Scored

by Lily Harlem

  “What the fuck,” he said, widening his eyes, “is Lewis Tate doing calling you?”

  “It’s not what you think, please, Phil…” My heart tripped over itself.

  “How come the captain of England has your number? And where did you get that picture?” His mouth hung open. I could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. “He’s supposed to be on the pitch in a few minutes’ time not making calls.”

  “I know, I have to take this, but I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

  He shook his head. Disbelief flashed in his eyes. “Really.”

  “Yes, really.” I snatched the phone to my ear.

  “Nicky?” Lewis’ voice was echoing and tense.

  “Yes, hang on.” I stepped away, holding onto the back of a couple of chairs as I did so. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Why? Are you ill?” Panic welled within me.

  “No, no, it’s just hit me, that’s all. We have to win this thing. We’ve come so far. The fans have come so far with us.”

  I glanced at Phil. He was staring at me, but he was too far away to hear what I was saying.

  “It will be fine,” I said. “The team are playing better than ever.”

  “Yeah, I know, they’re incredible.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the locker room. Everyone has just headed to the tunnel to line up.” He paused. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  A lovely warm fuzzy feeling settled in my belly. He just wanted to hear my voice. I stared down at the entrance to the tunnel. Imagined I had X-ray vision and could see him standing in the locker room, his red kit clean and his long, strong muscles warmed up and ready for action. “Lewis, you’ll be great. I know you will be. And whatever happens, as long as you’ve thrown one hundred percent effort into it, that’s all anyone can ask of you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  On his end of the line I heard shouting.

  “Now go out there and score some goals,” I said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “And whatever happens…” I hesitated. “However today ends, it won’t change the fact that I love you.”

  For a moment it was like my ears had been stuffed with cotton wool. My vision blurred and the noise of the packed stadium faded. I’d said it, I’d told him what was in my heart. I’d had no choice, it couldn’t stay a secret for another second.

  “Tate, where the fuck are you? Get your ass out here.” Fellows’ voice blasted away my moment.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. Good luck.”

  The line went dead and my screen flicked back to normal. I dragged in a deep breath and noticed my hands were trembling. Had I just ruined everything by telling him I loved him moments before the match of the decade? What if he hated me for getting all girly and heavy when he was about to take on the might of Spain’s best players? But more importantly, what if he didn’t love me? The sentiment hadn’t been returned.

  That thought didn’t bear thinking about.

  I limped back and sat next to Phil. Took a sip of water and tried to ignore the hollow feeling growing in my belly. A void that could only be filled by one person; no one else would ever compare.

  “So,” Phil said. “How is the captain doing?” He was sitting with his arms crossed and a black expression on his face.

  “They’re just about to come onto the pitch.”

  He turned to me. “Lewis Tate is Peter bloody Piper, isn’t he?”

  There was no denying it. Again, the truth had to come out, to Phil at least. I pressed my knuckles over my lips and nodded.

  “I knew that fucking name was made up. I thought you’d said it as a way of blowing me off but all the time you really did have a boyfriend, and not only that it’s Lewis Tate, the man the whole country wants a piece of.”

  “Shh, be quiet, will you.” I glanced around. Luckily, no one was taking any notice of our conversation.

  “I just can’t believe it. How long has it been going on?”

  “I don’t know, since the beginning of the tournament.”

  “Blimey, what did you do, stalk him at the Donbass? Seduce him or something?”

  “No I didn’t, actually, it was the other way round.” I pursed my lips in annoyance. “He sought me out.”

  “Well I suppose I can’t blame him for that.” He slotted his shades over his eyes and stared out at the pitch.

  “Phil,” I said, covering his clenched fist with my palm. “I’m sorry. I should have been more honest. But it’s complicated, hardly like a normal couple meeting and dating. Fellows is…”

  “Fellows will make you the center of a witch hunt if England don’t win today and he finds out you’ve been distracting his star player.”

  “I know.” An icky taste filled my mouth. I took a swig of water to wash it away. “He hates me already.”

  “All the more reason for lover-boy to get results then.”

  I felt numb as the players came onto the pitch. Spain in pure white, England in red. Lewis walked ahead of his team, holding the hand of a small girl with pigtails. She was beaming from ear to ear and her tiny stature made him look all the taller. Side by side with him was the Spanish captain; he, too, held hands with a child.

  “Though I suppose,” Phil said with a sigh, “I couldn’t have lost you to a better bloke.” He tipped his mouth into a half smile.

  A glimmer of hope that I hadn’t lost his friendship sparked within me. “He is a great bloke,” I said, “he’s not just a footballer who can be cold-shouldered with the press. He’s got so many layers to him. He’s kind and considerate, and funny and…”

  “Whoa, whoa, you’ve got it bad.”

  “I think I have.”

  “But what about him? Is he just fooling around or is it more?”

  The memory of my confession minutes ago filled my mind. What was I to Lewis? It was a good question. When I was with him he made me feel like I was the center of his world. But looking at him now, on a pitch with sixty thousand people watching and goodness only knew how many more million watching on TV, I knew that couldn’t possibly be the case. How could he switch on and off from what he was? Being the best of the best took up so much of his time and energy. It was more than a game, it was a way of life.

  I looked at Phil. He’d lifted his glasses to the top of his head and was studying me intensely.

  “I’m not sure what I am to him.”

  “I’d hate to see you get hurt,” he said.

