The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1)

by A. Meredith Walters

  I didn’t like how she sounded but I knew I’d get nowhere by grilling her about how she was feeling.

  “Sure Mom, but please don’t forget to call me when you find out the EKG results.”

  “I won’t. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  After we hung up I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stared at the dark television screen in the corner of the room. I wished I could watch the stupid thing. I had purchased the secondhand smart TV not long after I had moved in but so far hadn’t gotten cable hooked up. Mostly because it was an expense I couldn’t really afford. I made do with watching YouTube videos on my computer.

  I tried watching a new hydraulic press video. There was something supremely satisfying about watching a press squish pieces of plastic until they were flat. But not even the sound of exploding glass could cut through the Lucas Bradley induced fog I found myself in. I couldn’t stop thinking about the smug jerk.

  He really had some nerve thinking I would wait around for him after the game.

  He didn’t ask, he simply told me what to do. Demanding me to do anything never turned out well for anyone. Let alone gorgeous famous football players that I wanted to kiss more than was appropriate.

  He was playing a game with me. I knew his type. The player type. The ones that used their good looks to get them anything—and anyone—he wanted. And it had worked. Sort of. That night in the Thorny Rose bathroom still played on repeat in my head.

  I needed to get myself a damn hobby.

  Feeling antsy I got up and made myself some Pot Noodles. They were much better than the Ramen I had lived off in college. Then I sat back down at my computer. I could watch more pointless YouTube videos. Or I could preoccupy myself with a man I was pretty sure I was becoming slightly obsessed with. And just like that I fell down the internet rabbit hole as I started looking up all things Lucas Bradley.

  Picture after picture of him on the football pitch. Scoring a goal. Celebrating a goal. Yelling at the referee. There were a lot of those. It seemed he was kind of a hot head.

  And then picture after picture of him with his tongue down women’s throats. His hands on their asses. Falling down drunk. Passed out in a booth.

  He liked to party. That was obvious. And he got himself into some trouble because of it. Just last year he was arrested for getting into a fight with a guy at a bar. Lucas punched the man in the face and broke a beer bottle over his head. The guy pressed charges and was given some sort of pay off to keep it out of court.

  I found a Daily Mail article about a woman who was all too eager to share the story of her wild night with the Chester striker. It apparently involved sex toys, one of his teammates, and a whole lot of alcohol. I wondered how much she was paid to tell all.

  Lucas wasn’t painted in the best light by the media. It was a mixture of hero worship by the sports pundits and salacious details about his less than vanilla personal life. He was obviously a man that people liked to talk about.

  After a shower I settled back down in front of the computer, eating a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and reading story after story about the man I had hooked up. I wasn’t quite sure why I was so fascinated with him. Why I wanted to know all about him.

  I had made the decision not to see him after the game.

  So why was I torturing myself?

  There was a knock at my door. I glanced at the time on my phone. It was after ten. I set my computer on the couch and got to my feet.

  Thad, Mr. Creepy Neighbor, had already been by today asking if I had a hammer he could use. I didn’t ask what he needed it for. I had told him no, not even bothering to smile politely, and closed the door in his face.

  If it was Thad again, I would have to finally talk to the landlord about him.

  I opened the door, forgetting that I was wearing only a robe, a frown on my face, ready to tell my neighbor to get lost.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was Lucas.

  What the actual hell?

  And he looked amazing.

  Of course he did.

  Was he capable of looking anything else?

  In worn jeans and a tight fitting shirt, his tattoos stood out starkly in the dim light.

  He was here. At my apartment. And he wanted to come in.

  I should say no.

  I should tell him I was tired and close the door, just as I had planned to do to Thad.

  Letting Lucas Bradley into my home wasn’t a good idea.

  And then I was opening the door and letting him inside.

  And here I thought I was a smart girl.

  “Uh, let me get dressed,” I said awkwardly, holding my robe closed, feeling way too exposed in front of him.

  “Don’t bother on my account.” He winked at me and I all but ran back to my bedroom.

  Shit. I needed to do laundry. I had nothing clean. My hamper was overflowing. I dumped it on the floor and started pawing through my dirty clothes. I finally found a pair of leggings with a grease stain on the thigh from dropping a chicken wing in my lap and a clean tank top. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail.

  Do I put makeup on? I looked at my reflection, cringing at the giant pimple on my chin. I was pale and washed out. But would it be too noticeable if I put on some foundation and eye shadow?

  Fuck it.

  I wasn’t trying to impress him.

  Right?

  Who cared if he thought I looked nice.

  “Sorry about that. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” I came out to the living room to find Lucas sitting on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, flipping through one of the magazines I had picked up after work on Friday. “Why don’t you just make yourself at home,” I told him blandly.

  He put his feet back on the floor and tossed the magazine on the table. “Sorry. I didn’t know how long you were going to be.” He gave me an appraising look. “I appreciate that you didn’t go to any effort on my account.”

  Wait. Was that a compliment? I couldn’t be sure.

  “I wasn’t going to slather on makeup because you showed up at my door at ten o’clock at night, sorry.” I crossed my arms over my chest, annoyed that my feelings were hurt at what I assumed was a critique of my looks.

