he said, his expression straightening. "How then?"

"I worked. Every day, harder than anyone else in my college. I didn't do spring break – I was such a nerd, I spent the time finding internships and work experience all over – doing that in the day and then waiting tables at night so that I could afford to eat. There are plenty of pretty girls just like me aching to get this job, and there are only two ways to get it – fuck your way to the top—"

He interrupted me with a horrified look on his face. "You didn't!"

I shot him a filthy look back. "Of course not!" He had the good grace to look shamefaced, and I cut him some slack – he was hardly in a positive state of mind. "As I was saying – the other way is to work harder than anyone else, and longer, too."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

I grinned, letting him know he was off the hook. "Don't worry about it. Just believe me when I tell you – I know exactly how hard you've worked, and exactly what this means to you. Don't be an idiot – don't ruin it all by trying to get back in the saddle too soon. You're young – there’ll always be next season."

"What about the World Cup?" Alex interjected dejectedly. "The longer I wait, the less chance I have of making it…"

"The longer you wait," I corrected him, "the better chance you have of making it
next time
. Like I said, Alex," I said, turning and preparing to leave him to his thoughts, "I can't make your mind up for you, but think about it. Really think about it."

I took a few paces to the door before he spoke. "Wait," he croaked, "don't leave."

I turned and looked at him. He was crestfallen, and seemed shocked by both my revelation
and
just how closely my experiences growing up mirrored his.

I saw the battle going on behind his eyes, the fire raging in his soul. The part of Alex that had seen him through those dark, lonely years in foster care wanted to rail against my assumed authority, wanted to bat against it until I crumbled and he was free to do what he wanted.

But thankfully, the soft, kind and gentle part of him that I'd fallen head over heels for prevailed. "Fine," he moaned, "I can't believe I'm agreeing with this. With you," he said, fixing me with a glare. "I’ll wait until the doctors say I’m ready."

I leaned over him, overjoyed, and planted a kiss on his lips, overjoyed not that he’d agreed with me – but because he’d seen sense. He responded hungrily, as if he were trying to exorcise every iota of rage, fear and frustration that had been flooding through his body for the last few days through the power of well,
love
…

"Stop," he groaned, "we can't."

I looked at him, upset. "What is it?"

He didn't speak, just indicated downwards at his stirring cock. He would have had an embarrassed look on his face, but Alex Rodriguez didn't
do
embarrassed. This was about as close as I’d ever seen.

"Oh…"

"Oh," he agreed. "I can't fuck you, not like this. I can barely move the good leg without the bad one screaming in pain."

"Who said anything about you
fucking
me?" I asked, faintly amused.

"I did," he hissed. "Do you know how horny you've got me? Damn, girl, it's like you've got a hold on me. I've never known my cock to act like this except when I'm around you."

I reached down and danced the tips of my fingers across the swollen head of his thick cock. "Diana…" he groaned, "stop!"

I looked at him frankly. "You said you couldn't fuck me, right?" I grinned mischievously.

"Right…" he agreed uncertainly. "I can barely move."

"You never said I couldn't use my mouth…"

His
mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

A
lex

Six months later…

The walls of the corridor that led to the home team locker room were lined with framed, signed shirts of former club legends and squad pictures taken after success in one or other of the many hundreds of trophies that the grand old club had won over the decades. The corridor itself was filled with club functionaries – old, retired players wandering around looking for someone to talk to about the old days, harried looking staff members carrying clipboards, and most of all – soccer players.

It was easy to tell who they were because they towered head and shoulder over everyone else.

Ordinarily, a reporter wouldn't have been allowed within a hundred feet of the club's inner sanctum – especially not half an hour before a match – but Di wasn't an ordinary reporter. Not anymore, anyway – not now the whole squad knew she was dating Alex Rodriguez. It was a miracle the news hadn't been made the public yet, especially as she was living with me, and had been for months!

The quiet, concentrated hum of a club on match day was ripped apart by a cat-called whistle.

"Rodrigo!" I yelled. "Cut it out."

I batted away the joshing, the amused punches and the jokes flung at me by my teammates as I walked towards my girlfriend. "One day you'll understand," I grinned, smiling back at the French goalkeeper – Florian, "what love is…"

He smiled in amusement. "Alejandro, you young pup – I'm married!"

