Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) (25 page)

"Adria!" the bartender exclaimed from behind the heavy oak wood bar, stained almost black by years of spilled beer, cigarette smoke and oils rubbed over many years from the palms of thousands of drinkers. "We haven't seen you all week."

"I…" Adria began, but before he had even the slightest of chances to say a word, Hector recovered his ability to talk.

"Boys," he blustered, "you'll never believe who Adria has brought to us."

There was a faint murmur from the crowd, but it was so obscured by the dim light I could barely make out.

"Tell us," someone shouted from inside. "And for God’s sake, close the door!" This was greeted by cheers and the thundering sound of tankards of beer thudding against the tables.

I walked inside, bending to accommodate the low doorway, and the heavy black wooden door swung shut behind me.

"Who's the boyfriend, then?" some wit shouted from the crowd.

Adria chuckled. "I've brought today's scorer for a drink."

"Yeah right," came the cry. "Why would a Barcelona player come to drink with us rogues?"

"Because," I said, tired of hearing Hector and Adria talk for me, "who else would I want to drink with after a victory than with the fans?"

The crowd fell quiet and left the bar silent, other than the sound of a couple of wooden stools scraping against the floor. "Surely not?" someone exclaimed.

"No, it is – it's him!" another excited voice shouted.

"Well, if it's not him, it's close enough that I don't care. Someone get this man a beer!"

Half a dozen hands reached out of the dim light and pulled me towards the nearest stool. "What the hell are you doing here?" an excited face asked.

I accepted the proffered beer gratefully. "I was thirsty." I smiled, greedily sipping the beer. It was half finished by the time I stopped. "Damn, I needed that."

"Another," came the cry.

"Who do I pay?" I asked. "Drinks are on me tonight, okay?"

"Nonsense," Adria bellowed, "what kind of hosts would we be if we made you pay? You've paid us a hundred times by scoring this afternoon. You'll drink here for free whenever you want."

"Cheers to that," I said, raising my glass. A dozen more, in varying states of emptiness, raised to greet it. "
Salut!
" they echoed.

I leaned back, an excited fan's arm draped around my shoulder, and drained my glass, feeling the first hints of the alcohol's warmth beginning to caress my stomach. This felt like a place I'd always been meant to visit. It felt like home.

"
Y
ou coming
?" Tim asked, poking his head out of the truck window.

"Don't worry, I'll get a taxi," I said. "I need to call my mom before she goes to sleep."

"You sure?" he asked, shooting me a surprised look. "You can do it in the truck if you want – I promise I won't listen. It'll be murder getting back into the city if you wait much longer…"

"I'm sure." I beamed, making sure that Tim knew it wasn't personal. I did need to call my mom, that much was true, but that wasn't the reason I was hanging around the training ground.

"Have it your way." He smirked, putting the truck into gear and reversing out of the parking space. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure thing." I smiled.

I sat down on the curb and watched as he drove away, the black WBC Sports truck paling in significance compared to the rows of supercars that arrayed the training ground's parking lot. The sun glinted off them, testifying to the amount of hard work that went into keeping them looking as though they'd just rolled off the lot.

Some of them, I thought, probably had. It seemed like every time I came up here to film a segment, there was a new car. After all, if I were an athlete being paid twenty million bucks a year, without even throwing endorsements into the mix, I'd probably want to find something to spend my money on as well.

I shuffled over and rested my back against a lamppost, its metal heated to an almost uncomfortable temperature by the mid-afternoon sun with my cellphone held to my ear. The beeps and squawks that signified I was making an international call seemed to carry on for ages before I finally heard the familiar, comforting ringing sound of my mom's telephone.

"Di," she exclaimed happily, "I wasn't expecting your call! How are you?"

"I'm doing okay, Mom," I said, faking a smile in the hope that the warmth would somehow be heard in my voice.

"How's Barcelona?" she gushed. "We’re all so proud of you, Di."

"Oh," I squirmed awkwardly, "don't say that, Mom."

"Why not?" She giggled. "How can you tell me not to be proud of my only daughter? I'm just sorry there wasn't time to give you a going away party!"

"I'm glad you didn't," I sighed. "Who knows, I might be back sooner than you think."

Her voice instantly changed, and she spoke calmly and soothingly. It evoked memories of being stroked and crooned to sleep as a child. "What do you mean?"

"It's nothing, Mom, don't worry about it."

"Now, Miss Lopez," she said more forcefully, her Hispanic roots beginning to infect her tone of voice more now she was worked up, "don't you lie to me. I can tell there’s something wrong. Are you homesick? Your dad and I can come and visit if you like – just say the word."

I wanted nothing more than to see her and to have her arms draped around me in a hug.

"You know you can't afford that, Mom." I sniffed. "But thanks for offering. It means a lot."

"We can afford it," she replied, "we'd just need to cut back for a little while, that's all."

