“Guess who’s going to Rio?”
She grinned. “Me?”
He laughed. “Get your bikini ready.”
“They picked you? Emile, that’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
“They’re willing to take the risk. I have thirty days to prove I’m up to it, otherwise they’ll drop me and fly someone else out.”
“You can do it. I know you can.”
He whirled her around and pressed kisses all over her face. “God, Thérèse. I thought there was no chance. An injured player without any match fitness. I was sure they’d decide it was too risky.”
“You’re worth the risk, Emile. Because you’re brilliant.” For once, she wasn’t in the mood to tease him about his career, she just wanted to share his happiness.
“We’re going to Brazil.” His eyes blazed with joy.
She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re going to expect me to watch the actual matches, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I think so. And answer questions later to make sure you pay attention.”
“Funny.” She smirked. “What else will I have to do?”
“Avoid the press. That should be easy, since you don’t speak French or Portuguese, and the English media won’t be interested in me. Look beautiful at team events. That’ll be easy, too.”
“Lie around on beaches getting a tan?”
“Take me dancing in Brazilian nightclubs.”
“I can do that.”
“Tell me how brilliant I am when I score the winning goal.”
She slapped his arm. “Tell you how arrogant you are, you mean.”
“No need for that. I already know.” He laughed again. “Mon dieu, Thérèse, I can’t believe it.”
“We should celebrate.” She shrugged her jacket off her shoulders.
“We should celebrate properly. You can put on a pretty dress, and I’ll take you to Le Terroir for dinner.”
“Fine. And after that can we celebrate properly?”
…
The whole team went out to dinner in Rio the night before they were due to fly to Sao Paulo for the first group match: players, coaches, manager, wives, and girlfriends. They were in a private room of a very smart restaurant, and no one was supposed to be drinking alcohol.
Emile had found out earlier that he hadn’t made the starting line-up for the first match. The coaches were pleased with his performance, but they didn’t want to push him too hard at the beginning of the tournament. Assuming all went well, he’d play for some of the second half. It made sense since he needed the match experience, but his fitness was still under question.
“Stop it,” Theresa whispered.
“What?”
“Stop going through all the reasons why it’s perfectly reasonable you’re not playing tomorrow for the forty-seventh time.”
“I will play, just...”
“Not at the start. I got that. Relax, Emile. You’re here, and your foot is fine.”
He slid his hand under the table to rest on her knee where her skirt had ridden up.
“There’ll be speeches soon,” he warned her. “And then someone will start singing La Marseillaise, and we’ll all have to join in.”
“I don’t know the words.” She put down her fork. “That was delicious.”
He flashed her a smile. “No one knows the words.”
“It’s like that in England, too. People mostly know the first verse of the national anthem, and that’s it.”
“You know, La Marseillaise is about French people going to war with each other. Strange choice for a national anthem.”
Theresa’s eyes gleamed. “God Save The Queen has a verse about destroying the Scots.”
He grinned. “No wonder the Scottish team sings a different one.”
“Theirs is about killing the English.”
“It is crazy.” Emile pushed his spoon through his mostly uneaten dessert. “It is only football. Why do we sing songs about battle?”
“No idea. After the speeches and the anthem, do you want to leave?”
He nodded. “Please.”
The evening was cool, and Theresa was wearing a sleeveless dress. He put his jacket over her shoulders and took her hand. It was good to be out in the fresh air, away from all the others. They strolled down to the beach.
“You want to walk on the sand?”
Theresa kicked her shoes off, by way of an answer, and he did the same, rolling up his trousers. Hand in hand, they wandered down to the shoreline and gazed out at the moonlit water.
“It’s beautiful,” Theresa said.
He turned to look at her. She was so beautiful; she took his breath away.
“What if I can’t do it?”
“Emile?”
He shook his head, as if to shake out his doubts. “It happens. Players have injuries, they recover, but they’re never the same player again.”
“You’re fine.” She stepped toward him and laid her hands on his chest. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, he could feel their warmth. “Everyone says so—the doctors, the coaches.”
“I haven’t played a competitive match for six months and three weeks.” He hadn’t even realized he’d been counting until today when a journalist had asked him a question about his injury.
She raised her hands to his face, drew his head down, and waited until he met her gaze.
“How old were you when you played your first football match?”
“I don’t know. Seven? Eight?” What did that have to do with anything?
“And since then you’ve played hundreds of matches, right?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You know how to do this, Emile Renaud. You’ll come with me now and go to bed. You’ll sleep because you know you need to. And then tomorrow, you’ll get up, go to the stadium, and kick a ball around with the other guys.”
His lips twitched. Only Theresa. “Kick a ball around?”
She waved her hands. “Well, you know. Whatever it is you do.”
“That simple, huh?” She was smiling at him, and he couldn’t help but respond.
“Why not?”
He looked at her for a long time. Dark, spiky hair, gleaming in the moonlight. Those eyes, vibrant with certainty and humor. He’d never known anyone like Theresa before. He’d never met a woman who challenged him so hard, nor one he cared about so much. He was grateful she’d travelled to Rio to be with him. He needed her here, especially tonight, giving him back the courage that had deserted him.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
He laughed at that, and suddenly, it was simple. He didn’t want to let her go, ever. And he thought—he hoped—she felt the same. “If I admit you’re right, will you promise me something?”
“What?”
“There’s the lawyer. Never make a blind promise.”
“Only an idiot would do that.”
“Idiots like us?”
She looked away. He’d noticed that she never liked to talk about their marriage or that ridiculous contract. He shouldn’t have mentioned it.
He cupped her cheek and gently turned her back to face him. “Promise me that we’ll come here again.”
“To the beach?”
“To this very spot.” He looked around, noting the lifeguard’s chair and the signs on the bar behind it. He’d be able to find it again.
“I promise.”