“So, you’re clearly very bright,” I reply, running a hand through my dark hair and biting my lip nervously. “Then how in the bloody hell can you call football dull?” I splay my hands out on the table and stare her straight in the eyes. “It’s a widely known fact that football is the most magnificent game in the entire world.”
“Clearly not widely known,” she retorts with a shrug and then takes a sip of her wine without breaking eye contact with me. “If I don’t know it, it’s not wide.”
I slow blink once more, wondering if I can truly allow myself to be in love with a woman who can so easily desecrate my religion. “You must let me change your mind.”
She shakes her head. “How would you do that?”
“I’ll…bring you to one of my matches,” I reply quickly. “We play in Manchester at Old Trafford in a couple of weeks. You have not lived if you’ve not attended a football game there. Let me fly you there.”
“Fly me there?” She laughs with wide eyes. “You hardly know me. Why would you go to such an expense?”
I reach across the table and grab her hand, a spark running through my veins at the skin-on-skin contact. “Because this night…this moment…this feeling I get when I look at you…can’t be for nothing.”
The silence grows as our eyes lock, and our breaths quicken. Christ, what is it about this woman that makes me feel so…alive? I’ve lived my whole life playing the world’s greatest sport, and I’ve never, not once, felt as I do when I look into Vilma’s eyes.
She breaks our heated stare and runs her finger around the edge of her wine glass, allowing me to continue to hold her other hand. “And you think if I watch you play football, I will be a changed woman?”
I weave my fingers through hers and feel a hum of electricity roll through my body. “I know you will be.” Because bloody hell if I’m not already a changed man just talking to her.
“Why?” she whispers, rubbing together her lush, pink lips that are damp from her wine as her eyes glance down at mine.
“Because football gives me life. It feeds my soul. Without it, I can’t breathe, I can’t function…I can’t even fuck.”
She inhales sharply, her eyes hooding with desire. “You speak with intense passion.”
My cock instantly springs to life with her heated reaction. A reaction I want to see over and fucking over again. “Only because football has fed my soul for most of my life.” I lift her hand and press my lips to her knuckles. I feel a shiver run through her as goosebumps crawl up her arm. “What are you passionate about, darling?”
She pulls her hand back and takes a deep breath, clearly trying to regain control of herself so she can speak. She eyes me seriously. “I am passionate about family.”
The corner of my mouth lifts as I take the moment to adjust myself more comfortably. She has no idea the effect she has on me…and I’m not just talking about my cock. “Excellent, me too.”
She laughs that gorgeous, rich laugh that dominates my attention, making me want to surrender to her right here, right now. “You cannot be passionate about two things, footballer.”
“I can because I am a footballer. Football means that I have passion in excess.” I sit back and wait for her to challenge me more.
She narrows her eyes wickedly. “Do you want children someday?”
“Of course,” I reply, knowing that she probably thought talking about kids would scare me away, but she’s wrong. Admittedly, I haven’t given them much thought, but the image of her as a mother would be a fearsome sight to behold.
“How many?” she asks, lifting her chin to look down at me.
“As many as you want,” I reply boldly, and can’t help the smug grin that spreads across my face.
She crosses her arms over her chest, and a small frown ghosts her lips as if a sad memory runs through her. “I grew up an only child and watched my mum try to have more children and fail over and over again. She was clinically depressed and withdrawn, even from me, the one thing she was desperate to have. A child. Her child. Me. Therefore, I’ve always known my whole life that a big family means a happy mummy. So, I want lots of children, footballer. What do you say to that?” she asks quietly.
Her eyes look a little insecure, like she fears she’s shared too much. I don’t want her to withdraw, so I choose to defuse the situation by attempting to make a heavy conversation a little lighter. “As it happens, I have a lot of super sperm that are ready to find a loving home in a woman’s womb…so lots of children are all right by me.”
Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and a lightness resembling appreciation creeps into her features. But she furrows her brow and continues to soldier on. “I want at least four. An even number—that way, all my children have a mate.”
“Perfect,” I quip. It’s obvious she has thought a lot about her future. But I wonder if she’s ever shared her ideas in such detail with anyone, let alone a bloke she just met. “That’s the exact number of children I want as well.”
She presses her lips together and tries not to smile. “But I want one set to be twins so I don’t have to give birth so many times.”
She’s giving me every chance to back down in this conversation, but bloody hell if I’m not more attracted to her tenacity with each new admission she shares.
“Excellent.” I prop my arms on the table. “Twins run in my family on account of our super sperm, so I’ll have no problem fulfilling this request for you. In fact, our similarities are getting a bit creepy now, don’t you think?”
She pins me with an unamused look. “It was creepy when me kicking another man in the balls caused you to profess your love for me.”
I smile victoriously. “What can I say? I’m a man who knows what I want. And you were very agile the way you floored him like that…very sexy. I bet you’d make an excellent footballer.” I can’t decide what I want to see her as more: pregnant with a child, or playing football on a pitch. Christ, who the hell am I ever right now?
