Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (35 page)

I
didn't want
to go into the doctor's office a few days later, knowing what was waiting for me. Luisa seemed a little slow walking toward the door, both of us knowing it was inevitable. When we got to the door, she reached up and pulled her hand back from the handle, not wanting to touch it, but eventually doing so and opening it for me.

The nights since my father came back home had been the best of my life. After discussing business with Guillermo Mendosa, the two crime lords agreed on a beneficial partnership, one that would give the Mendosas a foothold in the Pacific Northwest with their beef and agricultural exports, while the Bertolis would be the exclusive distribution company for said exports. It was a win-win for both parties, and one that could exist totally above-board, giving legitimacy to both groups and giving the IRS another reason to stay off our collective asses.

The evenings with Luisa were the highlight for me, though. We made love every night, starting from just after dinner until we both fell asleep in my bed. We were insatiable, hungry for each other's body as much as we were relishing in the discovery of the person who truly was our soul mate. The only thing we didn't do was say the three words that were on the tips of both of our tongues. Our inevitable parting would be painful enough without those words hanging in the air between us.

Which brought us to the day at the doctor's office. Not our family doctor, but the orthopedic surgeon who’d done the repair of my ankle. "Mr. Bertoli, in the twenty years I've been doing surgery, I've done maybe a hundred ankle reconstructions," he said as he studied the x-rays again. "It's not one of those surgeries that you get to do a lot of, and it's certainly not the type that you expect people to quickly recover from. In fact, most of my patients walk with some sort of hitch in their step for the rest of their lives. In your case, I can say that you’re recovering faster and stronger than most patients that I treat. The bones in your ankle are setting well, and even the tendon reattachments seem to be strengthening. We don't normally see that until six weeks or more from now, when movement is started. This is remarkable."

"Oh . . . great," I muttered, trying not to sound too down. It was of course great news, but Luisa and I both knew what was to come.

Still, the doctor noticed, and he looked up from the chart he'd been scribbling on. "I would’ve expected a more enthusiastic reaction, Mr. Bertoli. You should be back to your normal self before you know it.”

I blinked and put a fake smile on my face. "It's great news, doc—just other things on my mind, that's all."

"I see. Well, you can start putting weight on the foot as long as you keep that brace on. Slowly increase weight as you go, but you'll need to keep your crutches for at least another two or three weeks. After that, we can look at transitioning you to a cane or something. Let me go talk to my assistant, and we'll get you scheduled for your next checkup. Is there anything in your schedule that we need to accommodate?”

"No," I said quietly, "nothing."
Nothing except I want you to smack my fucking leg with a baseball bat so I can have an excuse for Luisa to stay longer,
I thought as he left the room. Alone, I looked at her. She kept a brave, calm look on her face. The doctor came back, holding an appointment slip, and that was that.

Walking out, both of us were glum, and the ride back to the mansion was practically silent, with not even the radio playing to break up the depressing atmosphere. We got home and were greeted by Dad, who saw our somber expressions. "Your ankle doing better?"

"Ahead of schedule," I replied, looking down at the offensive limb and cursing it. "Apparently, all the care and attention from Luisa has given me super recuperative powers."

My father nodded and took a deep breath. "I see. Luisa, I’d love to have you stay longer, but your tourist visa will expire soon, and now that my son is semi-mobile . . .”

"I know, Mr. Bertoli," Luisa whispered. “My father expects me home soon. Can you have someone make the arrangements for me?"

"Of course. I spoke with him while you were at the doctor—he’s a little anxious. He wants you to fly out tomorrow." Dad looked at the two of us for a minute, then turned. "We'll have dinner at seven. Adriana and Daniel caught an early flight, so they’ll be joining us."

"Thanks," I said, taking Luisa's hand. "We'll look forward to it."

We went to Luisa's room, where she picked her suitcase up out of the corner where she'd been keeping it and set it on the bed. "If you don’t mind, I think I'll pack," she said quietly. "I need the time to think."

“You don’t want help?” I asked. "I can at least carry some clothes."

She shook her head, looking up at me for the first time in a half-hour. Her eyes were full of pain, and she looked like she was about to cry. "I need this time alone—I'll see you at dinner."

