Page 11 of The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
He pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. “Ah, God, I would lie on my hard cot in the academy digs at night, aching to see you, to hear your voice. It was like my heart had been ripped out and left behind.”
She did it again. Allowed herself to lean into his strength before she lifted her head out of his supporting hand and looked him in the eye with a wry smile. “A pathetic pair we were, then.”
Instead of laughing, his mouth went thin with anger. “Don’t dismiss what we felt for each other. It was a powerful thing for the good, not a weakness in us.”
“It hurt so badly that I wasn’t sure I would live through it.” She’d never told another soul how close she’d been to giving up in the months after Liam had gone off to seek his bright future. She’d walked the dirty, cracked sidewalks beside the walls covered in obscene graffiti and wondered if she would ever claw her way out.
“I never wanted to cause you pain,a stór.Never.”
That little hitch vibrated in her chest, scaring her, but she refused to flinch. “You didn’t hurt me. Our grim, stingy life did. Because I cared about you I had to let you go. We didn’t deserve to be that poor. No one does.”
His embrace tightened and she let him shelter her, from the bitter river wind, from the chattering teenagers, from the feelings threatening to drown her. It had been a long time since she’d felt protected by another human being.
“Liam Keller? Aren’t you Liam Keller, the new coach for the New York Challenge?” An excited but refined male voice shattered the moment of stillness.
Liam’s hold loosened but he didn’t release her. Instead he turned and tucked her against his side as he faced a dark-haired man wearing a ski jacket and red scarf, and holding a microphone. Behind the reporter a scruffy cameraman carried a video cam marked “WNYN News”.
The reporter held out his hand, “I’m Mark Singh with WNYN. I’m doing a local color piece on New Yorkers enjoying the snowfall, and I’d love to include you in it. Would you give me a couple of minutes of your time?”
Liam shook his hand and gave Frankie a rueful smile. “Sure thing, Mark.”
“Great! So tell us what brings you here?”
She could feel Liam gather himself before he flashed his famous smile and said, “I’m enjoying one of the simple pleasures of my new home city.” A mild obscenity sounded from the hill behind them, making Liam chuckle. “And learning some American colloquialisms.”
“You know this is called ‘Suicide Hill’? Have you been down it yet?” Mark asked.
“That we have, and a fine, fast ride it was.” Frankie nearly laughed as Liam struck the perfect balance between his Irish accent and being understood by an American audience. “We dodged all the trees and thanked God for the hay bales at the bottom.”
“And you, ma’am, what did you think of the hill?” Mark thrust the mic at Frankie.
Liam’s grip on her waist tightened, but Frankie had faced plenty of television cameras in her day. “I was glad I had an elite level athlete with great reflexes at the helm. There are no traffic rules on that slope.”
“Sounds like you’re from Ireland too,” Mark said.
“Liam and I are friends from way back,” she said with a nod.
Mark turned to the camera. “And that was Liam Keller, newly hired coach of the New York Challenge. Now we know how he spends his time when he’s not on the soccer pitch.”
The red recording light on the camera winked out, and Mark said, “I’m a soccer fan myself. Good luck with your new team.”
Liam dug into his jeans pocket for his wallet, pulling a business card out of it. “Drop me an email, and I’ll make sure you get good seats.”
“That’s a deal,” Mark said, tucking the card in his coat’s inner pocket. “Don’t break anything. New Yorkers go a little crazy in the snow.”
The reporter wandered off, trailing his cameraman. Liam stood watching, his smile still in place, until Mark was out of sight.
“Jaysus, you can’t escape the media anywhere,” he muttered.
“That’s why the Bellwether Club exists.”
“But you can’t go sledding there.” He shrugged off his irritation and nudged the sled with his foot. “Ready for another run?”
“It’s my turn to steer.”
“I thought you were happy to have an elite athlete driving for you.”
“The first time down.”