I darted out of his way, prepared for a retaliatory punch. "Is that right?" I mused. "In that case, I feel sorry for your wife…"

Florian spluttered in astonishment, but looking at the grin on my face, refrained from hitting me. I'd have deserved it if he had – not that he would have caught me – I was far too slippery for that. "Someone," he grumbled, "needs to get back out onto the pitch…"

A younger, more fiery Alex Rodriguez would have spat back an insult and called to attention the fact that as a backup keeper, Florian himself rarely made it further into the stadium than his seat on the bench. This time, however, I found that I didn't even need to bite my tongue to hold back. I knew what my goal was, now – I wanted to captain this team. And those weren't the actions of a leader. I had somehow matured over the past few months – and the reason for my growth was standing right in front of me, blushing at the ruckus she'd caused in the locker room.

"Hey," Diana whispered, doing her best not to draw any more attention to herself than absolutely necessary. I knew how the athletes around us thought – I'd thought just like them for years, and it was clearly too late for that. No – there was no way she – or I for that matter – was going to fly under the radar. We had to embrace it.

That's what I told myself, anyway.

I leaned forward and grabbed her, snaking my arm around her and pulling her into a long, passionate kiss. The locker room around us erupted in hooting cheers and hollers – and not a few disappointed groans – as my jealous teammates caught an eyeful of exactly what they were missing. I knew exactly how they felt – Diana was a catch. Not just
a catch
, but
my
catch – and none of them got to have her. For fit, young, competitive athletes like the men around us, it must've been hell. But hell if I cared.

"Wow," she panted breathlessly as I tore my lips away from hers, "I wasn't expecting that!"

I grinned and looked over my shoulder at my green-eyed teammates. "Nor were they," I said, grabbing Diana's hand and leading her to the relative privacy of the corridor outside the locker room. "What are you doing down here?" I asked, drinking in her intoxicating scent.

"I wanted to wish you luck," she said, breaking eye contact with the slightest hint of embarrassment in her pink cheeks. "How's the knee feeling?"

I looked down, noticing a sharp jab of phantom pain at the mention of the injury that had taken me off the field for almost six months. "Sore," I grunted, "but it'll be fine. Anyway – I'm on the bench," I grumbled. "It's like coach doesn't know a thing about the game."

"Yeah…" Diana agreed haltingly, looking unconvinced.

"Oh, go on," I sighed, "spit it out – what is it?"

Diana looked at me uncertainly, then clearly made a decision to go with her gut and tell me what was on her mind. "Well," she said nervously, before her voice strengthened, "there's no way you're fit enough to play the whole game yet, is there?"

"I'd like the chance!" I said indignantly, feeling as though the one person who should back me unconditionally, well – wasn't.

Diana glared at me, and my shoulders sank back as the bravado ebbed away in the face of her frank, guileless honesty. "Don't you dare go out there and try to play a whole match," she hissed authoritatively. "Do you know how dangerous that would be? You've rushed yourself back to fitness too quickly as it is!"

"Okay," I said, raising my hands in submission, "okay – I get it. Anyway, I don't have a choice in the matter. Maybe I'll get twenty minutes at the end, who knows…"

Diana put her hand on my cheek comfortingly. "I know this is hard for you," she murmured, "not being able to play in your first cup final. But look at the long-term – the big picture—"

"I know, I know," I laughed, cutting Diana off and mimicking her, "
my career's going to last over a decade – there’ll be plenty of these
. Doesn't make it easier, though, does it?"

"No," she murmured sympathetically, "it doesn't. Tough it out. And if you do get on the pitch for a few minutes – make it count!" There was a fire in Diana's eyes that was inspiring – invigorating.

"I will," I promised, pecking her on the lips. "Listen—"

It was her turn to cut me off. "You've got to go," she said, "I know." She touched her forehead against mine and rested it there for a few seconds. It was oddly intimate, and completely vulnerable, and I could have stayed there forever. "Good luck."

