Goalie (Texas Mutiny Book 3) Read online

  Her long dark hair, big brown eyes, lightly tanned skin… she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was obvious she was uncomfortable at the party. She didn’t deserve to be there. She was too good for it then and too good for it now. Her heart is truly gold, and I would never subject her to some of the things that happen here. Even if I subject myself to them regularly.

  I feel a twinge of guilt over the fact that I’m here, drinking, smoking, having dirty sex with a groupie, while she’s at home with the kids, but quickly push it deep down inside, like I always do. Mariana deserves to be made love to. She deserves intimacy. She doesn’t deserve to be fucked from behind like a filthy whore just so I can get a nut off to relax. I know that’s terrible justification, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I have never been able to figure out why, but I can’t seem to come down from the adrenaline rush after a game. I found over the years, long before Mari and I met, that sex is the only way to re-balance myself somehow. So I just never changed my ways. And truthfully, I’ve been doing this for so long now, I’m almost numb to what I’m doing.

  Almost.

  But I refuse to let the deep-down thoughts come back up.

  “Hey man, where’d you get that smoke?” Nate Funderling asks me. I pull a spare out of my back pocket.

  “Pumin had them. Sasha distracted him before he could pass them out.”

  Funderling chuckles. He’s not immune to her ways, either. Sasha is a freak. There is nothing she won’t do. And no one.

  “Speaking of groupies, where are Tiffany and Rowen?”

  “Careful, man,” I warn. “You don’t want Rowen to hear you using the words ‘Tiffany’ and ‘groupie’ in the same sentence anymore.”

  He shrugs. No one saw it coming when they got together. Tiffany had been the best groupie we had for years before Rowen was moved up from the practice team. They hit it off right away. It didn’t take long for her to quit fucking us so she could stay monogamous to him. I didn’t begrudge either of them. They’re both good people.

  “I think they’re laying low for a while. She’s still kind of shaken up. She’s not sitting in Section 100 anymore. She’s only sitting in the box during games.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Just because of that nudie pic Shivel posted? I thought for sure she’d be over it by now.”

  I shrug. “I guess she’s still getting harassed when she sits in the stands. They were the biggest sports story for a while there, ya know.”

  “Have you talked to Shivel since it happened?”

  I shake my head and take a puff on my cigar.

  “He’s been cut.”

  “No shit?” I say slowly. “Because of the picture? Does Rowen’s daddy have that far of a reach?” His dad, being the legendary Ryan Flanigan, a soccer god among men, was still very, very active in the sport.

  Funderling lights his cigar and takes a puff before answering. “Apparently a six game suspension and being demoted to the practice team didn’t help him keep up his skills very well. Some younger mid-fielder surprised everyone and just took off with his abilities. He’s in. Shivel’s out.”

  Neither of us say anything more because there really isn’t anything to say. We all watched Shivel’s decline happen for about a year. He stopped practicing as hard. Started partying harder. Gained a little weight around the middle. He didn’t become an alcoholic or anything, just let the perks of the job go to his head. It happens. If you can’t stay focused on the job, it can all go to shit quick.

  I spend the next couple of hours in a fog of cigar smoke and Jäger shots. By the time a couple of groupies get naked and start making out with each other in the middle of the room, I’m ready to call it a night. It’s fun to let loose for a bit, but kids get up early, and if I don’t get at least one solid REM cycle, I won’t be able to function in full dad-mode tomorrow.

  Scheduling a cab on my handy dandy taxi app, I say my goodbyes and head out. Within an hour, I’m stumbling through my house. I consider going all the way to my bedroom, but I don’t want to wake Mari up. Plus she hates the smell of cigar smoke. I don’t want her to wake up to the odor and put her in a bad mood to start the day.

  Couch it is.

  I flop down on the oversized sofa and snuggle into the pillows. The last thing I think about as I fall into a drunken sleep is how Mari was right to buy this couch. It is, in fact, the comfiest couch I’ve ever slept on.

  I wake to sunlight in my eyes. That’s weird. It never gets sunny on this side of the house early in the morning.

  Peeling my eyes open more, I realize it has to be much later than I thought for the sun to be coming through the blinds like that.

  It’s eerily quiet in the house. I haven’t heard Theo squeal yet and none of the girls have poked me in the nose or put barrettes in my hair. I think. A quick rub of my head confirms that. Exactly how drunk was I that I didn’t hear them this morning? I should have known better than to take shots. It never ends well for me.

  Rubbing my face, I take a deep breath and sit up. Where is my family? Did Mariana take them somewhere so I can sleep? That sounds like something she’d do. She’s thoughtful like that.

  Making my way to the fridge for some water to get rid of this cotton mouth, I stretch my arms out wide, cracking my back. The couch is comfortable, but nothing compares to my giant, king-sized bed. We dropped a pretty penny on that mattress last year, and it was worth it. I can’t wait to snuggle up next to Mari in it tonight. I’m so glad we’re off today so there won’t be any team get-togethers. I’ve missed hanging out with my family.