"I'm not homesick, Mom," I replied hastily, desperate to head my mother off as soon as possible. The truth was, they
couldn't
afford it – and they'd sacrificed far too much for me as it was. "I'll come back when I can, but it's time you and Dad spent some money on yourselves!"

"Oh, honey," she said, "we've got years to do that, but we've only got one kid. But we'll do it your way,
chica
. So tell me, what's wrong – if it's not homesickness, there must be something…"

I paused. The truth was, I hadn't just called home to hear my mom's voice and catch up, nice as those things were – I was in the middle of a moral dilemma and I needed her counsel. I’d tossed and turned for two sleepless nights since the press conference, and as much as I wanted to just hear a friendly voice – I knew I needed more than that.

"You're right," I sighed. "I'm beginning to think I'm just not much good at this," my voice cracked, "this reporting thing. It's a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"Nonsense," she said firmly down the phone, "who said that about you?"

"No one, Mom." I smiled, a tear trickling down my face. I wiped it away, cursing the fact that I was wearing camera makeup. I'd need to strip it all off my face now. "It's me, I—"

"What is it, honey?" she asked anxiously. "You know you can tell me."

At that, it all began to pour out, like a dam wall had been breached – all the stress, emotion and worry of the past couple of days began to burst out of me in one long, cathartic wail.

"I think I screwed up, Mom," I sobbed. "It's really tough out here – the only Americans seem to hate me, so there's no one to talk to, and I can't blame them, because I screwed up, and I'm beginning to think that I'm a horrible person—"

She interrupted again. "Don't you ever say that,
chica
," she chided me forcefully. "Whatever you've done, you're not a
horrible person
. Don't be silly."

"But I am," I continued sadly. "I thought I was going to have such great morals, perfect ethics – but the first time any of that was really tested, I just turned into a cheap hit journalist. I don't want to be one, Mom," I cried.

"So you made a mistake," she said. I could hear the smile on her face, and it touched me even in the depths of my despair. "That doesn't make you horrible deep down."

"Doesn't it?" I sniffed. "If I did it once, doesn't that mean it's just, I dunno, like part of me? Won't I just keep doing it?"

"
Chica
, stop crying," my mom pleaded. "Are you going to keep doing it?"

"No," I sobbed.

"Then you've got your answer, haven't you? Making a mistake doesn't make you bad. Would a bad person be so broken up about a little mistake?"

"I guess not," I sniffed, wiping my eyes.

"Then it's up to you, isn't it?" She laughed. "If you don't want to be horrible, it's simple – don't be. Have you apologized to whoever it was you think you've hurt?"

"Not yet, Mom," I smiled wanly, "but I'm just about to."

My eyes noticed movement ahead of me, and I saw a couple of players exiting the automatic doors that led into the enormous, modern training complex, most with huge Beats headphones wrapped around their ears.

"Mom, I gotta go," I said hurriedly.

"Are you sure you're okay…"

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be fine," I said, and then punched my finger down to the screen of the cellphone, killing the line.

I stood up, quickly drying my tears on the back of my arm, and kept a keen eye out for Alex. One by one, the young athletes got into their cars, and the expensive supercars revved up and pulled out of the parking lot. It was like going to a car show, and for a few minutes, I wished I had a pair of earplugs in my handbag to shield my eardrums from the aggressive, throbbing noise of the high octane engines.

There were only two cars left in the lot – a sparkling red Ferrari that must've been worth at least a quarter of a million dollars, and a gunmetal grey Audi R8. I squinted against the sunlight to check that Alex wasn't the owner of the Ferrari, but reassured myself that he wasn't. The driver, who was still fiddling with his leather holdall, was at least two inches shorter than the man I was waiting for, and far from as handsome.

Even he departed, leaving me alone in the parking lot, about twenty yards away from what I presumed was Alex's Audi. I felt my stomach clench with anticipation – I was a bundle of nerves.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty, and before long, the sun was beginning to fall towards the horizon. I'd returned to my spot against a lamppost, but after half an hour in the shade, its heat was beginning to fade.

And then, finally, I saw him leaving the training ground. I gasped – he was even more handsome than I'd remembered. He was dressed in black jeans that were tight only because of the sheer power contained in his muscular legs, rather than because he was a follower of fashion; a plain white tee that similarly stretched against his bulging chest and biceps, and a black baseball cap pulled backwards over his head. His skin glowed with a deep, golden hue – I assumed as a result of the long, sunny days spent honing his craft on the training field.

I leapt to my feet and hurried over towards his car. He had his music playing, the tell-tale white earbuds clearly visible against his tanned face, and wasn't paying attention to the world ahead of him.

"Hi," I said shyly as he approached.

He halted and looked up curiously, but the moment he saw me, his face twisted with a visceral expression of dislike. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "If you think you're getting a story out of me, you better think twice."