She walked back down the corridor towards the stand, leaving me lost in my own thoughts. There was a time when I wouldn't have listened to her – or anyone – who told me what to do. There was a time when I didn't need anyone else to help motivate me, when I didn't need anyone else to tell me how good I was, what I could do. Then again, I thought ruefully, there was a time I'd have run through the pain barrier to prove how tough I was, and never played again.

This was better. It felt better.
I
was better. And now I had to prove it.

Do what
she said, Alex. Make it count
.

D
iana

A sunny day in May, and playing the cup final at home. Could anything be better than that for the rabid Barcelona fans who packed their beloved stadium, letting off smoke flares and chanting the names of their heroes?

Nothing…

Unless, that is, the opponent was their hated rival, the team that played all in white – Real Madrid. That was enough to send the crowd into a hysterical delirium of excitement. I stepped out of the stairwell and into a cauldron of fire, the pall of smoke from dozens of flares hanging heavy in the air, and peered out at a scene the like of which I'd never come close to before.

"Diana," I heard someone shout from down towards the balcony, "over here!"

It was Tim, and I walked towards him thankfully. "You got good seats," I said.

He looked a bit surprised. "You kidding? You're hot property now," he replied. "It’s going to be like that pretty much wherever you go."

I blushed. "You heard about that?"

"Seriously – you kidding?" Tim laughed. "Or are you just fishing for compliments? Everyone's heard – inside the station, anyway. I don't know if they've made it public yet, have they?"

I looked around conspiratorially. "No," I said, "keep it down. I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to be talking about it yet."

"Trust me," Tim grinned, "if people don't know yet, they will soon."

"You going to tell them?"

"Maybe…"

I closed the last couple of yards to our seats and groaned.

"What is it?" Tim asked with concern. "Something wrong?"

I pointed subtly to my left, making a disappointed face. "Dumb and dumber," I whispered, pointing at Ken and Frank. "Haven’t seen them in a while." They were sitting right behind Tim and me – only two rows of seats separated us, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that told me what I already knew – they were going to cause trouble.

Tim looked at them dismissively. Hell, he kind of made it obvious what he was doing. I couldn't help but grin my approval. "Those two?" He chuckled. "Who cares what they think? They've been out of the loop for decades, and they still haven't realized it."

I laughed. "Keep it down!"

"What," he grinned, "they'll hear? If those two haven't got hearing aids already, they will soon…"

I elbowed him in his ribs and he cut it out. Finally! Beneath us, the crowd roared as the two teams made it out onto the pitch and their respective captains stood for the joint photo with the referees. The hyper, drunk, emotionally charged crowd alternated chanting the names of their favorite players with hurling abuse at their hated opponents. I couldn't help but flush with pride as I heard Alex's name sung louder and longer than anyone else's.

"Lo, lo, lo," they sang, "Alejandrooo. Lo, lo, lo, lo, Alejandroooo!" It was a booming, deep chant that sounded incredible when sung by the low, melodious voices of the Catalan crowd. It was warm, deep and emotional, and the crowd went wild as I saw, far below us on the pitch, Alex raise his arm in joyous acknowledgement. I knew he hated being called Alejandro – but I had the feeling he'd make
this
the one exception to his rule.

"They like your boy, don't they?" Tim shouted over the deafening roar of the crowd.

"Not as much as I do," I grinned.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that…" he joked. "Ever since he made that taxi driver's bar his local watering hole, the city's gone mad for him. You know how many players who don't play for half the season get this kind of reception?"

"No," I said haltingly, "but I'm willing to guess. Not many?"

"Nail on the head," Tim said as the coin toss happened below us. Barcelona won and decided to start the match attacking the north stand of the stadium. It was a good omen. "They love that boy like no one I've ever seen – at least since Roman Garcia!"

I was mulling that over when I heard Ken's reedy voice deliberately making its presence known. "I heard she's fucking a player," he said, pointing his forked tongue at me.

Frank replied with equal venom in his voice. "I heard she's fucking the whole locker room…"

I knew exactly who they were talking about. They couldn't have been any clearer if they'd sent a letter addressed directly to me and signed it themselves. I wasn't angry that rumors were beginning to spread about Alex’s and my fierce relationship – after all, we went to bars all over town together and made no real attempt to hide the fact that we were seeing each other.