  After downing two bottles of water, I pad my way into the master bathroom to shower last night’s filth off of me, only stopping to throw my clothes straight into the washer on the way. I don’t want cigar smoke to mix with Mariana’s clothes, even in the washer. She’d hate that.

  Ten minutes later, I’m sufficiently clean and more awake. Now that I can think, I wonder where Mari took the kids. To lunch maybe? She did read about a new park in the area that supposedly has a fantastic petting zoo off to the side. She’s been talking about us taking the kids one day. I bet they got restless and that’s where they went.

  Flinging open the door of the walk-in closet, I turn on the light and rummage through my clothes, pulling on some sweats and an old Iguana’s tshirt. I haven’t played for them in years, but Mari always says it’s part of my history, so we still have all the gear they gave us.

  I turn around to walk out when something catches my eye. It’s an empty spot where all her shoes go. She has about fifty pairs. At least ten of them are missing. Is she making a run to Goodwill or something?

  As I turn in a circle, I take more stock of the giant closet. There are spaces on the clothing rod where her clothes are missing. Her entire underwear drawer is cleared out. The shelf that has all the files of important documentation like birth certificates and such is empty.

  My heart begins to race. What the fuck is going on?

  I race to the girls’ room and pull open their dresser drawers. Empty.

  The toy closet still has a few things left, but most of it is gone.

  I run to Theo’s room. Half expecting to see him curled up on his side, sucking his thumb, it jars me to see his crib empty.

  As are his drawers.

  And his closet.

  No diapers. No wipes.

  And his favorite stuffed animal, the monkey attached to a satin blanket that he rubs across his face as he’s falling asleep… it’s gone, too.

  I run back out to the living room, panic setting in. The only thing I can think is that they must have been taken. Someone came in, packed their stuff, and kidnapped them. The alternative is just too hard to even process.

  Grabbing my phone off the coffee table, I shoot off a quick text to my wife.

  Where are you??? You’re freaking me out! Please let me know you’re ok.

  Seconds later, her reply comes in.

  We’re fine. We’re at my mom’s. The note on the kitchen t
able explains it all.

  Note? I think to myself. What note?

  I speed to the kitchen and sure enough, there is a handwritten note sitting in the sunlight.

  Santos,

  I love you more than anything. But I’m done. I can’t be in a marriage with an unfaithful man anymore.

  My heart drops. She knows. How does she know?

  The kids and I will be staying with my mom for a while. You, of course, are welcome to call or Facetime them whenever you want. Since you’re in the middle of the season, we can work out a custody arrangement as we go.

  Take care of yourself,

  Mariana

  There is no way this is happening. My wife did not just leave me. I immediately dial her number and pace back into the living room while I wait for her to pick up. I’m almost surprised when three rings later, she does.

  “Hello?”

  “What the hell is going on?” I roar into the phone.

  “I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on,” she retorts. “I’m filing for divorce on Monday.”

  “You...” I scoff. “You… you’re filing for… but why?”

  “Why?” she yells. “WHY? How about because I’m tired of being left at home while you go hang out with your teammates after games are over.”

  “Babe,” I say calmly, trying to make her see reason. She understands the pressure I’m under to hang out with my team. “You know I get keyed up during the game. It’s just a way to calm down the adrenaline.”

  “Really? You’re trying to placate me with your condescending tone and excuses? You’ve been fucking groupie whores behind my back and all you can come up with is it’s to calm down the adrenaline?”

  I’ve never heard her this angry before. I do the only thing I can think of. I deny.

  “What? I have not. Why would you even think that?”

  “I talked to Tiffany last night, Santos.” I stop breathing. “She told me everything.”

  I run my fingers through my hair and continue with my pacing. “Babe. She is a groupie. She will say anything to cause trouble. That’s what they do, Mariana. You know better than to listen to a cleat chaser.”

  “She knows you hum, Santos.”

  My entire body stills. There is no way to come back from that. I know that. She knows that. I am so fucked.

  “I love you, Santos. But I deserve better. I deserve a man who is going to be faithful and not give me excuses and lies. The girls deserve to see how a man should treat them. And Theo deserves to learn how to respect women and what it means to be a real husband. You aren’t just failing me. You’re failing all of us.”

  I wince, like I’ve been punched.

  “My attorney is drawing up the papers on Monday. It’s up to you if you want to contest the divorce or make it easy. It makes no difference to me.”

  I clear my throat. “Um… can I… when can I see the kids?”

  “Don’t you have a road trip this week.”

  “Yeah,” I answer quietly.

  “Text me when you get back. We’ll figure something out.”

  I nod even though she can’t see me. “Mari.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mariana, I love you. So much. I’m so sorry.”

  She pauses momentarily. “That’s not enough,” she spits out angrily and hangs up.

  I slowly crumble onto the couch and drop my phone on the ground. My mind is spinning.

  She left me. She took my kids and she left me.

  I had everything I ever wanted but just lost it all.

  And it’s all my own damn fault.

  Six months later

  I wake with a start. My eyes may only be half open, but my mom-senses mean I can take stock of what’s going on around me almost instantaneously.

  Is a kiddo crying? No.

  Is there a burglar ratting around the apartment? No.

