The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1)

by A. Meredith Walters

  I shrugged, not bothering to answer her.

  “That must suck.” She peeked around the corner to where several people were now standing, most likely waiting for me to come back out.

  I didn’t care about them. I was used to it. But I knew it was only a matter of time until someone came in looking for the football star so I had to talk fast.

  “Look, I thought we had a decent time on Friday—”

  Morgan snorted. I raised my eyebrow. “I seem to remember you enjoying yourself.”

  “I’m surprised you remember anything,” she muttered.

  She was being prickly. Part of me appreciated the challenge. It had been a long time since a woman had given me one. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I had the patience to get past whatever wall she was building.

  “Okay, clearly you’re not interested in continuing what we started. I don’t make it a habit of putting myself out there for women that shoot me down. This is a one time offer, love. Take it or leave it.” I took a step toward her. She was sexy. I could smell her perfume. It was nice. Not overpowering. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup. She seemed to be a natural kind of woman. I liked that.

  Morgan crossed her arms over her chest, which only emphasized her amazing breasts. Perky. Not too large. Not too small. Just fucking right.

  “What the hell are you even offering? Or do I even want to know?”

  “A chance to get to know me better.” I leaned in close, my lips next to her ear. “To scratch that itch.”

  She chuckled. “There are creams for that you know.”

  This was definitely not going how I intended it to and I was losing patience. “Okay, well I’ll leave you two tickets at the box office for Saturday’s game. Bring a friend. Come see me play.”

  “Why?” she countered.

  I grinned. “Because I’m good, love. In all things.”

  She laughed. A genuine, husky laugh that made my dick twitch. “Your ego needs to come down a peg or two I think.”

  “Or maybe it just needs a little stroking,” I murmured, taking her hand and rubbing the palm with my thumb. Slow, lazy circles. “Come to my game.” I could feel the fluttering of her pulse in her wrist. For all her snarling and apparent indifference, she liked what I was doing. Her quickening heartbeat didn’t lie.

  “I’d like to see you there,” I added for emphasis.

  I wasn’t sure why I was making such an effort for her. Maybe it was her playing hard to get. I was a male after all. A male used to getting what I wanted. I liked having to work for it.

  But only so hard.

  Morgan flicked her hair over her shoulder but I noticed she didn’t pull her hand away. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  It was something.

  I lifted her hand to my lips and softly kissed her knuckles. “You’ll be there,” I said with certainty.

  Her dark eyes flashed and she pulled away. I let her.

  This time.

  “You’re so damn confident, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve learned to recognize a sure thing.”

  Crap. That was the wrong thing to say.

  I realized it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. Damn it, I was normally so much better at being charming and irresistible than this.

  “A sure thing? Are you kidding me? I’m not a slut! What happened on Friday was because of alcohol. And I was lonely. It’s not normal for me!” Her cheeks and neck were flushed and I knew she was upset.

  I held my hands up in surrender. “That was a dick thing to say—”

  “Yes it was. I think you’d better leave now.” She jingled her keys in her hand. I wondered for a moment if she’d hurl them at me. Or punch me.

  She seemed like a bit of a loose canon.

  “Fine, I’m gone. Here’s your phone, by the way.” I turned to leave but stopped. “I really do hope you come to the match. Just don’t go rooting for the other team.” I was trying to be funny. Trying to lighten the moment.

  Morgan wasn’t having it.

  “I’ll be rooting for anyone but you, Lucas.”

  And with that she turned and stalked off.

  She had one fine ass.

  I went back out to my car, which was still idling out front. There were at least a dozen people now outside of Morgan’s flat, all holding phones pointed in my direction.

  “Lucas, can I have your autograph?” a young boy asked, holding out a football and a marker.

  “Sure.” I took the football and scribbled my name before handing it back.

  “Can I get a picture?”

  I spent the next few minutes having pictures taken and signing my name on scrap pieces of paper. When I was finally able to get back to my car, Anna had moved to the front.

  “I was starting to think I would have to drive back home and leave you here,” she quipped once I drove away.

  “Sorry that took so long.”

  “Did you charm your way into getting a piece while you left your poor sister out in the car?” she asked, seeming amused, and probably grossed out.

  “Hardly,” I muttered, thinking about Morgan Carter and how difficult she had been.

  “Really? With the way you were panting after her I thought it would be a sure thing,” Anna asked, bemused.

  “She is definitely not a sure thing.”

  Morgan

  I clicked on a link and Lucas Bradley’s face filled the screen. I scanned the article. I had learned a lot about the footballer just from surfing the web. It seemed his entire life was out there to be read about.

  He was born in Kent. His rise in the soccer—sorry, football—world had been slow and steady. He was obviously a hard worker and was extremely talented. He broke record after record for each team he played for, which is why now with Chester in the Premier League, he was the talk of the town. Everyone wanted him. The big teams were clamoring for him to join them. But from what I could tell he was loyal to Chester and his team.

  That was commendable, right?

  That pointed to a man who wasn’t a complete asshat.

  Why was I looking for reasons to like him?

  Because from what I had encountered he was anything but likable. Conceited, yes. Full of himself? Absolutely.