Hell, the only reason things had been kept so quiet was that Barcelona's inhabitants were nothing if not fiercely loyal to the players they loved. Alex and I spent our time drinking and socializing in the city's local neighborhood bars – and they rewarded our patronage by keeping quiet.

It was inevitable, though, that eventually something would slip. I was honestly surprised that it had taken so long. Then again, it didn't
exactly
seem like Ken and Frank had come across much more than a rogue rumor. They definitely didn't seem to know the name of the player I was, quite rightly, sleeping with. They sure as hell didn't know that it was much more than just a torrid, physical affair.

Then again, it didn't exactly surprise me. Ken and Frank weren't exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists, after all. In fact, I hesitated to even call them journalists!

Still, just because they didn't seem to know much about what was going on didn't mean I couldn't be offended, and I sure as hell was. In fact, I was bristling with rage. Who the hell were
these two
to insult me like this? Where the hell did they get off?

"Ignore them," Tim whispered, holding my elbow firmly. "They’re like jackals. They see an opening, they'll just harry at it until it breaks."

I looked at him, furious, but saw the sense in what he was saying. "Fine," I whispered back angrily, "have it your way."

It almost didn't matter for a while, because the game below us was engrossing. It was like a chess match, with neither side leaving an opening for the other – and the crowd around us didn't seem to care that no one had scored. Nor did I – even without a goal, it was the best game I'd seen all season. Every single player seemed to care, and was playing out of his skin – none of them could be accused of just picking up their paycheck.

The game had it all – aggression, crisp passing, shots from long range and incredible diving saves from both teams’ goalkeepers. Everything, that is, except a goal to break the deadlock, and as the halftime whistle blew, and both teams trooped back down the tunnel towards the locker room, the game was poised on a knife edge.

"Bet she makes them pay…" I heard Ken whisper loudly.

"Wouldn't you?" Frank replied. "Sure she makes a pretty penny opening her legs for the whole team to enjoy…"

I gritted my teeth and proceeded to ignore their biting comments for the entire break. As much as I pretended it didn't get to me, it did, and I was grateful to see the players trot back out onto the field for the second half – it gave me something else to focus on.

When I saw that Alex was among them, I forgot about my tormentors entirely. "He's been subbed on!" I said, gripping Tim's forearm with girlish excitement.

"Calm down, girl," he grinned, "you want everyone to know?"

I turned back and fixed Ken and Frank with a dull, furious glare. "I don't care," I said truthfully. The whistle blew, breaking the moment, and the teams resumed playing. Alex was out on the right wing – hugging the touchline. It wasn't his best position, but Ramon Garcia was playing in the "number ten" role that Alex coveted, and that, I figured, was fair enough. After all, Alex
was
coming back from a long-term injury – and he
was
coming back from that injury in one of the season's biggest games.

And anyway, I knew Alex was still better playing out of position than most other players on the pitch were at the positions they'd trained for all their lives…

Alex picked up the ball from the halfway line, and the "lo, lo, lo" chant resumed the second he touched it. It sent shivers running down my spine.

"They love him…" Tim whispered wonderingly.

It wasn't hard to see why. "Look at him," I replied, "he's running like he never missed a match." It was true. Alex was light on his feet, and doing what he did best – running straight at the defense. The Madrid left back was in no man's land – too far from his other defenders and out of position. Alex knocked the ball five yards past him and lowered his head to sprint towards it, and towards the Madrid goal.

The crowd screamed their appreciation.

The Madrid defender only had two choices – tackle Alex, or chase back after him and towards his own goalposts.

He chose the first option.

The crowd went suddenly, ominously silent as the defender crunched into Alex, the studs on both cleats showing as he tackled the Barcelona star, my boyfriend, with both legs off the ground. It was the kind of tackle had the potential to end a man's career. It was the kind of tackle that could have ruined Alex's life.

I stood up, and all around us, commentators spoke hurriedly, excitedly into their black microphones, describing what they were watching to an engrossed crowd across the globe in a hundred different languages. I didn't care about any of that. I was just terrified for Alex.

He went down hard, tumbling over the ball, his legs entangled with the out-of-control defender. He tumbled over three or four times before coming to a halt, and lay still on the turf.

My heart was in my mouth.