"No, no," I said, raising my palms peaceably, "it's not like that."

"I don't care what this is about, I'm not interested," he said, jacking the passenger seat of the Audi forward to create space to toss his sport bag onto the rear seats.

"I'm here to… apologize," I said haltingly. "I know I fucked up, and I just wanted to tell you I was sorry, and that I won't be causing you any more trouble."

He pulled himself up and out of the car, shooting me with a surprised, suspicious stare. "Whatever you're selling," he snarled, "I'm not buying it. You're a reporter, it's your job."

"Look," I said desperately, "I really didn't come here to pick a fight. I'm going to have to keep reporting on you, of course I will – hell, you're the only reason the network sent me out here, you know that?"

Alex's posture changed imperceptibly, his chest pulled back marginally, and he shifted his weight onto his heels rather than the balls of his feet – all in all, he suddenly looked a whole lot less threatening, and definitely less suspicious of my motives.

"I didn't…" he replied.

"Well, it's true. They think you're going to be a hit with the ladies back home, and soccer's becoming pretty popular."

"It is," he replied, still sticking to short, noncommittal words, seemingly not allowing himself to get too involved in the conversation.

"Listen, that's all I had to say," I finished lamely. "I'll keep out of your way as much as I can – I just wanted you to know that I won't be such an asshole in the future, okay?"

He stared at me for a few seconds, and I began to feel uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. Finally, he spoke. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?" he said softly.

My shoulders sank, and I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "This is my first gig – but that's no excuse."

"No, it's not," he said. He didn't sound judgmental, just stating the facts. "Hey," he said, for the first time changing his expression – this time to one of concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I smiled weakly, "why do you ask?"

"You look like you've been crying," he replied, looking as though he was worried, but against his better judgement.

"Oh, yeah," I said, feeling ashamed. "Don't worry about it." The last thing I wanted was for Alex to think I was somehow playing him – trying to manipulate my way out of my screw-up.

He leaned against his car, a gamut of expressions flashing across his face. Finally, he sighed deeply, as though he'd come to a conclusion. "Listen, it's water under the bridge – alright?"

"You mean it?" I said hesitantly.

"Yeah – we're good." He smiled. "We've all gotta do what we've gotta do, right?"

"Right," I echoed.

"Just don't throw me under the bridge next time, okay?" He winked.

"You don't have to worry about that." I smiled with relief. "The last couple of days have been horrible. I feel terrible about what I did."

"Cut yourself some slack," he said. "It pissed me off at the time, but I got over it. You should too."

"Hey," I said curiously, "can I ask you something? How come you were out so much later than everyone else? I was beginning to think you'd just left your car here."

"I do sometimes," Alex replied, smiling to himself as though he was remembering a private joke, "but I was practicing."

"After everyone else leaves?" I asked, surprised. It didn't fit my mental picture of Alex – a naturally skilled playboy who relied on his talent, rather than hard graft.

"I'm the new boy," he said, leaning against his car with exhaustion, "and my teammates are the best in the world. I don't just want to be good – I want to be great."

I studied Alex's proud, confident stance and ebullient self-confidence pouring out of his face and was left under no doubt that he'd make it where he wanted to go – straight to the top. "I'm impressed," I said honestly.

"Didn't think I had it in me?" He smiled.

I blushed ruefully. "Well, you do have a certain…"

"Reputation?"

"Reputation," I agreed. "Your picture’s in the newspaper, after all."

He shuffled his feet, flushing slightly with embarrassment. "I don't think they’re there to take photos of
me
…"

"No," I grinned, "I guess those pretty starlets always getting pictured with their arms wrapped around you are still slightly more famous." As I said it, I felt a sudden, unexpected pang of jealousy surge through my body. I could hardly credit it – but all of a sudden I wanted to know what it felt like to have my arms wrapped around his thick, powerful, muscled waist.

"For now." He grinned. I looked at him carefully – he was joking, mostly, but there was an underlying current of truth to what he said. He didn't just want to be famous, like so many aspiring athletes – he expected to be. And frankly, I wouldn't put it past him.

"For now," I agreed. "Listen," I said, readying myself to leave, "I just wanted to apologize – I won't keep you any longer."

I thought that I detected a hint of disappointment flashing across Alex's face, but I wasn't sure.

"Are you sure I can't give you a lift?" he asked, pointing at the shiny Audi we were standing next to. "There's space for a little one…"

"Thank you," I smiled, "but it's fine. I really should start getting to grips with the buses here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

I wanted more than anything to take him up on his offer, and the sudden and very vivid imagery of my legs wrapped around his body in the small, cramped front seat of the sports car that flashed across my mind's eye did nothing to dissuade me, but the last thing I needed in my life was a fling with the very man I'd been sent out here to cover. I felt as though agreeing to share a ride with him would be somehow pivotal – it would change our relationship in a way I wasn't sure I was happy with.