  So why was I scouring the Internet for stories about the man who had made me orgasm in a bar bathroom?

  One article said his father had left his family when he was a teenager. That momentarily softened me towards him.

  Then I saw a series of pictures that showed him with his tongue down some starlet’s throat and all good feelings towards him vanished.

  I looked up the game he had invited me to. It was the season opener for Chester Athletic and it was at home, which apparently was a big deal. They were playing against the Bolton Flyers, whoever they were. Tickets had apparently been sold out for weeks.

  Part of me wanted to go. I was interested to see the famous Lucas Bradley in action.

  But another part of me said to forget about it. That playing along with whatever he was doing was a bad idea.

  I knew, given Lucas’ apparent reputation that he wasn’t looking for anything but a good time. Someone to feed his ego and his sex drive.

  I wasn’t that kind of girl.

  Never had been.

  Yet…

  I looked around my dingy apartment—sorry, flat—and felt depressed. The paint was peeling and there was the distinct smell of sewage that wafted from the kitchen sink. I wished I could say I was enjoying my time in England more than I was, but then I’d be lying.

  I barely had enough money for rent and utilities, let alone to actually go out and do things, like I had planned to. I had wanted to get down to London for the weekend, to see Buckingham Palace and The Tower of London. But when I looked at the cost of train tickets and hotels in the capital, I balked.

  I loved Chester. It was a beautiful city but things were so much more expensive in England. I hadn’t counted on that when I had decided to move here. In truth I hadn’t researched things at
all.

  I remembered watching a documentary on the English countryside and had imagined my life full of wandering through the moors and walking through rolling, green pastures.

  I had pictured myself, wearing a proper pair of green Wellington boots and a tweed jacket, ambling along winding paths. Instead I was stuck in a run down flat with mold growing in the corners.

  I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself.

  Sure, I was lonely. Sure, I didn’t have any friends. Sure, I was bordering on sad and pathetic, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t change it.

  Maybe I should go to that game on Saturday. The tickets were free. Why not?

  And who knows, maybe things with Lucas could lead to some much needed excitement.

  I knew better than to expect anything more than that. But as for a temporary distraction, why the hell not?

  But that didn’t mean I had to make it easy for him.

  “SO, I HAVE tickets to the Chester game this Saturday. Do you think you’d like to go with me?”

  Phil’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? How in the hell did you get them? Season ticket holders snatched them up before they could even be offered to the general public,” Phil exclaimed.

  “Whoa, you’re going to drop your tea,” I said, smiling, taking the mug from his hands and putting it on the counter. “Someone gave me a couple of tickets, no big deal,” I replied offhandedly.

  “No big deal? That’s a huge deal!” Phil seemed beside himself. Did everyone get this worked up about soccer in this country? He reached for his tea again, trying to compose himself. “Did Lucas Bradley give them to you? You seemed friendly at the pub.” He dumped a spoonful of sugar into his tea and stirred vigorously.

  “Does it matter where I got them? I thought you’d like to come. So is that a yes?” I put a tea bag in my cup and poured hot water over top. I never knew how long to keep the bag in. I was having a ridiculously difficult time figuring out how to make a decent cup of tea. Either it was too weak or too strong. Too milky. Or not enough sugar. It shouldn’t be that hard. I had an engineering degree for Christ’s sake.

  “Sure. Sounds like fun,” Phil said, reining in his excitement. “But seriously, did Lucas Bradley hook you up? Because that’s cool I suppose.” He sounded as though he were chewing on broken glass. As much as Phil liked football, he didn’t appear to jazzed about the idea that Lucas had given me the tickets.

  “What about Lucas Bradley? What are we talking about?” Charlie asked, followed by Hayley. Suddenly the breakroom felt very, very small.

  “Morgan just invited me to the Chester game this weekend,” Phil filled them in, puffing his chest out slightly.

  “How did you jimmy that?” Charlie asked in disbelief.

  “Oh, are they from Lucas?” Hayley asked, raising her eyebrows. She gave me a pointed look and I rolled my eyes.

  “Jeesh, you guys are nosy?” I muttered, feeling uncomfortable.

  “You should have asked a real Chester fan, not this wank stain,” Charlie complained.

  “She invited me because I’m nice to look at, unlike this old git,” Phil threw back.

  Hayley looped her arm through mine and pulled me aside. “Did Lucas really give you the tickets?” she whispered.

  I thought about denying it.

  But I didn’t.

  “Yes, he’s leaving me two tickets at the ticket office. I thought about not going. I know nothing about English football.” I took a sip of my tea. It was awful. Too strong and not enough milk.

  “But instead, you decided to invite Phil Wickenham. Interesting choice by the way.” Hayley smirked.

  “What’s the big deal? I knew he liked sports.”

  “What game are you playing, Morgan Carter?”

  I drew myself upright. “I don’t play games, Hayley,” I huffed. “I just thought I’d take advantage of the tickets by asking someone who I knew would enjoy them.”

  Hayley gave me a disbelieving look but didn’t say anything else. She grabbed a donut and she split it with Charlie as they left the breakroom. Charlie was still complaining about me not asking him to the match.

