Winning Brynn (Seattle Strikers)

25. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Leo

Things with Brynn haven't been tense since the conversation outside the children's home the other day, per se—no more so than usual, anyway—but I'm under no illusions that she's forgiven me.

Fair enough, to be honest.

I was a major prick, which is apparently everyone's favorite word at the minute. And I left that conversation feeling thoroughly chastised and ashamed, which, if that was her goal, she accomplished flawlessly.

Mission complete.

Leo Sullivan is a first-prize asshole.

That said, I still don't fully understand the whole influencer thing, but then, I guess it isn't too far off from the sponsorship deals I do. And photoshoots can be hard work, man. All sweaty and shit because apparently international fashion empires don't put much stock in air-conditioning, particularly back in the UK.

That's one of the perks of living in the States, I will admit. The AC. And trust me, the list of perks isn't very long at all. Target and air-conditioning, that's it.

But I digress.

Modeling is hard, marketing is harder, and maintaining a consistent social media presence is a fucking ball ache. So, maybe I don't totally get building a career out of those things, but I can set aside my pride and former judgments to admit that, yeah, actually, it's probably pretty hard work.

And she's good at it.

So I hear, anyway.

I didn't spend hours on the flight to Chicago scrolling through her Instagram while she sat in the seats in front of me with my daughter on her lap. Not once did I have to think about Alex's man bun to stop myself from getting hard because some of her posts really toe the line between effortless sophistication and outright sex appeal.

And cerulean blue is certainly NOT my favorite color now simply because of the bikini she was wearing in a photo of her vacationing in the Bahamas.

I'm not a pervert.

I just mean that I'd probably buy that swimsuit in a heartbeat if I didn't have a dick. Good at her job, that's all I'm saying.

And now I'm staring at her again—by accident, obviously—as she stands in the VIP suite with Salem on her hip, watching the game. I'm not the only one either. The boys could hardly contain themselves on the plane over here, sneaking glances in her direction or even gawking at her, just as they're doing now.

My poor best friend. He's spent the last eighteen hours deflecting any and all attention away from his sister, so midway through the match, when Coach Carter swaps him out for Rutherford—nice enough guy, bit of a dickhead player—I think he's just grateful for the rest.

Little psycho needs a nap.

His exhaustion is what I'm blaming for his decision to nominate Theo as team captain for the remainder of the game. Because seriously? The dude sank seven beers in the hotel bar last night and could barely remember his own name this morning.

But fine.

Whatever.

I'm not bitter at all.

It's not as if we've been playing for seventy minutes and have yet to score a goal. And sure, it's a friendly, but I'm pretty sure we haven't touched the ball at all for the last fifteen minutes, which is, quite frankly, pitiful.

And it's no one’s individual fault.

We're all playing like shit. Though, thankfully, so is the other team.

Another ten minutes pass of benign plays that get us no closer to winning, and I can see Coach's face grow increasingly more purple in color in my periphery. I guess he grows sick of our shit when Chicago Fire makes a failed corner that ultimately sends the ball soaring into the stands behind the goal, leading him to perform a rapid—and somewhat aggressive—series of hand gestures at Theo, who looks back at him with bleary eyes.

Though, to Theo's credit, he communicates the new set of instructions to the rest of us with more efficiency than I knew him capable of.

Formation change. Center midfielder—aka me—to push forward after the goal kick. We have about five seconds to process the information before Arun sends the ball flying down the center line, where it's received by Rutherford, who's flanked by two Chicago Fire defenders.

But the dickhead doesn't even look up. Doesn't check on the rest of the team for open players, like me, who's currently hurtling down the left wing without opposition. So, I shout. Then shout again. Finally, he looks up, and his eyes meet mine.

Say what you want about the guy, but he can execute an excellent through ball.

It finds me where I need it to, and I keep running. There's a player on my tail now, but I'm too close to the box for him to do anything about it, and the keeper is coming for me and spreading himself wide to protect the goal, leaving his legs the perfect width apart for me to send the ball gliding through them and into the bottom right corner of the net.

I'm flattened to the grass as my teammates throw themselves on top of me in celebration, whooping and hollering so loudly I can barely hear the chants of the dedicated Seattle Strikers fans who came to watch.

