Player's Ultimatum (2 page)

To any onlooker, their kiss looked like a long wet one. In truth, Robbie only mumbled against her lips. “Smile, you’re on candid camera.”

“Cheese,” Yvonne murmured, barely moving her lips. To up the ante, she closed her eyes and clutched Robbie’s broad shoulders. Thankful y, their arrangement would only be temporary. A gal could get used to this.

“Golden Globes?”

“Oscars,” Yvonne chuckled, her laughter turning into a yelp and a playful swat on her behind.

“You were great out there. I’m so proud of—”

Pop!

Yvonne scrambled away before a shower of champagne bubbles flowed over Robbie’s head onto his red
Roma
Internazionale
jersey. Smiling like a child on Christmas morning, he stood basking in his victory bath.

Yvonne beamed with pride. He’d worked so hard to reach this level in his profession. While every other kid in their old neighborhood played basketbal or baseball, Robbie adored soccer. A virtual pariah, he didn’t have any fellow admirers. Still, he remained loyal to his sport of choice.

Like most kids, Robbie took the usual road in organized sports, playing in several soccer leagues throughout Orlando, Florida.

During his junior and senior year he led their high school to the state finals in soccer, earning himself a ful ride to the University of Indiana where he helped the Hoosiers win the National Championships in 2003 and 2004.

Upon graduation, Robbie could have entered himself into the MLS draft. Instead, he walked away to pursue his real dream. To play professional footbal in Europe where people ate, drank and sometimes killed for the sport. Determined, he’d returned home and begged Trenton Kirksey, a former English Premier League Football player, to train him. This led to a spot on the Men’s National team and a trial with Leeds FC.

After playing a season on their reserve team, he bounced around on loan for several more seasons. He final y found a semi-permanent home when he scored a two-year contract with
Roma Internazionale
,
one of Italy’s premiere footbal clubs as a reserve forward.

“I better get cleaned up for the press conference.”

Robbie might be a lion on the soccer field, off it he was a hundred percent metrosexual. One of the reasons why she’d simply shrugged her shoulders when he’d come out to her more than ten years ago. Before al owing his teammates to pul him down the tunnel toward the locker room, he gave her quick peck on the cheek.

While most of the team followed Robbie into the locker room, a handsome strawberry blond peeled away from the others to plant a kiss on Keitha’s cheek.

“Come here, woman,” he purred, his lips moving along the other woman's jaw to right below her ear.

His lips moved, but Yvonne could only make out, “chocolate syrup. .on al fours. .and handcuffs.” Keitha must have gotten a kick out of his garbled words because she giggled like a sil y school girl. Fortunately, their groping session didn't last long. As if suddenly remembering they had an audience, Keitha broke free of the footballer’s roving hands and lips and turned to her.

“Excuse us, Yvonne. This is my husband Freddy. Freddy Macdonald, footballer extraordinaire from the Great Down Under!” Her husband pinched her but causing Keitha to squeal the last word.

For good measure, he leaned in to kiss her on the lips. Once they came up for air, she finished the introductions, “This is Yvonne Floyd, Robbie Gutierrez’s fiancée.”

Freddy’s ginger eyebrows arched in surprise, but he extended his hand with a warm toothy smile.

“Pleasure to final y meet ya’. We heard…ah…we heard…”

Yvonne struggled to keep her expression blank. Poor thing, he had no clue Robbie cooked up this sham only two weeks.

Yvonne decided to ease his embarrassment. “I hope all of it was good. And if any of it wasn’t, don’t believe any of it.”

“No worries.” Freddy blew out a breath, obviously relieved she’d let him off the hook.

“You’re rank, Freddy!” Keitha's perfect nose wrinkled as she stepped back. “It’s time for you to hit the showers.”

“Are you giving me lip?” Chuckling, MacDonald hooked his arm behind his wife’s neck. He ignored her loud protests about his sweatiness and the grime coating his body and started planting kisses al over her face. Feeling like an intruder, Yvonne stepped away, giving the happy couple some privacy.

Even though most of the team had disappeared, the stadium tunnel hadn’t entirely cleared. Miscel aneous club and stadium staff ran back and forth trying to complete their jobs, a smal group of rabid fans was being ushered to the nearest exit and members of the media milled around ready to pounce on any player stupid enough to resurface.

