He slid his arms around her and held her close, burying his face against her hair. Tomorrow would take care of itself. For tonight, he had Theresa.
Chapter Twelve
They didn’t return to Rio until two days before the final. France played group matches in three different cities and, by winning two and drawing the third, they’d secured a place in the knockout stage of the competition. Theresa had watched more football matches in the past two weeks than ever in her life before, since Emile insisted on studying endless replays of all the other matches in their hotel room each evening. She gritted her teeth through penalty after penalty and mentally chalked every wasted hour up to Project Fall Out Of Love.
Most of the time, she was just happy that Emile’s foot was fine. He’d played well, and by the quarter finals, he was in the starting team for France. They’d been drawn against the Italians and won easily, by three goals to two, with Emile scoring two of the French goals. The semi-final was a much tougher prospect against the home team of Brazil, and Theresa was glad that she would never have to live through those ninety minutes plus extra time again.
The penalty shoot-out, which had finally ended the deadlock, had been the most excruciating torture as one by one the players took their turn at aiming for goal. A French player was the first to miss, and the deafening cheers of the Brazilian crowds filled the stadium, only to be swiftly followed by the groans of disappointment as a Brazilian striker’s best effort was foiled by the French keeper. After five players from each team had taken their shots, the score was still level, and the penalties went into sudden death. The Brazilian player went first. His ball hit the goal post and rebounded.
Every single person in the 50,000-seat stadium held their breath while the next French player set the ball down, eyed up the goal, and kicked straight into the corner of the net. They’d done it. They’d only gone and made the final. Theresa was on her feet with the rest of the French supporters, yelling and screaming and crying a little bit.
She hadn’t expected to care so much whether France won or lost, so long as Emile had done well. But, perhaps, because it mattered so much to him, or perhaps because she’d been caught up in World Cup fever, she was elated. Long after the match had finished and the last penalty been scored, she and Emile returned to their hotel room, both unable to stop grinning.
“You made the final,” she said for the hundredth time.
“Of course.” He raised an eyebrow in mock disdain.
She laughed at his easy arrogance. “You never doubted it, I know. Do you think you’ll win?” That was the question no one had dared to ask but everyone had been thinking. France would be up against England, who was playing better than anyone had expected.
Emile grimaced. “If we play better than them, we will.”
She slid her hand under his shirt. “I hope you do.”
“My traitorous, little wife.”
She smiled. “Maybe I’m a double agent, slipping vital information to the England team.”
He laughed. “If I thought you knew the difference between a penalty shoot-out and a penalty kick, then maybe I’d be worried.”
“I’m learning.”
He rubbed his knuckle over her cheek. “I know. It means a lot to me.”
“I’ll be glad to get home, though. It’s been a crazy few weeks, and I think I’m ready for some boring normality again.”
“Boring, huh?” He let his hand run down her neck and over her collarbone. “I didn’t know you were into boring.”
“It makes a nice change, occasionally.”
“Right.”
“Besides, I’m missing work.”
“Hardly. You work every day,” he pointed out wryly. “You are the only person I know who could come to Rio and not take it as an excuse to forget about work.”
“I keep on top of the most urgent things and touch base with my assistant. I’m not exactly doing a full-time job out here.”
“Your work is so important to you, even on holiday?” he asked curiously.
“Of course.” She’d worked hard to reach a senior level at her firm and she was proud of her achievement. “Your work is important to you. We’ve had this discussion before.”
“My work,” he said, with a grin, “is to kick a football around as if it mattered.”
Her lips twitched. “Something like that. But you’re good at it, and it makes a lot of people happy.”
“It’s going to make an entire nation very sad if I’m not good enough on Sunday.”
She didn’t want to think about what would happen if he lost on Sunday. “What will happen if you win?”
His arms gestured expansively. “The world will be ours. We will be heroes throughout France. All the clubs will want us.”
“Will you go back to France? To play for a club there?”
“No, probably not.”
“But you’d like to?”
He shrugged. “It is my home, chérie.”
“Then why probably not?”
His eyes gleamed wickedly. “They haven’t offered me nearly enough money. But if I win the World Cup for France, they might.”
She shook her head. Sometimes she still felt as though she didn’t understand him at all. “It’s not like you need any more money. If you want to live in France, then you should.”
He looked at her and nodded slowly. “Maybe one day. But first there is the small matter of a World Cup to win and a promise to keep.”
Her heart thumped. She’d been dreaming about moonlight on Copacabana for the last two weeks.
…
She barely saw him for the next two days. The players were all shielded from the press, but still there were endless training sessions, working through tactics and set pieces. The team had melded together in the past few weeks, but for the final, it was essential that they worked as one unit, able to predict each other’s moves and read each other’s minds. Emile explained it all to her, in incomprehensible and repetitive detail every night. Theresa just let him talk, knowing that it was more for his benefit than hers. On the last night before the final, he fell asleep still muttering about switch passes and trash shooting.
He was wide awake by six, and Theresa woke with him, having hardly slept all night. He rolled on top of her and sank into her. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper, pushing him towards his climax. When he was done, he eased out. Theresa took a deep breath. And then another. She’d grown more accustomed to perfunctory sex than she’d ever expected to. That ought to have helped more with Project Falling Out Of Love than it had. But instead of feeling aggrieved, she’d spent her time planning exactly how he was going to pay his debt once the tournament was over.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Should I…” He put his hand on her clit.
“Don’t worry about it.” She kissed his forehead. “You can do that tomorrow.”
He grinned faintly. “I’m going to be doing that for a long time, aren’t I?”
“I’m looking forward to it. Go on, have a shower.”
Everything had gone out of his head. He let the hot water stream over his body while he closed his eyes and tried to remember all the plays, all the set pieces they’d practiced. Nothing. Only Theresa’s blank face while he’d explained the offside rule for the fourth time. He smiled fondly. She’d put her mind to understanding his world, but it was clear that she still thought it was all nonsense. He knew she enjoyed the nonsense more than she let on most of the time.