by Lily Harlem
“I know.” I groaned.
“So ice it up, take a ton of painkillers and get yourself to Warsaw either tomorrow or the next day.”
“I don’t think it will be tomorrow, I can hardly stand on it.”
“Okay, so the next day, but that will be cutting it fine.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Try more than your best. Just do it. We’re relying on you.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, and Nicky?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do anything else stupid, will you.”
“I’ll try not to.”
The line had just gone dead when my phone rang again. This time it was Lewis. His smile lit up my screen and my heart flipped.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hello. How was your day?”
“What’s up?”
I hesitated “How did you know something was up?”
“You haven’t got a smile in your voice.”
My eyes filled with tears again and my throat got all thick and clogged.
“Nicky, what’s happened?”
“I just fell over in the shower. It was my own fault. I’d had some beer and the shower curtain fell and the base was slippery. I just couldn’t keep my balance and tumbled and then—”
“Hey, hey, slow down. Are you hurt?”
“I’ve twisted my ankle. It’s so sore.” A fat tear dripped down my cheek.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No, it’s not broken, just agony to put weight on.”
“Have you got it elevated?”
“Yes.” I sniffed.
“Have you taken some painkillers?”
“Yes, but they haven’t done much. And now Reg is hassling me to go to Warsaw tomorrow and I can’t even stand up.”
“Well you can’t go then, can you.”
“I have to.” A sob escaped my lips. It was hearing his voice and wishing he was with me that did it. I needed him to give me a hug and tell me everything would be okay. Make me feel like the rest of the world was in the distance. But, of course, that couldn’t happen.
“Shh, shh, don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’m just so fed up and my ankle hurts and my stomach is cramping and I hate all of this, us not being able to see one another.”
“It’s not for much longer. I promise.” He paused. “Why is your stomach cramping? Have you eaten something dodgy?”
“No, it’s just time of the month.” I cried a bit more. Because I’d just told Lewis Tate that I had my period and he didn’t need information like that. But I was just feeling so wretched I couldn’t keep my misery in.
He was quiet for a moment. “How about we do a deal with Reg to keep him off your back? That way you can chill out for a few days in Kiev until you feel better.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Tell him I’ve offered an exclusive interview to Kick but it has to be in Kiev the day after the semis. You can say you can’t get back in time to make our appointment if you go all the way to Warsaw.”
I hesitated. “That might work.”
“Sure it will. I haven’t done any interviews other than the post-match questions. It will be an exclusive.”
I wiped my nose. “You would do that for me?”
“Honey, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I’d do for you.”
“You’re so sweet.” A fresh set of tears trickled down my cheek.
“I am not sweet.” He sounded exasperated.
“You are, but don’t worry.” I sniffed. “Your secret is safe with me.”
My mind wouldn’t settle into sleep that night. Partly because of the pain and also because I couldn’t stop thinking of Lewis. It felt so long since I’d seen him. Since we’d had those few perfect days locked in the tower giving each other pleasure, laughing, joking, discovering what made the other tick.
A knock on my door pulled me from the drugged, deep-morning slumber that had finally taken hold when the sun had started to rise. I groaned and turned over, re-burying my head in the pillow. A shooting pain radiated from my ankle. “Ouch,” I muttered.
There was another bang on the door. “Nicky. Are you in there?”
It was Phil.
Wincing I eased into a sitting position and hooked my hair behind my ears. “Yeah, hang on.” My ankle looked worse than ever. The redness had deepened to purple and as predicted it was swollen so much it barely resembled a body part.
Carefully, I eased to the edge of the bed. Grimaced when a deep cramp pulled at my stomach, then I slowly hopped to the door using the wall for support.
I flicked the handle down, turned and retreated to the bed.
“Nicky, are you all right?”
“Come in,” I said, putting my foot up on a pillow on the outside of the duvet.
He stepped in, his forehead creased. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve twisted my ankle.”
He stopped at the end of the bed and flinched. “Fuck, that looks painful. How did you do that?”
“I slipped when I was getting out of the shower.”
“I knew I should have come in and helped you last night. You were pissed as a fart.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t, and besides, you wouldn’t have exactly been in the shower with me.”
He twitched his brows. “I could have got lucky.”
“Phil.” I frowned.
He laughed. “You want me to make you a cup of tea?”
“That would be great and will you pass me that bottle of water. I’ll take some more painkillers.”
Phil handed me the water then filled the kettle from the bathroom. He looked smart today in dark jeans and a blue-and-white striped shirt. His hair was slightly damp, as though he’d just stepped out of the shower, and I could smell his aftershave.
“So do you want me to book your sleeper train ticket with mine when I go to the station this morning?”
“I don’t think I’m going to make it to Warsaw.”
“But you have to. It’s the semis. It might be England’s last match.”
I shrugged. “I can’t stand up, how am I going to get to the station and then to the game?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.” He paused. “How about hiring a wheelchair or something.”
