Page 7 of The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
“Why the discipline? Don’t throw the age difference at me again. We’re both old enough so it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters because you can and should have children. You always wanted them.”
He turned to stare at the windows that reflected the flickering candle flames. “And you didn’t because you felt that all those babies destroyed your ma and took away any hope she had of a better life.”
He didn’t know how much deeper it went. She’d never told him about how she lay awake listening to her little sisters and brothers crying with hunger at night. She’d taken to giving them as much of her own food as she could without starving herself. Even being careful, she’d blacked out from hunger a few times in school. The nurse had been kind enough to blame it on low blood sugar, giving Frankie a few graham crackers to wolf down.
She’d dropped out of school to work at Balfour Chocolatiers because she couldn’t bear to see the children’s huge hungry eyes staring at her, pleading, as she ladled out the tiny portions of the dinner she’d scraped together. She didn’t tell her da about the job so she could keep the money to buy food for all of them. And every now and then she got to bring home rejected chocolates, a treat that made her siblings look upon her as nothing short of an angel.
But she still heard their thin, desperate voices, crying, in her nightmares, and it brought back the old, throat-clutching feeling that her siblings were starving, and she couldn’t save them.
She was grateful when Liam’s voice broke into those memories. “But you made more than enough money to hire all the help you needed,” he said.
“Do you know how many hours a day I spent at home while I was running Taste of Ireland? Maybe six and most of that was to sleep. In fact, I often slept in my office.” She toyed with a slice of papaya. “If I’d had children, they’d never have seen me. I wouldn’t do that to a kid.”
“You’d have a husband.”
“And he wouldn’t have seen me either.” All the familiar frustration vibrated through her. “You can’t have it all. You have to make choices in life, especially if you’re a woman.”
He had the grace to look sympathetic. “I don’t deny it. But if anyone could have managed both work and family, it’s you.”
“Don’t be a bloody gobdaw,” Frankie said, weariness blunting any edge in her insult. “I had to work twice as hard as any man, just because I don’t have a Y chromosome.”
He held up his hand in surrender. “It’s a man’s world. God knows I work in a sea of testosterone.”
“I’d rather not fight with an old friend. Let’s talk about your team,” Frankie said, tamping down her anger. “You’ve got a solid midfielder in Graham Bradley.”
Liam hesitated a moment, as though he was going to argue with her change of topic. But then he gave a half-shrug. “Graham certainly thinks so. I’m more interested in Kyle Hyndman. He’s going to be a standout with the right coaching.”
“So it’s your coaching that will be making him great, is it?”
Liam raised his eyebrows. “Everyone knows it’s the coach who turns a team into champions.”
She snorted. “You told me it was the center midfielder who won championships.”
“And it was…when I was the center midfielder.”
Frankie relaxed. As long as she didn’t touch him, she could settle into their old, easy dynamic, and let the physical pull of him recede to just a simmer in her veins. It felt good to spar with him, to hear the lilt of their home in his voice, and even to let the Irish filter into her own. She hadn’t called anyone a gobdaw in years.
After she’d complimented the chef on the clever chocolate soccer balls filled with spice-infused chocolate mousse, Liam brought out her coat. “Let’s step into the outside box and get some fresh air.”
He held open the glass door leading to the rows of cushioned outdoor seats that looked out on the silent, snow-covered baseball field. She could see the outline of the diamond under the coating of white. She drew in a lungful of crisp, winter air and blew it out in a cloud of vapor.
Liam stood with his hands shoved deep into his overcoat pockets, his gaze on the huge expanse of the empty arena. “I’m going to make the New York Challenge so exciting to watch that we’ll fill every one of those 50,000 seats by the end of the season.”
“You’re playing the wrong kind of football to do that in the U.S.,” Frankie said. “If you sell 30,000 tickets you’ll be doing well.”
He shook his head. “New York loves winners, and I promise you we’re going to make the playoffs.”
This was a Liam she hadn’t seen before. A man forged and tested in the fiery competition of the top tier of professional sports. His confidence was born of being a champion many times over.
Suddenly, she felt a shift in their relationship. He was her equal now. And that was a dangerous thing.
Liam held the limousine door for Frankie while he inwardly cursed himself. He’d screwed up somehow. He’d felt Frankie soften through dinner, but then he’d taken her outside to impress her with his new kingdom, and all the walls had come back up again.
He should have realized that fancy locations wouldn’t win her over. After all, she was so rich that she had access to almost any venue she wanted. The chocolate dessert had been a point for him, though. And the candle. He hadn’t seen Frankie cry more than twice in the years he’d known her.
As he slid onto the back seat beside her, he sifted through other options. Frankie was the one who’d told him that there were many paths to the goal, and he needed to have his eye on the whole field to see them all. He’d put her advice to work in becoming the best center midfielder in the premier league. But he’d known even then that she was talking about more than just soccer.