Through the corner of my eye, I can just about make out Coach's face, which looks somewhat less purple now, though still a hearty shade of maroon.

But there's only one person I want to see right now.

Shaking the guys off me, I look up at the family suite to find my daughter. Brynn dressed her in a baby-size kit this morning, with my name and the number eleven written on the back. I swear to God, I melted when I saw her. My baby girl in her daddy's shirt. Too fucking cute for words. You can’t even see it now, given the snowsuit she’s wearing, but I know she’s wearing it, and that’s good enough.

So, I blow her a kiss. Because that's what I do after every goal I score since she became my new reason for being. But as I do, my gaze snags on the woman holding her. Smiling like her lips are laced with sunshine and wearing yet another one of my ball caps that she stole from me this morning, Brynn whoops in celebration.

She's a wet dream in a cute, flared skirt with a soccer shirt tucked into it. She'd be an even wetter dream if it was the number eleven on her back instead of seven for her brother. She must be freezing, but fashion over comfort, right? She’s told me that a time or two over the past few weeks.

And it hits me right in the gut.

How much I wish she wasn't standing there with my daughter on her hip and celebrating simply because she's Salem's nanny. That she was here cheering me on just because she wants to. Not to watch her brother or my daughter, but to watch me .

" Leo ."

My name comes hissed and distant.

"Leo."

Weird, I must be dreaming.

"LEO!"

My eyelids fly open, wild and confused. It takes a second for my vision to adjust to the darkness, just enough that I'm able to make out Brynn standing, all shaky and nervous, right beside my bed.

For a brief, horror-filled moment, I fear the worst.

"Is Salem okay?" I croak out, trying to catch a glimpse of my daughter in her crib on the other side of the bed.

"Yes, yes," Brynn rushes out, tugging at her tiny silk pajama top. "Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

I blow out a long sigh of relief then check the time on my phone.

2:14 am.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Her eyes drop sheepishly. Tucking a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, she gnaws on her bottom lip. "I had a bad dream," she whispers, having the good grace to look ashamed for waking me up at such a ridiculous hour of the morning.

Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I rest my back against the headboard with a sigh. "Okay?"

"Remember last week, when I woke up from a nightmare and you were there?" I nod. "Sometimes, I'm too stressed out to go back to sleep. But you calmed me down, I guess, and after you left, I... I could."

Ah, fuck.

Guess I'm not going back to sleep myself for a while now.

I rub my tired eyes with a yawn. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Would that be okay?" she asks like a dumbass, as if she hasn't woken me up in the dead of night for the sole reason of doing what I just offered.

"Well, I'm awake now, aren't I?"

She ignores the audible vexation in my tone and scrambles onto the bed. I'd be lying if I said that my eyes didn't drop to the long expanse of her bare legs, all toned and tan and inconveniently sexy, as she takes a seat on the mattress beside me. But I'm only human. And I don't have the best handle on my self-control when I'm half-asleep, so it's a blessing I'm not fully stroking them right now.

Because, fuck me, does her skin look soft.

"Okay, don't laugh," she prefaces, which is an awful opener to a story, I must admit, because if someone tells a person not to laugh at something, it increases the likelihood of said person laughing tenfold. But I keep that to myself and wave a hand for her to proceed.

"I was helping Indiana Jones find his lasso." My lips twitch, and she scowls but doesn't stop. "Because he lost it while he was searching for the lost ark. And that would have been fine, except I was running late for a meeting with Elton John. He'd heard the rendition I did of 'My Heart Will Go On' from that pageant with Celine Dion, remember?"

She waits for me to nod before continuing.

"Anyway, he heard that and set up a meeting to arrange a collaboration. It would have done huge things for my singing career, but Indiana and I still couldn't find his lasso, and so I was faced with a moral conundrum. Do I miss the meeting and keep looking? Or do I go to the meeting anyway at the risk of Indiana never finding his lasso, leading to his premature retirement and, ultimately, the world's demise?"

I bite back the response that she might be harboring guilt on some level about indirectly causing me to miss my call with Adidas the other day, only because she might think I'm being sarcastic and petty, which, honestly, wouldn't be the case.