  Phil put his hand in the center of my back. It felt like an overly familiar gesture. Too intimate. “Thanks for thinking of me. I’m looking forward to Saturday, no matter how you got the tickets,” he said softly.

  Maybe inviting Phil to make a point to Lucas was a bad idea.

  “EIGHT QUID FOR parking. That’s bloody ridiculous,” Phil complained as we got out of his car.

  “I can pitch in if you want,” I offered, already second-guessing my decision to bring Phil. Mostly because when he wasn’t talking about himself, he wasn’t that interesting of a person. I knew nothing about football, or rugby, or cricket, which seemed to be the only topics he could sustain a conversation about.

  “That’s okay,” he sighed, putting the parking receipt on his dashboard before locking the doors. “Foley Field is a half mile walk.” He looked down at my feet. “You okay with those on?”

  I had worn heels. Not stilettos or anything, but not the best footwear if we were going to be walking far.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said tersely.

  “You look great, Morgan, but you aren’t exactly dressed for a footie match,” he laughed and I felt like hitting him.

  “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” I snapped, smoothing my thin cotton skirt. It was a particularly warm day. The sun was out, which was nice, but the air was thick with humidity. I had decided on a flowing skirt and tank top thinking I wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion. The heels were silly, but my legs looked great and that had been my entire motivation.

  Though, if I was being honest with myself, not because I cared what Phil thought of my legs.

  “No, it’s fine. I just want you to be comfortable,” Phil said as we started to walk across the parking lot. “If your feet start hurting, I’ll carry you.” His smile was sweet. I sighed, forcing myself to stop getting annoyed with every thing he said.

  It’s not his fault he was a self-centered narcissist.

  “Did I tell you about the time a scout for Manchester United saw me play in my afterschool football club? Sure he was the dad of one of the other players, but he always said I had potential…”

  I tuned out.

  We fell in step with a large group of people obviously heading toward the soccer stadium. Most of them wore red and black with some sort of emblem that appeared to be a cross and a flower. I could make out the name Chester Athletics at the top. Everyone seemed incredibly excited. Some were incredibly drunk.

  As we got closer to the stadium I was surprised at how varied the crowd was. There were families with young children, dignified older women, rowdy teenagers, wasted men in packs singing chants about things being shoved up arses that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.

  I was a little overwhelmed.

  “There’s so many people,” I mused. We were walking through a leafy wooded area. A nice wooded playground on one side, stumbling football fans on the other. It was definitely different.

  “Foley Field just had a twelve million expansion completed two years ago and can now hold twenty-six thousand fans,” Phil informed me.

  “There’s going to be twenty-six thousand people there today?” I asked in surprise.

  “Twenty-six thousand people ready to see Bolton get their arse’s handed to them,” Phil grinned.

  “I don’t know anything about football. I think I’m going to be completely lost,” I admitted.

  Phil put his arm around my waist and I stiffened. “I’ll explain everything to you, don’t worry.”

  I patted his arm and then slid out of his grasp. “We need to find the ticket office.” This was most likely a date, even if I was essentially using Phil to keep the hot soccer stud that had invited me at arm’s length.

  So why had I come at all? What was I trying to prove?

  I wasn’t the kind of woman to play games. I barely knew how to date like a normal person,
let alone engage in the tug and pull of seduction that other people my age seemed to enjoy so much.

  I had one boyfriend in college. One in high school. That was it. No one-night stands. No random hook ups. I was pretty boring.

  Which is why my behavior at The Thorny Rose was so strange. And a little exhilarating.

  And mortifying.

  And whole bunch of other adjectives too.

  “It’s just over there. Come on.” Phil led me through the rowdy crowd. “Maybe we should stop at the team store and pick you up a scarf. Just to get into the spirit,” he suggested.

  “Sure. Sounds good. When in Rome and all that.”

  We got in the line to get our tickets and when it was our turn I gave the man behind the counter my name. “My name is Morgan Carter. I was supposed to have tickets left for me.”

  The man frowned. “Did you purchase them online?”

  I glanced at Phil. “Um, no someone left them for me.”

  “You’re not allowed to exchange tickets. If someone else purchased them, they need to be the one to pick them up. I need to see the credit card used to buy them.” The man seemed to enjoy his modicum of authority. Some people got off on that stuff.

  “Who got the tickets, Morgan? Can you call them?” Phil asked.

  I was getting uncomfortable. “Can’t you just look for my name? I was told the tickets would be left under the name Morgan Carter.”

  “And I’m telling you that you can’t exchange tickets. The individual who purchased the tickets needs to be the one to pick them up.” He tapped his fingers on the counter in frustration, already looking past me to the guy behind me. “Can I help you—?”

  I leaned over the counter and dropped my voice into a near whisper, but loud enough that the prick could still hear me. “Look, Lucas Bradley left the tickets for me. Can you look, please?”

  The man snorted. “Lucas Bradley?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Lucas Bradley. Now just look already.”

  The man seemed as if he wanted to roll his eyes but was willing to indulge me, if for no other reason then to call my bluff. He knelt behind the counter for only a few seconds before standing again, two tickets in his hands and a sour expression on his face. “Morgan Carter you said?”