“
Che dove aspettare
?”

Yvonne glanced over her shoulder. A pint sized man with a pen clutched in his hands stood behind her. His oily hair, sparse and stringy, hid a bald spot that looked like a polished apple. His bad grooming extended to a wrinkled short-sleeved shirt stained with sweat and a pair of wrinkled slacks. He was unremarkable except for the PAPARAZZI tag hanging out of his shirt pocket.

“
No comprendo
. .I don’t speak Italian.” Yvonne responded uneasily. She and Robbie had run through the ‘script’ several times, stil it didn’t help to ease her anxiety especial y when the photographer’s pale blue gaze practical y dissected her.

“You and Robbie Gutierrez are friends, no?”

Normal y, Yvonne would’ve ignored the guy or told him it wasn’t any of his business, but since he was the press she fel into her role. “I’m Robbie Gutierrez's fiancée,” she corrected.

The man seemed to be bothered by her answer because he frowned and looked almost disappointed by the news.

“Congratulations, “he mumbled then pressed his lips together. An awkward silence fel between them. His eyebrows rose as if he were going to pose another question. Instead, he scurried off into the crowd, disappearing into a group of reporters and camera men cornering a player making his way toward the team’s locker room.

Standing at least a half-a-foot taller than most of the people gathered around him, the footballer seemed un-phased by the microphones and bright lights. A seasoned spin doctor herself with six years of public relations experience before seeking her MBA two years ago, Yvonne stepped closer.

Al of her years of experience left her woeful y unprepared for the bal player skil ful y holding court despite the incessant press of the media. His confidence beyond exemplarily didn't hold a flame to the man because handsome couldn't aptly describe him or his effect on her body. Hands down he had be to the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on.

So much so her fingertips started to tingle, and for the first time in her life Yvonne found herself without words.

“I see he has the same effect on you as he does the rest of the female population.” Yvonne’s cheeks heated with embarrassment, she’d been so entranced with the footbal player she’d missed Keitha sidling up next to her.

“Who is he?” She asked unable to drag her gaze away.

Keitha chuckled. “That beautiful specimen is the team’s captain, Paolo Saito. The fans cal him
Il Duca,
The Duke, because his rule over the pitch is unparalleled.

He’s one of the best players in Series A, probably the entire world. He’s led Brazil to the World Cup twice. Right now he’s one of the highest paid forwards in the league. And when he becomes a free agent at the end of the season, he’ll be number one.”

“Filthy rich and beautiful to boot, any woman would be lucky to tag that one. No one’s succeeded so far.” Keitha paused to lay a hand on Yvonne's shoulder. “So, if I were you, I would stay away from him.”

“A huge player?”

Keitha snorted. “Enormous. According to al the gossip rags, he likes to share his God given at ributes with everyone. Young, old, pret y, plain, single, married or engaged, it doesn’t matter as long as they’re female. Every week he has a different girlfriend or lover, a different conquest al of them wel documented in the tabloids.” Yvonne wasn’t surprised Paulo Saito's love life was practical y public record. Average human beings loved to escape the ordinariness of their existence by living their lives through the rich and beautiful. Heck the tabloids could stay afloat on her monthly subscriptions alone.

A man with his looks and chosen profession would be a playboy of the worst kind and a consummate charmer. Classical y handsome, his Asian features fit together like an exotic puzzle. A pair of dark eyebrows slashed across his sun-kissed skin and provided a perfect frame to his almond-shaped eyes and aquiline nose. As expected for a man who made his living outdoors, his bronzed skin, only a shade or two lighter than hers, contrasted beautiful y with his short black hair cut into a modified Mohawk. And his body language and easy smile while he answered rapid fire questions conveyed a confidence that if bot led would sel mil ions.

“How do you feel about the playoff season?” Saito scanned the crowd for the reporter. A young blond kid barely out of his teens raised his hand.

“Price Quimby,
OnThePitch.com
.” Saito's Brazilian accent triggered Yvonne’s dormant hormones like an automatic rifle. If she’d been alone, she would’ve probably touched herself. “
Roma Internazionale
plays like a team not a group of individuals. No egos. No ulterior motives just one goal to win the European Cup. ”

“So you agree with management’s decision to replace your good friend João Schmit with Robbie Gutierrez?” Price asked.