I swallowed and nodded, crutch-walking out to the pool and taking a seat next to the table. I watched the late afternoon sun reflect on the pool, the never repeating but still strangely familiar patterns of the sun against the pool bottom lulling me into at least a half-stupor. I was startled when I heard the screen door to the mansion slide shut, and I looked to see my cousin crossing the pool deck toward me. She looked healthy and happy, and despite the sadness of the day, I was glad to see her. "Hey, Red."

"Hey, Tommy," she said before stopping to correct herself. "Sorry . . . Tomasso."

I shook my head, waving it off. “How're you doing?"

"Better than you are, from the looks of it," she said, taking the chair next to me. "You look like someone just gave you a terminal diagnosis. From what Uncle Carlo said, you should be doing backflips into the deep end of the pool. Or at least doing fist pumps."

I didn't react to her little joke, and she tried again. "You know, I start up my senior year soon. Classes start just after your birthday. Any advice?”

"No," I said, looking back into the pool. "You got everything you need out of college anyways. You've got the skills and you've got the vision. This year is just going to be a breeze for you."

"So she leaves tomorrow?"

"Early flight . . .” I rasped, my voice catching in my throat. I coughed twice, then tried again. "Early flight," I repeated, more clear this time.

Adriana nodded. "And then?"

I shrugged. "What is there to say? She goes back to Brazil, and I go back to work and rehab. We'll swap emails for a while, maybe a video call once in a while, but life will get in the way. She'll miss a call, I'll miss an email, and suddenly, we're realizing that we haven't heard from each other in three or four months, and the pain won't be as bad as we thought it would be. Life goes on."

She looked at me and shook her head. "It doesn't have to be that way. You could tell her how you feel."

“I don’t have to—she knows. She’s committed to her father and her family . . . I can’t ask her to leave that. Besides, her father would never allow it. What can I do?"

"I don't know," Adriana said. "Promise me one thing, though."

"What?"

"Tell her before she leaves, even if you think she already knows. Miracles do happen. I should know."

* * *

T
he next morning
, Daniel dropped us off at SeaTac. The skycap came around and took Luisa's bags, and we went to check-in, where she showed her passport and got her e-reservation stamped. "First class, just like your father promised," she whispered as she looked at the boarding pass. "Thank him for me."

"I will," I said. My eyes were red, although with sadness or exhaustion, I wasn't sure. We'd made love one last time the night before, tears mixing with our other sounds as we were sure it would be our last time. I hadn't slept, afraid to miss any second or shared moment I had left with her. She’d been the same way, and this morning, both of us looked like hell. Breakfast was nothing more than a quick mug of what Daniel called 'ultra bulletproof coffee,' meant to combine caffeine with enough calories to keep us both going till lunch. I had no idea how many spoonfuls of coconut oil he had stirred in, but it was something I never wanted to drink again.

"Do you have your book?" I asked, trying to think of anything to say.

"Yes—thank you," she said, patting her backpack. I'd given her the book she'd picked out for me during my stay in the hospital, and on the inside, I'd written my email as well as my phone number. "I don't know how much I'm going to read on the flight, though. I'll probably be asleep before I even reach cruising altitude."

“I’m exhausted too,” I said, walking slowly. Ahead, we could see the start of the security checkpoints where we had to part ways. I looked up at the clock, hating that the damn thing seemed to be going so fast. "Shit."

She looked up at the clock, then at the line. "Yes.
Shit
."

She turned to me, blinking back tears. "Okay—well give me a hug, and I'll email you when I get home," she said, wiping at her cheeks with the heels of her hands. "There's no need to make a scene, right?"

"Right," I said, pulling her close. We hugged, and I gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Get some rest. I’ll email you later."

Luisa stepped back, both of us having tears trickling down our cheeks as she turned and headed toward the checkpoint. She got in line, right behind an old lady, and was quickly three deep in the line. Only her height and her beautiful blonde hair let me watch as she made her way toward the metal detector.

Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore. "Luisa! LUISA!"

I crutch-walked as fast as I could toward the checkpoint, continuing to call her name. I saw a TSA agent look up and step toward me, but suddenly, there was a commotion up front, and Luisa bulled her way out of line, her eyes alight as she ran the short distance to me. I pulled her in close, kissing her hard, our lips joining as she threw her arms around my neck. "Tomasso . . .”

"Luisa," I whispered, our foreheads touching. "Before you leave, I have to say it. I can't let you go without saying it."

"I love you," she said before I could get it out, laughing and crying at the same time. "I love you, Tomasso Bertoli."