“And who is going to push me around?”
“I will.” He looked at me like I was dumb.
“That is incredibly kind of you, but you have a job to do. You don’t want to be looking after an invalid.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
I had a sudden rush of guilt that Phil was a much better friend to me than I was to him. I was lying about Lewis. But then again, I was lying to everyone about Lewis. Telling Phil everything at this point was out of the question. But I would, as soon as I could. He’d be the first to know. “I’m going to stay here and watch it on the TV. I can still write up a report for Reg.”
“But you won’t have any player reactions if you don’t come to the press conference afterwards.” He handed me a cup of tea. “I know.” His face lit up. “I could email you the main points. That would help.”
“That would be fantastic.” I took a sip of tea. “Thanks.”
“And before I go I’ll stock you up with painkillers. And I’ll tell reception to keep an eye on you. Do you need a doctor or anything?”
“No, it’s not broken.”
“How about some snacks and magazines. It’s going to be a long few days stuck in here on your own.”
“I know but what choice do I have? All I can do is hope that with rest my ankle feels better quickly and I’ll be right as rain for the finals.” I held up my hand with my fingers crossed.
Another knock at the door caught our attention. Phil went to open it. “Is this Miss Thomas’ room?” A foreign accent.
“Yes,” Phil said.
“Oh, er, just on the dresser would be great.”
“And these?” Another member of hotel staff walked into the room. He held the strings of twelve balloons all different colors and each one reading Get Well Soon.
My head spun. They could only be from one person. Unless of course Reg had gone soft on me. Which I didn’t think was likely.
“There’s more,” said Phil, widening his eyes as two wicker hampers were set down at the side of the bed. I glanced into them. One contained DVDs, books, magazines and a small artist’s watercolor set. The other brimmed with cakes, crisps and chocolate.
“Bloody hell,” Phil said, leaning back against the wall to allow a giant fruit basket to be brought into the room.
“And this, madam, for your comfort.” The first man, who’d brought in the flowers, handed me a box.
I looked inside. It had bandages and tubigrips, packets of painkillers, a Clinique pamper-me-set, manicure box, tampons and a pink fluffy teddy wearing an England top.
“Er, thanks.” I was flabbergasted and sat in silence as the staff left the room.
The door shut and I glanced around. The dull green walls and brown curtains were no longer the main features. A rainbow of colors flooded my senses; the scent of the flowers reminded me of the Donbass. My heart swelled. Lewis had remembered I liked to paint whenever I got the chance. We’d been cuddling in the bath when I’d told him that.
“Well Peter Piper beat me to it,” Phil said, shaking his head. “I was just about to go and get exactly this for you, right down to the teddy bear.”
“I, er, yes,” I managed.
“Though, of course, I was worried you’d think it was over the top,” Phil said.
I shrugged. “It is a little, isn’t it?” Over the top didn’t begin to describe it. But I wasn’t complaining. To know Lewis had done all of this for me, even with everything else he had going on, was enough to make my eyes fill again.
Damn, what was it with me and crying lately?
Luckily Phil appeared not to notice. He stepped up to the flowers and I quickly dabbed my eyes on the sleeve of the T-shirt I’d slept in.
“You want me to pass you the card?” he asked.
“Yes please.”
I opened it, keeping it tilted away from Phil in case Lewis had written anything on it that might give the game away.
Rapunzel, get well soon, from your not so sweet Prince xx
Chapter Twelve
Phil left for Warsaw the next day with promises to email after the match and fill me in on the press conference. I’d given him a hug before he went, and thanked him for all his support.
He’d kissed the top of my head and told me he was sorry he’d said Peter didn’t adore me. It was clear he did and was he a millionaire?
So although my ankle was sore and my stomach bloated and cramping, I was in reasonable spirits and settled into my few days of recovery.
On the day of the match, I applied the expensive facemask and painted my nails in the morning. Spent the afternoon watching The English Patient on DVD and nibbling M&Ms then finally, just after my room service dinner had arrived, settled to watch the game.
I sipped a glass of wine and experienced a bubble of delight in my chest when Lewis ran onto the pitch. The camera caught a shot of his face. He was so breathtakingly handsome and looked so damn determined. I loved that expression of his, it was the same one that had flashed across his face when he’d come back from training and tipped me over the chaise. My pussy clenched and I was glad my period had ended. I might have to play with Big Ben later.
He broke into a run, jogged up to the ref and shook his hand. The camera flashed to Bryers who was kicking his heels into his butt, warming up his quads. I squirmed on the bed. I was so excited, to see Lewis, to see the match, but I was also nervous. Germany was going to be hard to beat and I was scared of seeing Lewis get hurt again. I knocked back another mouthful of Chardonnay and watched my balloons floating in the breeze flitting through my window. Soon it would be over. Too soon if England were knocked out by Germany, but even if the team got to the finals, it was only a matter of days until the end of the tournament.