At the mention of Robbie’s name, Yvonne drew closer while Saito’s sunny disposition suddenly took a southward detour. His expression tightened and his smile wavered, yet stil he answered. “At this time, I have no complaints with Gutierrez,” Saito replied his accent noticeably thicker.

What was up with that? Yvonne mused.
Was there some hidden animosity between the two?
She’d have to remember to ask Robbie about it later.

As Saito scanned the crowd, his eyes skipped over her then swung back. Like a possum caught in headlights, Yvonne couldn’t move.

“Uh…oh,” Keitha whispered. “The player just found a new playmate.”

*****

His gaze pinned Yvonne to the spot. He wasn’t physical y touching her, but the effect stoked a fire deep within Yvonne’s bel y and she began to throb and tingle in the most intimate places.

Instinctively, Yvonne’s hand flew to her chest. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute! To make matters worse, her nipples had become traitorously hard lit le pebbles pressing against the fine material of her cashmere sweater. Embarrassed and as a means of defense, Yvonne folded her arms across her chest and faced her tormentor.

Big. Mistake.

Before she could say fish and grits, Mr. Sex in Soccer Cleats, cut through the throng of camera men and reporters and headed her way. Normally, she would have been flattered but he wasn’t the reason why she was in Rome.

Time slowed to a crawl without either of them saying a word as he stopped just inside her personal space. Even the reporters crowding around them remained silent save the sound of pencils scribbling on paper. Could they sense the electrical charge ping ponging between them as wel ? If not, they could surely see the smoke coming out of her ears. She was practical y burning up!

“Awkward,” Yvonne sing-songed under her breath. Although they didn’t have any privacy, she didn’t find it too hard to block out the people around them when she had the most beautiful pair of jet black eyes staring down at her.

Yvonne gulped. He’d taken her hand in his, bent over like a cavalier of old and kissed her knuckles. If it weren’t for the AC

vent overhead, she would have gone up in smoke. “
Como a senhora se chama
?”

”I-I-I don’t speak Italian,” she said, trying to tug her hand away.

“Not Italian,” he said, easily switching to English. “It’s Portuguese, my native tongue.” At the mention of tongue, images of them lip locked floated in her head. “I-I don’t speak that either.”
But I would love for
you to teach me!

Paolo shrugged. “Honest mistake. Your beauty reminds me of the women in my homeland Brazil.” Kisses on the hand and compliments.
He was good!
Sensing danger of the sexual kind, Yvonne shook the stardust out of her eyes.

“I’m Paolo and you are?”

Yvonne struggled to regain the use of her tongue. “Yvonne Floyd.”

Did I just give him my first and last name?
Yvonne’s brow knitted in vexation.

In spite of her self-reprobation, Paolo seemed pleased. His smile widened, giving her a better view of his straight pearly whites. “I’m Paolo Saito. Now that we’re official y introduced, we
Was he about to ask her out for a date?
A rush of excitement swept through Yvonne’s body and severed the oxygen from her brain, considering she was already clearing her calendar.

“Too late, Romeo.” Keitha bounced Yvonne out of the way with a wel -placed hip. “She’s already taken by one of your mates.”

“Ah, Keitha! You grow more beautiful every time I see you.” Paolo dropped Yvonne’s hand faster than a hot potato and turned his attention to the other woman.

Just like that, he’d dumped her on the trash pile for a pret ier woman.
What was new?
The moment wasn’t lost on the press either. A few wel -placed coughs to overshadow muffled laughter burned her ears.

While the two exchanged pleasantries, Yvonne stewed. She shouldn’t be angry or even the slightest bit pissed. Paolo Saito was just being himself —the international playboy. No, her anger was self-directed. One smile from a beautiful man and she melted faster than a Hershey chocolate bar left outside on a hot summer day. Yvonne was only too happy when he final y excused himself to make his way to the locker room, the press in tow.

“So was I right or what?”

Yvonne tore her eyes away from the Brazilian god retreating in the distance. “Right about what?”

“To stay clear of
Il Duca
, of course.”

“Dead on the money.” Paulo Saito was handsome, rich, and full of charm. It would be hard to resist that player’s game if he were to pursue her. And a broken heart wouldn’t be the only consequence. Robbie’s future would be placed in jeopardy as well.