  “You don’t need it. You’re beautiful without all that shit,” he remarked. He sounded sincere. But who could know with a man like Lucas.

  He glanced at my open laptop and leaned toward it, his elbows braced on his knees.

  “A little light reading on your Saturday evening?” he mused, scrolling the mouse through the article on the screen.

  I slammed the lid shut. “Sorry. I was just reading…uh…well it popped up…whatever, I was being nosy. I’ll admit it.”

  Lucas chuckled. “I get it. I’m an interesting guy. But a piece of advice, take anything in those articles with a pinch of salt. It’s usually a bunch of bullshit. Plus, if you want to know something about me, all you have to do is ask.”

  “So the super model orgy—?”

  “Not true.”

  “Dating the girl from Little Mix?”

  “She’s a nice enough girl, but not my type.” His eyes twinkled, he was clearly enjoying himself.

  “The bar fight? Breaking a bottle over some guy’s head?”

  Lucas’ smile faded and he looked away. “That one’s true. Unfortunately.” His mouth was set in a firm line and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “So, why are you here?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that? Is it so strange that I’d come by for a visit?”

  I snorted. “Yes it is. We’re not buddies. We don’t call each other up to chat about the newest Big Brother episode. I’m guessing you didn’t stop by so I could paint your toes and binge watch Netflix. So this must be a booty call.” I frowned. “Is this a booty call?”

  Lucas laughed. “I like you, Morgan. You’re different from other women I’ve
been with. It’s nice.”

  “We haven’t really been together. I don’t think sticking your hand in my underwear right before throwing up counts,” I pointed out.

  Lucas took my hand and tugged me down on the couch beside him. “Maybe we need to do something about that then.” He nuzzled the side of my neck and I wished I had some control over the goosebumps that erupted over my flesh.

  I sat back, putting distance between us. “So it is a booty call,” I said accusingly.

  Lucas sighed and leaned back against the cushions. He frowned, patting the couch. “This is the most uncomfortable sofa I’ve ever sat on. I think there’s a spring poking me in the arse.” He lifted his butt and felt underneath him.

  “It came with the apartment,” I said defensively.

  “It really is a shitty flat,” Lucas commented, looking around.

  “Well it’s the only thing in this town in my price range. So it is what it is. Look, I don’t think a booty call is in the cards—”

  “I’m not here for a bloody booty call, or whatever you call it. Calm your tits,” Lucas grumbled.

  “Calm my tits? What the hell does that mean?” I demanded, my voice rising.

  “Who was the guy you brought with you to my game?” he asked suddenly. That was an abrupt change in subject.

  “Just a guy I work with,” I answered dismissively.

  “Are you dating him? It seemed like you were together.” Lucas stuffed one of the pillows behind his back, obviously trying to get comfortable.

  “How is that any of your business?” Watching him fidget around on my shitty couch was annoying me.

  “I gave you tickets. It was a gift. Don’t you think it’s in bad taste to bring another bloke?” He stretched his legs out in front of him, seeming far too relaxed.

  “I wasn’t aware there were stipulations on who I could or couldn’t bring with me. You should have made that clearer,” I threw back at him.

  “Are you going to offer me something to drink? I could murder a pint.”

  Lucas was giving me whiplash. Did he have ADD or something?

  “If you want to be waited on, go to the pub down the road.”

  “I’m getting the impression that you don’t want me here,” Lucas stated, frowning.

  “I just don’t understand what this is. Why you’re here. Why you care about who I brought with me to the game.” I didn’t have any real experience with the back and forth banter of flirting. Was that what this was?

  I had no freaking clue.

  Lucas sat up and ran a hand over his shaved head. “Why didn’t you wait for me like I asked you to?”

  “Because you didn’t exactly ask me to do anything. You told me to,” I responded blandly.

  “Ah, so you’re one of those modern empowered women that get in a huff when a man tells her to do something.” He acted as though he had solved one of the great mysteries of the universe.

  “I don’t think that makes me modern or empowered. It makes me human. Pardon me if I don’t want to be bossed around by some guy I don’t even know,” I fumed, feeling myself getting angry.

  “I wasn’t bossing you around. For fuck’s sake I just wanted to spend time with you and then you had to turn it into some sort of gender power struggle.” Lucas put his feet on the floor and stood up. “You know, this was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have just shown up like this.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket but didn’t move to leave. He stared down at me, his expression unreadable.

  “What?” I asked, feeling off kilter. Lucas had a way of pulling the rug out from underneath me. I couldn’t get a sure footing around him.

  He let out a noisy breath. “I got the sense that you were someone who I could hang out with. No expectations. Because let’s be real, that’s all anyone has for me anymore. Expectations. It’s fucking exhausting.” He jangled the keys in his hand nervously. Why was he nervous?

  “But if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. Sorry for interrupting your evening of doing whatever you were doing.” He finally started to walk towards the door.

  Well damn. Way to make me feel like a jerk.