I had other options for childcare for Say that day. I just hadn't thought about them at the time. And what she was doing was important—admirable, even.

So, really, though it begrudges me to admit it, it wasn't Brynn's fault at all that I missed that call…but mine.

"What did you choose?" I ask, genuinely interested. I don't know why, since this entire scenario occurred in her unconscious mind, and the woman can't sing for shit—I've heard her before, and she's horrendous—not to mention how utterly ridiculous the dream is in general.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I woke up."

I nod silently because I have no fucking idea what to say.

"It just made me a bit anxious, that's all." She takes note of my bewilderment and shakes her head, swinging her legs out of bed. "Never mind. You think I'm silly. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I can go back to bed now."

And though all I want to do right now is to go back to sleep, I find myself grabbing her arm and pulling her back to where she was before.

"Why did it make you anxious?" I ask gently.

She searches my face for something, a sign of insincerity maybe. But whatever she's looking for, she doesn't find it. Or maybe she does—I don't know—but either way, she starts talking. “What if I chose the wrong one?"

I frown, not following. "What do you mean?"

"What if I went to the meeting with Elton John?" she whispers. "And then Indiana Jones couldn't save the world anymore because of my selfishness?"

I choose my words carefully, sensing that this is an anxiety that runs deeper for her than just lassos and meetings with Elton John. "Well, if you could choose now, what would you do?"

Her brow creases. "Does it matter? I'm not asleep anymore."

"So?" I shrug. "I feel like you're doubting yourself right now, so I think it's important that you answer the question."

She tilts her head to one side, assessing me. And though I know it's impossible, since humans are physically unable to see color in low light, I swear I can see the dapple of gold dancing in her irises.

"I'd help Indiana," she says finally.

"Yeah, you would."

"It's hard sometimes," she begins, and my heart takes a nosedive because I know whatever she's about to say is going to ruin me. "To remember who I am."

My lack of understanding must show on my face, because she continues, "I think that, being raised in care for a while, I learned that it's easier to protect myself if I only let people see so much. Like, it doesn't hurt so much if people don't like me, because the person they don't like isn't actually me, you know?" I was right. She's ruining me. "But I've been doing it for so long that sometimes, maybe, I don't really know who I am either."

Jesus .

Shoot me right in the heart with a fucking arrow.

This woman is a goddamn enigma.

"I feel like I know who you are," I admit quietly.

She raises a skeptical brow. "You think I'm a self-obsessed airhead who only cares about shopping and taking selfies."

Ouch.

"I don't anymore."

"But you did," she says pointedly.

"Yeah, but I was a prick." I smile and pray to God she returns it. Thankfully, she does, and I sag in relief. "But now..."

"Now?"

"Now, I think you're driven. Brave. Capable." She blinks in surprise, but I don't let her cut in. "I watch you with Salem, and you're so natural with her. Nurturing, like a mother. Attentive, caring, and kind. It’s as if you love her like she's your own. And the other day, when you dropped everything to go and comfort a little girl in the group home who needed you? If that isn't the furthest thing from selfishness, then I don't know what is."

I shake my head, not realizing how much I mean what I'm saying until the words are actually leaving my lips. "And with your career, sure, I don't totally understand it, but I know you've worked really fucking hard to get where you are. I know you're good at what you do, and I know many young girls look up to you, not just because they want to look like you, but because they admire who you are…at your core," I say, almost breathless now, "and in your heart."

"That was..." Her voice cracks, the briefest glimpse of a tear appearing in the corner of her eye. "That was really nice."

I mean, it was more than nice, but sure.

"You're welcome." I nod, even though she didn't actually thank me. It's a good thing I didn't add "grateful" to my exhausting soliloquy of compliments.

"I'm gonna go back to bed now," she says but doesn't move from her position.

"Okay."

"Okay," she repeats. Still doesn't move.

Several more beats of silence pass, and I begin to wonder if she's waiting for me to say something, but then she shuffles herself out of the bed and pads to the door connecting our rooms.

"Goodnight," she says around a soft smile.

"Goodnight, Brynn." And I've got the same stupid look on my face, but for some reason, I don't give a shit.

"Oh, and Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."