"I love you, Luisa," I whispered back, laughing too. "Why'd you get to say it first?"

"It's good manners," she laughed, smiling again. "Ladies first. Besides, you don't want me bitching at you about it, do you?"

"No," I said, kissing her again. "I promise, somehow, we'll be together again. I'm not letting you go that easily."

An announcement came over the intercom that pre-boarding was starting for Luisa's flight, and she looked up. "Okay. I'll hold you to that. Or else, I’ll come back to Seattle and kick your ass."

"Okay. Get going, I'll email you," I said, letting her go. I went as far forward as I could, watching as she went through security and toward the gates. I watched for another minute before making my way to the window. I didn't know for sure. Things weren't like before 9/11 when you knew for sure which plane your loved one was on, but I kept watch until after the departure time, waving at each Delta airliner that lifted off the runway. When I was sure she was in the air, I reached into my pocket and texted Daniel, who met me in the drop-off zone.

"You look about a thousand percent better than you did an hour ago," he said as I sat down. "You okay?"

“We said what needed to be said," I replied simply. "Sometimes, that's all you need."

P
orto Alegre was my home
. I never wanted to go to Seattle, but I followed my father’s wishes. Now, I felt sick to my stomach as I returned to my homeland. As my Avianca flight descended on final approach toward Salgado Filho Airport, I had to chuckle under my breath at the irony. Then, I'd have given anything to be back in Porto Alegre. Now, I felt the same way about Seattle.

I was met at the gate by my brother, Vincente, who was the middle of my three brothers. There was Mateus, the youngest of the whole family, who was the military nut, and then there was Eduardo, the oldest of us all, although only four months older than me. That was the way my father had relationships with women, and something that I never liked.

"Luisa. Back safely, I see," Vincente said nonchalantly. "Your ass didn't get too fat, at least."

"Fuck off, Vincente. I'm not in the mood for your shit," I retorted. There was a reason I was such a bitch to men when I met them at first. My brothers were all brought up to think that they were superior to any woman and that they could order us around at will. It had been twenty-two long, hard years of fighting that perception that had, in addition to my heartbreak, caused me to be that way. It was either be a bitch and hold my own, or get trampled on. Vincente was the worst, but Eduardo wasn’t much better. "Where's your truck?"

"I got it, I got it. Shit, I thought spending some time with the Americans would have mellowed you out. Come on."

I rode in Vincente's truck back to our family home in Tres Figuerias, one of the neighborhoods of Porto Alegre. It's the family city-based home, with our larger home out in the countryside nearby. It was convenient for use when we were inside the city and had been in the family since the late nineteen sixties. Vincente pulled up to the house and parked, getting out and walking off, probably to go play video games or something. "Father's inside."

I watched him go and sighed. Vincente always had been the laziest of all of us. All he wanted to be was a gangster, and not in the good way, having watched far too many movies for his own good.

I got out of the truck and walked inside. “Father, I'm home," I greeted after knocking.

"My darling, so good to have you back!" he said, getting out of his seat and coming over, kissing me on both cheeks. "I missed having you around."

It was perhaps the only reason I didn't join my mother in Rio, the need my father had for me. He may not have ever seen me as the
man
to take his place, but he did value my work and my input, even with his
machismo
.

"Thank you, Father. But I see the city hasn't burned without me, and nobody seems to be in jail. You must be trying to flatter me."

He laughed and shook his head. "Hardly. But you look tired. I’m sure you must be exhausted."

"I am a bit worn out," I said, not admitting that I'd slept most of the way from Seattle to Sao Paulo, where I'd gotten on the Avianca flight for the last leg of my journey home. I just didn't want to be home, that was all. “But I'm sure you have many questions."

"Oh, they can wait," he said dismissively. “We can talk about it tomorrow over lunch. I’d like to hear more about these Bertolis that we now call our friends."

“Yes, father,” I said, knowing that what he really wanted was all the little gossip and dirt I could spew. The sad part was, I had more than plenty, but that could cut both ways. “For now, I think I'll just rest in my room."

"Of course. Do you need anything?”

"No, Father. I ate on the plane, and my stomach is a little . . . queasy still," I said. "Thank you, though."

"All right, then. Well, good night, Luisa. It's good to have you home. I’ll be going out later. There is some business I need to attend to in the Centro district," he said, going back to his chair and sitting down. The Mendosas controlled all of the vice in the Centro district of Porto Alegre, which was the nighttime hub of the city. Of course, for my father, business could have also been sampling the wares of the ladies who worked in the Centro, or actually doing real business—it was never quite clear.