She laughs, and her hair falls into her face, so I reach forward to tuck a strand behind her ear. Before I can retreat a safe distance, she grabs my hand and turns it over to inspect my palm, dragging her delicate fingertips over all my calluses. “You are a professional footballer, and you want me to take your name and give you children even though I called one of your biggest passions in life dull? How is this possible?”
I can only shrug. How has any part of this night been possible? How have I gone from a lonely professional footballer to meeting the woman of my dreams in a dreary pub? It doesn’t matter. Everything in my body tells me that this woman is a keeper.
“If you loved football, then you’d be too good to be true…and Vilma, there is no way what I feel when I look into your eyes can be a lie.” My answer is chock full of brutal honesty and I can only pray she feels the same way.
• • •
Two hours later, I’m walking down a London street, holding Vilma’s hand. I haven’t been able to stop touching her. Her skin is soft, like a memory. As though I’ve held her a million times, and we were lovers in another life or something. I know it sounds utterly mad, but it’s the only thing I can come up with for why I’m so easily breaking the team curfew. Football is important to me, my top priority even, and staying out late will certainly result in a hefty fine. But when you meet the love of your life, money is no object.
Her hands have continually taken adventures of their own up my arm—exploring my muscles and making me burn from within as she plays with the hem of my shirt. Her skin tingling against mine. The sexual tension is off the charts, but she’s content to continue talking. Therefore, so am I. I want to know everything she wants to tell me.
“I am doing all the talking. You should do more,” she’s saying, resting her head on my arm like she’s done it a thousand times before.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, and attempt to casually smell her hair like the total creep I am right now.
She thinks for a moment and then replie
s, “Tell me your saddest memory.” Her eyes soften around the edges as she stares up at me.
“How about a happy one instead?” I retort, facing forward and offering an easy smile. “I have loads of those.”
“No,” she quips, squeezing me tighter. “Sadness shows the truth. I want some truth from you.”
I inhale deeply, because with one simple statement, she has struck a nerve that I don’t often allow myself to strike. A sharp pain builds in my chest as the memory assaults me. “I guess it would have to be the day my parents died.”
She stops midstride and pulls me backwards so I’m forced to face her. Her brows knit together with concern. “What happened to them?”
I look away, wishing I didn’t care about this woman so much because then I wouldn’t have to be so honest with her right now.
The truth is, I don’t discuss my parents’ accident. Not with the media, not with my teammates, and not with my brother or friends. Not with anyone. It’s a darkness I don’t often stoke because it doesn’t take much for it to turn to fire. But telling Vilma feels important. It makes her and this evening all the more real.
I meet her gaze and squeeze her hand tightly. “They died in a car accident when I was seventeen. I was training with United at the time, so I wasn’t close when it happened, and I didn’t get to the hospital in time to say goodbye. My father died before I was even out of Manchester, and my mum died just as I arrived in London. They were on their way to Manchester to see me when they crashed.”
A silence descends for a long, painfully awkward moment until Vilma reaches up and brushes the hair off my forehead, cradling my cheek in her palm. “Vaughn, I’m so sorry,” she says sincerely.
For a moment, I close my eyes and lean into her touch, letting her warmth seep in. When I open my eyes, I see the glimmer of tears reflecting in her gaze and it’s hard to look at. I turn away, pulling out of her embrace and letting the coolness of the night replace it. “It’s all right. I’m over it now.”
“Of course you’re not over it,” she snaps, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at her. “You experienced a great loss.”
“It was five years ago,” I argue, trying to soothe her so we can move on from this horrible conversation.
“What is five years when it comes to grief?” Her lips thin with anger as her eyes dart back and forth between mine. I’m amazed at how fiercely she sees through my façade. “Grief has no timeline and no expiration date. It lives here forever.”
She presses her hand to my chest, over my heart, and a warmth once again runs through me at her touch. I cover her hand with mine and nod. “You’re right. It’s still there.”
Her eyes rove over my face knowingly. “Do not tell people you’re over it. To say those words minimises the memory of your parents.”
I swallow the painful knot in my throat because she’s right. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just be honest with me.”
Her blue eyes hit me with such intensity that it’s difficult to breathe. Christ, who is this woman? Where did she come from? What was my life before I felt her in it?
I reach up and touch her cheek, gliding my thumb along the curve of her jaw. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Vilma Nyström.”
Her eyes narrow as though she’s trying to catch me in a lie but can’t. She licks her lips, and replies, “Then you should kiss me to change the thinking into the knowing.”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. I’ve imagined how this woman would kiss since the moment I laid eyes on her. Would she be soft and delicate like her body? Or fierce and confrontational like her mind? The truth is, it wouldn’t matter. I’d take her anyway, anyhow, and anywhere in between as long as it meant I could kiss her. Have her.
I dip my head and pause before our lips touch. “Don’t ever change that part of you.”
“What part?” she asks breathlessly as she anticipates my contact.