  I got up and grabbed his arm. “Wait. I’m sorry for being an ass. What happened at the pub, that was unusual for me. I just don’t want you to show up here thinking you’re getting a piece—”

  “Getting a piece? Did you just say that? Really?” Lucas scoffed.

  I gave his arm a tug. “Sit down already,” I said rolling my eyes.

  Lucas sat back down on the couch and reached for the TV remote.

  “I wouldn’t bother. I don’t have cable.”

  “Well you’ve got to have something.” Lucas turned on the TV and saw only static. “You’re telling me you don’t have any TV?”

  “I told you I didn’t. Cable is a frivolous expense,” I told him primly.

  “You don’t even have Freeview? Everyone has Freeview.” Lucas went to the main menu on the television and started scrolling through the screen.

  “What’s Freeview?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Everyone gets the BBC channels and a few others with Freeview. It’s a free service. No contract like with cable. I saw a dish on the roof of your building so there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to get some channels. Plus this looks like a new television and they’re all equipped with a receiver for Freeview these days.”

  He clicked on an icon and the screen came to life. A soccer game came on the screen. It looked a lot like the Chester game.

  “How did you do that?” I asked, more than a little excited at finally having access to television.

  “The picture’s not the best, but that probably has to do with the dish.” He opened the channel guide. “You can get all these channels now.”

  “And I don’t have to pay anything?” I asked astounded.

  “Well you have to pay your TV license. It’s about twelve quid a month. Has no one explained this stuff to you?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Not a damn thing, I’m afraid. So I have to pay a license to watch TV? I got one of those notice letters in the mail but I didn’t really know what it was about.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Lucas handed me the remote. “Maybe you should just make me your British life liaison. I can help you navigate the tricky waters of TV licensing and which local chippy serves the best curry sauce.”

  I started to turn the channel but Lucas stopped me. “Do you mind if we watch this? It’s Match of the Day. I want to hear what they have to say about the match.”

  “Uh sure. Though haven’t you had enough soccer for one day?” I teased, warming to him now that he had solved my television situation.

  Lucas settled into the pillows, pulling one onto his lap and holding it to his chest like a teddy bear. Was he actually snuggling with a pillow? I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh. His eyes were glued to the screen. “I live and breathe footie. It’s never enough.”

  “You’re lucky to be doing something you love,” I said. The show seemed to only air the highlights of the game, which was good. I didn’t think I could sit through it again, as entertaining as it had been.

  Lucas looked at me and nodded. “I know I am. I’m very lucky. There’s not a day that goes by that I forget that. And it could all go away in an instant. I could get injured and that would end my career. I’ve seen it happen too many times to much better players than me.” He bumped my leg with his. “What about you? What do you do? How did a sweet American girl end up in England?”

  I shrugged. “I took a job with an IT company here. I thought it would be a great opportunity to do some traveling. To see the world.”

  “And have you seen the world yet?” Lucas asked.

  “I can barely afford rent and utilities, let alone traveling at the moment. I’m saving to go to Portugal. I’d love to go somewhere hot and sandy.”

  “We have lovely beaches here in England, you know. My mum lives in Dorset, right on the coast.”

  “Yeah, but the water is
only a degree or two above freeze my ass off. No thank you,” I chuckled. “Though there’s a lot I want to see here. I can’t wait to get down to London for a weekend. I’ve wanted to visit the Tower of London and the British Museum for most of my life.”

  Lucas let out an exaggerated yawn. “Sounds like a blast.”

  “Well, what do you recommend?” I asked him, elbowing him in the arm.

  “Anything but dusty old museums and castles.” His attention was pulled to the TV again where a couple of middle aged men sat behind a desk.

  “Lucas Bradley was in top form today. When he’s on the break, no one can stop him. Everyone is watching him this season. It’ll be interesting to see if he can maintain this level of play. If he does, he’ll be up there with some of the greats in the league,” one of the men said.

  “Ah, so this is why you wanted to watch this show. To have your ego stroked,” I teased.

  Lucas grimaced, seeming embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, so it’s nice to hear.”

  “One of the greats, huh? Well that’s quite a statement.” I watched him watching the TV.

  “That’s a load of bollocks,” he remarked dismissively but he didn’t look away from the television.

  I got up and went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of sodas and a bag of popcorn. Back in the living room, I handed Lucas a can.

  “Thanks. See, you’re a very a good hostess,” he grinned.

  “Well since you’re here, might as well be polite about it.” I grinned back.

  I opened the bag of popcorn and Lucas took a handful. We watched the rest of Match of the Day. Lucas seemed excited with the results. I didn’t even pretend to follow his commentary about the teams and players.

  “You don’t give a toss about this stuff do you?” he deduced when I didn’t bother to hide a yawn.

  “Nope. Not even a little.”

  “Okay, fine,” he laughed, tossing the remote to me. “You choose something.”

  I flipped through the channels and settled on an old eighties game show where people threw darts. “This is awesome!” I enthused.

  “Bullseye is a classic.” Lucas took some more popcorn.

  “I really hope they win the microwave oven.”

  “Or the phone and answering machine combo,” Lucas added.