The whistle blew and the game began. Lewis got first touch of the ball. The German players were in green and swarmed around him. But he was too fast, ducked and dodged and within seconds was going for goal. He hit the post and the ball was captured by a German defender who took off up the wing. The England fans groaned then cheered when Bryers stole it back.
“And the England team have come out fighting,” the TV commentator was saying. “They’re not messing around today. A goal attempt in the first thirty seconds must surely have got Germany rattled.”
“Absolutely,” I said, leaning forward to see who had the ball now. Number eight, Taylor.
Fellows’ face filled the screen. He was chewing wildly on his gum, his fillings winking at a whole nation. I couldn’t help the intense dislike for him that prodded me. While I could understand him needing a few rules to keep his players on the straight and narrow, he didn’t have to be so dogmatic or downright rude about it.
A wild cheer pulled the camera back to the action. Taylor still had the ball, he took a shot, he scored.
“Yes!”
The roar from the TV was deafening. One nil up in the first few minutes and the England fans were already chanting about their trip to the finals on Sunday.
Unfortunately, the rest of the match wasn’t as exciting, the score still one-nil at halftime.
I tucked into cheesecake and listened to the commentator’s mid-match discussion. Their opinion was the same as mine. Germany were trying to keep hold of the ball and slow the game down, but when England least expected it they’d battle forward and go for goal.
Luckily this didn’t happen. And I had to give credit to Fellows. He’d clearly given the team a good halftime pep talk and told them to keep the pressure on, which they did, brilliantly.
The final result was one-nil and England had their passport to the finals.
Phil emailed and then called just before midnight. He was beyond excited as he filled me in on all the details from the press conference. I was surprised when he said Lewis wasn’t there. It was just Clare and Hatton with Fellows.
Lewis didn’t call, which was understandable, I told myself. It was late and he’d just played one of the hardest matches of his career. He was bound to be exhausted and had no doubt crashed out back in his hotel room.
But even so I couldn’t help the fizz of disappointment burning in my belly as I hobbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’d become used to him being the last person I spoke to each day.
It was hot; the Ukrainian sun had scorched from the sky all day, heating the air to an oven-like temperature that hadn’t faded as night took hold. I slipped into bed, naked, glad of the soft sheets the maids changed each day for me, and drifted to sleep.
My dreams were of players in green chasing me down, trying to stop me from getting a goal. But my aim wasn’t kicking the ball into the net, it was getting to Lewis. He stood, like Hatton did, in the mouth of the goal. He was dressed in jeans and the dark hoody he’d worn to the cathedral. No one in the crowd could see his face except for me. Only I knew it was him. I was trying to run but my legs wouldn’t move, and when they did Germans tripped me over, tackled me, wrapped their arms around my waist and pushed me in the opposite direction.
Lewis’ name was spilling from my lips and my heart was thumping. I had to get to him. It was vital. He needed me and I needed him. Suddenly I saw a break in the German defense. I plowed all my effort into running, steamed ahead, desperation urging me on.
Lewis smiled, opened his arms and caught me. He held me close and joy seared through my veins. He was naked now, so was I, and I could smell his addictive scent, feel the heat of his skin
against my cheek.
“Lewis,” I mumbled, clinging to him. “Lewis.”
“Shh, its okay, I’m here.” He smoothed his hand over my head and down my back, tugged me closer still.
I twined my legs around his and the hairs on his shins tickled. The chants of the crowd faded into the distance as did the German players. It was just us. Lying together, holding one another. I sighed and reveled in contentment. This was home. Lewis’ arms had become my place in the world.
He kissed my head, my temple, tilted my chin and nuzzled across my cheek until he found my lips. His kiss was deep and delicious. I gripped his shoulders and pressed the length of my body to his, adoring the way the patch of hair on his chest scratched against my breast.
“Ah, honey, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Mmm,” I said. “I’ve missed you too.”
My words were clear, so were his. A sense of waking dawned. The dream blurred with reality. I tightened my hold on his shoulders. Taut tendons and firm muscles registered in my brain.
I flicked open my eyes. “Lewis?”
He smiled at me.
Screwing my eyes tight shut, I dragged in a deep breath. Re-opened them. He was still there with his head on the pillow. Not only that his arms were around me, his legs tangled with mine. His body heat and faded cologne really did fill the air.
“You’re here,” I gasped, touching his cheek. Was he real?
“I had to see you.”
“But, what about—?”
“Shh, don’t worry about anything. It’s just us in our tower again.”
“But how did you get here so quickly?”
“I had a private jet on standby. I left straight after the match. It was killing me thinking of you lying here on your own, in a strange country and hurt. I knew if I didn’t see you before the finals I would be too damn distracted to even kick the ball let alone score.”
“You took a private jet, to see me?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “But that must have cost a fortune.”
“A day’s wages, don’t worry about it.”
I was quiet for a moment. “My room. How did you get in?”
“A helpful porter who happens to be a fan.”