“The part that always challenges me.” I bite my lip and move my nose to her neck to breathe in her scent, causing my body to buzz with anticipation. I inhale deeply, committing the sugary aroma to memory. “Your challenging side is quite possibly what I love most about you.”
I softly brush my lips against hers, and a tingling sensation erupts inside me. She tastes sweet and sinful, and I savour the feel of her silky lips against mine. Her hands reach up and fist my shirt as she pulls me flush against her body, morphing this gentle teasing of lips into full-on contact.
Her breasts rise and fall against my chest as I cradle her face in my hands and swirl my tongue deep into her mouth, ravishing her with deep, drugging kisses. She moans softly, and my cock thickens at the sound of her desire.
Christ, I want her. I want her so bad I can hardly stand it.
Suddenly, she pushes me away. “I have to tell you something.”
“Anything,” I reply with a heavy breath, pulling her back to my lips so I can taste her again.
She kisses me for a long moment and then pulls away, sucking in big gulps of air. “My grandfather played football for Sweden.”
“What?” I croak and try to kiss her again until suddenly, her words hit me, stopping me short. “What did you just say?”
She chews her lip nervously. “His name was Erik Nyström.”
My eyes flare. “That’s the name of the famous player I was talking about earlier.”
Her head lowers with a sheepish look. “I figured this much.”
“He singlehandedly kicked England out of the World Cup and won five league titles and five Swedish Cups!”
She nods slowly. “I am aware.”
“And he’s your grandfather?” I ask for confirmation again because…holy bloody hell.
“Yes,” she replies, watching me hesitantly.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to clear my lust-fogged brain to understand what this all means. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
She pulls away and pushes her hair back, her strong bravado faltering for a moment. “Because you were already coming on so strong. If I told you who my grandfather was, it would have been too confusing.”
“Confusing how?”
She exhales heavily, closing her eyes before replying. “I…wanted you to like me for me…not because I love football more than breathing.”
My entire body feels pummeled with that one comment. “Wait, so you don’t hate football?”
“Hate it?” She laughs and shakes her head. “I love it more than I love sex.”
“Jesus fuck…you are too good to be true.” I pull her flush against me, ravaging her mouth, unable to get enough of her in this moment in time.
In a blind flurry, we find ourselves against an unknown building, kissing with so much fire, we could burn this city to the ground. She hooks her leg around my hip, grinding herself against me as my hands greedily explore her curves. When she groans into my mouth I think I might have sex with her right here…right now.
Suddenly, she pulls back, her lips wet and swollen and begging to be kissed again. “Wait, wait. This isn’t right,” she says breathlessly while looking up and down the street that is thankfully abandoned this time of night.
Fighting every part of my sexually charged body, I nod and help her find her footing before backing off and mourning the loss of her heat already. Fuck me, I lose my mind around this woman. Vilma deserves much more than being fucked against a bloody building.
She straightens herself and then grabs my hand, attempting to drag me down the street. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, watching her curiously, seeing her in a whole new light now.
“My flat,” she states through clenched teeth, her entire body tense with a sense of desperation. “Somewhere private.”
“Why private?” I ask stupidly while my eyes zero in on her frantic expression.
She turns on her heel and shoves her mused hair out of her face. “Because we need to have sex,” she rushes out and stares at my chest nervously.
The sexual fog in my brain clears at her very specific words. “What are you talking about, Vilma?”
“This,” she says, pointing back and forth between the two of us as her eyes blink rapidly. “It’s too intense. It’s not sensible. I can’t fully believe it. But if we have sex, if we lay with each other…then we’ll know for certain.”
My brows lift. “You think having sex will be telling?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, looking up, her eyes wide and fiery on mine. “You are a footballer, and you speak of passion. No better test for love than sex. I need to see you, Vaughn. All of you. Then I will know my heart completely.”
My pulse races in my veins as it dawns on me what she’s fully saying. “Are you saying you might love me too, Vilma?” I ask, the hopefulness in my voice loud and clear.
“I’m not sure. I just…need you to stay with me tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “As long as tomorrow includes forever.”
“God, you cocky, arrogant footballer…” She begins what I believe to be a slur of expletives in Swedish, and good Christ, it makes my cock even harder than before. “Are you coming back to my flat or not, footballer?”
I smile victoriously. “Lead the way, future Mrs. Harris.”
• • •
Vaughn Harris – Fifteen Years Later
I knew the night I met my wife that it would mean certain death, but I just assumed it would be the death of life as I knew it. I never once considered it could be the actual death of my wife.
Not my darling Vilma.
I stare into the rundown East London cemetery as the freezing December rain pelts me in the face. I haven’t been here since we buried Vilma. And even though she’s been gone for years, I still think that if I walk into this cemetery, if I look at my wife’s gravestone, if I touch that grass that covers her body…I’ll be dead too.
And I’ve been dead for seven fucking years already.
If Vilma were here, she’d snap me out of this. She was my sunshine and strength, my passion and love. She was everything I ever wanted out of life and more than I ever could have imagined.
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