Up in my room, I turned on my computer, waiting the interminable time it took for it to connect to the Internet. I’d gotten spoiled by American standards, where fast Wi-Fi was available at nearly every street corner coffee shop with nearly instant connections. In Porto Alegre, that wasn't the case, and even the expensive line my father paid for paled in comparison to what I'd gotten used to in Seattle.

Finally, I opened my email, hoping to see a message from Tomasso. I waited while my system checked for new messages and smiled when I saw an unread message.

I read the letter twice and smiled as I hit the button to reply.

* * *

F
or the next month
, life fell back into a boring, if comfortable, routine. Tomasso and I would exchange emails on a daily basis unless our schedules had us going out of contact for some reason or another. My father, after picking my brain as best he could for insight on his new business partner—he came away with a warier respect for Carlo Bertoli than he had before—had sent me back to the legitimate side of the family business, which often involved me spending large amounts of time at our home outside Porto Alegre.

My brothers thought that being sent to the countryside was punishment, but for me, it was what I needed. It got me away from my brothers and their shenanigans. Eduardo fancied himself the next leader of our family, and as such, he was even more insufferable than Vincente in his own arrogance, while Mateus was away at private school and too busy to get up to too much trouble. Still, not having to deal with them was nice, and the extra added bit of privacy was exactly what I needed. Tomasso and I were able to video chat about once a week, and I was able to get back into my work.

My main responsibility was to check in with the various
rancheros
and the
gauchos
who worked for the Mendosa family.

I’d just gotten back from my most far-flung drive when I turned on my computer and saw that a major storm was coming in, expecting to hit within a few hours. I fired up my email, hoping to get one last message out.

I shut down my computer, unplugging it and setting it aside. It was always a prudent measure to take, especially since the electrical systems were nowhere near as well set up as typical American houses. I’d learned my lesson several times in the past.

Heading downstairs, I gathered the house staff that was still on the property, tasking them out for securing the house for the storm. Not a minute too soon, either, as the first terrible bolts of lightning shattered the sky just as the last of the storm shutters were closed and the few animals that were kept on the grounds were secured.

Suddenly, I felt like someone had taken my stomach and twisted it in knots, and I had to leave, barely making it to the kitchen sink before I threw up.

"Are you all right?" One of the staff members asked me.

"Yes," I said, taking a dishtowel and wiping my lips with it. “I’ve been feeling a little queasy the last few days, but I’ve held it in until now—guess it’s the storm."

"You have looked a little pale,
Señorita
. You know, when my Consuela was sick like that last time, it was because she was pregnant with our daughter." He laughed and shook his head. "But that can’t be what’s wrong with you, right?
"

"
No," I said, smiling back weakly. "I'm sure it must just be the weather, and maybe my stomach is readjusting to Brazil."

He nodded, and I went back to the dining room and watched as an unholy display of power rent the heavens asunder, only pausing for a moment before torrents of rain sheeted the entire world, lending a nearly impenetrable veil to even the lightning, which continued.

For hours, I stayed there, my stomach roiling while the storm raged, and a slowly creeping fear grew inside me. I did the math in my head as the rain slowly gave way to hail, which clattered down on the roof of the house with such a racket, it was hard to think.

"Oh no," I whispered, thinking. "It can't be . . .”

I had to know for sure, and the burning inside me didn’t want to wait until the storm was clear. I thought and realized there was one place I could check. The house had a small medical room. After two of the maids had been found hiding their pregnancies in fear of being fired, my father had insisted that all the female staff take tests once a month. I think the fear was more about my father suddenly ending up with a new son or daughter instead of having to deal with a pregnant staffer, but what would his reaction be if he found out he was going to be a grandfather?

I made my way to the little medical closet-room just as the lights went out. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d come back on, then I fumbled around for the penlight that was in the medical kit. I found it and squeezed the little button on the side, a weak but adequate glow coming out.

Shining the light around, I saw the box of pregnancy kits and grabbed one, tucking it inside my shirt. Wasting no time, I went to my private bathroom, locking the door behind me. Lowering my pants, I held the stick in the stream that came out, capped it and set the kit on the sink edge, and waited. I looked down and took a deep breath.

A plus sign. Oh hell.