  Did I get a leg cramp? No. I’m still face down in my pillow, starfishing across the bed with one leg sticking out of the blankets.

  Now that I know everything is fine, I let myself fall back into dreamland.

  I wake with a start a second time. Now I know something is happening. I don’t move, almost hoping it’s a leg cramp, just so I don’t have to move for a few more minutes.

  No such luck. Theo begins to cry in his crib across the room. I sit up, wipe my eyes so I can see the clock without any blur, and look at him.

  “Really? It’s six-thirty-seven. Is it necessary to be up so early?”

  His little bottom lip quivers as he stands there looking at me. I sigh. Someday, I’ll get to sleep in past seven again. Someday.

  Scooting to the edge of my bed, I smell the problem.

  “Phew!” I grimace as I wave my hand in front of my nose. “You stink, lovebug. Is that what woke you up?”

  He waves his hands in excitement as I reach in and pick him up. The nice thing about sharing a room with a thirteen-month-old is I don’t have to go very far when I need to tend to him. The bad thing about sharing a room with a thirteen-month-old is he hears every move I make. For a kid that would much rather sleep with his mommy than in his own crib, this has meant months of sleeping as soundly as I possibly can. Which means not sleeping well every night because I’m too busy trying to sleep quietly.

  I really think too much about these things.

  Dirty diaper disposed of, Theo is in a much better mood.

  “Alright, dude. Since you’re up, I guess we should get this day started.”

  We shuffle our way past the girls’ bedroom and into the small open-concept living area. I plop Theo down next to his toy bucket and he immediately grabs for it, toppling it over. I wince at the sounds it makes, knowing that means I’m about to have two more kiddos wandering out here for breakfast.

  I sigh again. I love my children. More than anything in this world. But sometimes it feels a little overwhelming doing this on my own. If Santos was here, he would have been up with the kids and let me sleep for another hour or two, knowing I stay up so late to get everything done. Dishes, laundry, and cleaning are hard enough to keep up on when there are two adults in the house. When there’s only one, it seems like it’s never-ending.

  No. I can’t think like that. What Santos would or wouldn’t do is irrelevant. He isn’t here. He’s never going to be here. I’m making my own new normal.

  “Ok self,” I whisper quietly as I pull the eggs out of the fridge, “today, you will demand to be respected. You are not perfect, but you deserve respect. From your peers. From your children. From yourself. So let’s do this.”

  It’s a mantra I picked up a few months back when a random friend on Facebook posted the quote “Demand respect. You deserve it.” Five simple words, but words that hit me just when I needed them most. So now, every morning, I wake up reminding myself that it is still true.

  By the time I have a pan on the stove and a few eggs cracked, I hear more little voices. Myra, who is five, is a morning person just like her father. I can hear her giggling with Theo in the living room already. Lina, on the other hand, is a night owl like me.

  She slowly shuffles her way into the room, hair sticking up everywhere and eyes half open. Her little three-year-old body struggles to climb up on the barstool, but she finally manages to get herself settled before plopping her head back down on her arms.

  “Good morning, sweet cheeks,” I say with a smile in her direction. “Did you sleep well?”

  Her little head moves in what looks like a nodding motion. “I dreamed we lived in Candyland.”

  “The game?”

  “Uh huh. I ate gumdwops.”

  “Well that does sound like a nice dream.”

  “Uh huh,” she answers, and I know better than to continue on with the conversation. She’ll wake up once she gets a little food in her. Until then, it’s best not to try to have any meaningful discussions with her.

  I continue scrambling eggs for breakfast and make my coffee. It’s the only way I’ll make it through the day. Not that there�
��s much actual functioning I need to do to get everything accomplished. It gets boring after a while, being alone with the kids. I spent over a decade revolving my life around Santos. Preparing him the healthiest foods I could cook, making sure his gear was where he could find it, planning family time around his schedules. But now… now I can eat whatever kind of pre-packaged crap I want. The most organization I have is where the towels go after being laundered. And family time is pretty much all day, every day.

  Frankly, it’s lonely.

  The worst part of loneliness is it makes my mind drift and I question myself and how I got here in the first place. Was I not a good enough wife? Did I complain too much about him being away? Was I terrible in bed? Did the baby weight I couldn’t lose turn him off? Is that why he preferred sex with other people? Because they were young and skinny and beautiful?

  I feel my heart speeding up at these insecure thoughts. I’ve never been completely confident in myself as a person or a woman. It’s just my emotional make up. That’s probably why I poured so much of myself into being a mom and wife… to make myself feel like I was good enough.

  “No. I will not go there,” I remind myself as I plate the eggs. “I demand respect because I deserve respect.”

  All of the sudden I hear a thunk followed by a wail.

  “What happened?” I yell around the corner.

  “Theo fell down,” Myra informs me while carrying him into the room. I almost laugh at how much she is struggling under the weight of him, but she is determined to bring him to me.

  “I figured that part,” I say as I take him from her arms and comfortingly pat his back. He immediately lays his head on my shoulder and tucks his arms under. I knew he was going to go right back to sleep after he woke everyone else up. Happens every time. “Did he hit his head?”

  “No.” She climbs up on the other barstool.