The referee ran towards him, digging something out of his back pocket. The heavily partisan home crowd was now angered, outraged and baying for the Madrid player to take the long walk back down the tunnel. I was on their side, but by contrast, I was struck dumb with worry.

"He's off!" Tim shouted as the referee pulled a red card out and brandished it in front of the protesting Madrid player. "He can't have any complaints – that was disgusting. Diana – you all right?"

I wasn't sure – my eyes were fixed on Alex, who was lying on the turf and experimentally wiggling his just-recovered knee. He flexed it towards him, then away, and seemed to be satisfied, finally standing up and limping away from the spot where he'd been tackled.

"I think so…" I whispered as he started jogging back into position, regaining more and more mobility with every step he took.

"Don't worry," Tim said reassuringly, "it was just a knock."

"I know," I smiled wanly. "I'm going to have to stop watching his games – this kind of stuff happens in every match. I don't know how I'd be able to face it all the time!"

Ken couldn't even give me a moment to myself. "Look, Frank," he said, nudging his bitter friend. "I bet she's sleeping with that Mexican kid Rodriguez. No wonder she always has stories before everyone else – that cheating slut."

I spun round, ready to open up on him, but Tim got there ahead of me. "You guys are pathetic, you know that?" he spat. "You really are. You want to know why no one in this business likes you? Why no one kicked up a fuss when you got shipped off to Madrid?"

Ken glowered back. "What makes you so special?"

Tim smiled. "Oh, nothing." He grinned, looking at me as if for approval. I had the faintest idea that I knew what he was about to do, and I nodded, smiling happily. "Nothing – except, should I tell them, Diana?"

"Oh," I grinned, "I dunno. You reckon they deserve to find out?"

"Not really," Tim said, as if considering the idea carefully in his head, "but you know what – I want to see the look on their faces."

I gestured towards him as if giving my approval, but kept one eye on the game. I wasn't sure whether it was because I didn't want to miss a second of Alex's return to the field or whether I was concerned for his safety! "Be my guest…"

"Ken, Frank – how long you been doing this?" Tim asked sweetly. When they didn't reply, he pushed on regardless. "Thirty years sound right?" he asked, turning to face me.

"More or less," I agreed, "In fact – maybe more, looking at them."

"You're right," Tim grinned, "they do look past their best. Let's say it's forty years. Forty years to get where?" he asked rhetorically.

"Go fuck yourself," Frank spat.

"No, thank you, I've got plenty of people willing to help me out on that front." Tim grinned. "Unlike you – I'd imagine. Anyway, like I was saying – forty years is a long time to get nowhere. You know what Diana and I just heard, Frank?"

He didn't reply, just stared silently back towards his tormentor.

"I'm glad you asked," Tim said smoothly. "I'll tell you. Diana here has been given her own chat show for the World Cup, and lucky old me – I'm going over there to head up the production side of things. I know, I know," Tim grinned sweetly, "I'm sure you can't wait to wish her all the best."

Ken spluttered, for once lost for words. Frank stepped in. "You saying this bit—"

Tim cut in sharply. "Watch your filthy mouth, Frank!"

The battle on Frank's face was as monumental as it was hilarious as he struggled to clamp down on his anger, noticing the funny looks he was getting from the Spanish journalists sitting all around. "You're telling me that
she
," he spat, "is getting her own show? With who? WBC gave
her
a chat show?"

Tim had a broad smile on his face as though he couldn't wait to answer. "Yep!" He grinned happily. "And after only a couple of years in the business. How long you been doing this, Frank?"

A sly, cunning look crossed Frank’s face – the look of a man who thought that he was about to get one over on a hated enemy. I still had no idea what it was – other than the fact that the hand of fate had dealt me a vagina, not a cock, that he and his slimy companion had against me. "Oh ho," he crowed. "And how would Grant feel about your little
affair
with Alex down there?"

Ken chimed in. "That’s right, girlie, we know all about that…"

I chuckled, no – in fact I just laughed out loud. Judging by the looks on their faces, that was the last thing I expected. "Jesus, Frank," I said, reveling in the fact it was my turn to crow, "how out of touch are you? Grant retired last week. WBC’s got a
much
more modern sports director coming in. Do what you want."