  “I’d hate to be hurt.”

  We sat silent for a moment.

  “I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone, you know,” Phil said, sipping his water.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged as he screwed the lid back on the bottle. “If you’d told me what was going on.”

  “I didn’t know that, or at least to start with I didn’t.”

  “That was him, wasn’t it, at the cathedral?”

  “Yes.” Oh my God. The cathedral. What I’d just done to Lewis. Imagine if Phil had wandered in while I’d been sucking his cock.

  “I knew there was something odd going on there.”

  “Just goes to prove you’re a great journalist when it come to sniffing out stories.”

  “I can be a friend too, Nicky. I don’t have to write everything down and make it hit the headlines.”

  I had a sudden rush of affection for him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know that now. You’re a good friend, the best. I honestly couldn’t have coped this last month without you.”

  “That’s me, always the friend.”

  A sudden roar from the crowd snagged our attention. The match had begun.

  “Here we go,” he said, producing his usual pencil and notepad. “Let the battle commence.”

  My head spun as I watched the ball flashing around the pitch. Players darted after it, stole it, lost it. The English goal post was hit twice in the first ten minutes. Another
inch and we could be losing. Luckily, this seemed to perk up the game and Clare and Lewis took good shots, though unfortunately the Spanish goalkeeper saved them.

  By halftime the score was nil to both teams. The sun had finally slipped from the sky and the floodlights gave the pitch a surreal glow. I was tired just from watching Lewis charging around. His energy seemed to be limitless. He was always on the move, making sure he was in the right place at the right time.

  Phil got us a beer, as had become his habit, and I felt sad this would be my last time in the Ukraine watching a match with him. Hopefully our paths would cross again professionally, and even more so, I hoped we’d stay in touch as friends despite my deception.

  The second half kicked off with a burst of determination from the Spanish. Their captain blasted up the wing, passed to a center-mid who took a shot. The Spanish fans erupted as the ball hit the back of the net. The English fans groaned.

  The ref’s whistle went. I crossed my fingers and prayed he’d seen what I’d seen. The goal was off-side.

  “Yes, thank God for that,” Phil said. “He was off-side by at least two meters.”

  “I know, but that’s too damn close for comfort.”

  This seemed to spur the England players on and their possession for the next forty minutes was excellent. But still no goals. Finally extra time was called. The tension within the stadium was electric. Everyone knew what would come next. If neither team scored, penalties would decide the winner.

  “I can’t bear to watch,” I said, covering my eyes.

  Clare was taking the fourth penalty shot for England. So far both teams had missed two and won two. If Clare got this and then Spain missed their shot the cup would be England’s. After all this time, all this effort, we would be victorious.

  Clare stepped back from the ball. Took a moment to focus then booted it. The ball skimmed around the goalkeeper, touched the top bar and then bounced neatly over the line.

  The English fans went wild. I shouted so loud my voice cracked and I had to knock back a mouthful of water.

  “Oh, Jesus, could this be any more tense?” Phil groaned, dropping his head in his hands.

  “Who’s taking it for Spain?” I asked, trying to see which player was stepping forward to take the next penalty.

  He looked up. “Lopez.”

  “Damn.” I held my breath and watched Lopez prepare the ball. He stepped back, shot, scored.

  I shook my head. “Sudden death.”

  “I think my heart might give out.”

  “Mine too.” Now the teams would just keep taking penalties until one side missed and the other scored. It was a cruel way to end the match, but it was the way of football. Someone had to win.

  Rake, an English defender, took a shot. Missed.

  Cavos, the Spanish midfielder, chipped way over the bar and into the crowd. Another miss.

  Finally Lewis stepped forward. He’d been sending his players up in what I was sure was a carefully planned order, but now it was his turn to go for goal.

  I was glad to be sitting down. My knees felt weak and my stomach churned. I could only imagine what was going through his head right now. Hopefully nothing other than a net, a ball and a keeper. He had to do this. If he could score now and Spain missed their next shot it would be over.

  Lewis had his hands on his hips, staring at the mouth of the net. The goalie swayed this way and that, fingers spread, body twitchy. Finally Lewis turned, took several steps away then spun, beat out six fast strides and kicked the ball clean into the back of the net. The goalie hadn’t even seen it coming, he just stood dumbly as it whizzed past his ear.

  The crowd went wild.

  “Legendary,” Phil shouted, thumping the air.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist and hugged myself. He’d done it. I was so proud of him. He’d done his best. What more could anyone ask?

  “I can almost taste it,” Phil said. “We’re so damn close.” He clasped his hands together beneath his chin, lifted his gaze to the sky. “Please let Spain miss. Please let Spain miss.”

  “Amen,” I said, watching Lewis re-join his team. They all whacked him on the back, shook his hand then stilled to watch Spain’s attempt at goal.

  It had been a long time since I’d wanted a team to miss so badly. This meant so much more to me than England winning. It was about the man I loved. Making him happy. Making all the training and hard slog to get where he was worth it.

  I crossed my fingers and my toes. Held my breath and watched as the Spanish player kicked the ball. Hatton, in goal, leaped to the right. It was a risk; the spin on the ball meant it was bending through the air.

  Luckily Hatton had flown in the right direction and wrapped his arms safely around it as he fell to the ground.

  England had won.

  Phil jumped high then grabbed me for a breathless hug. Joy overflowed my soul. Lewis had made it happen. His goal had pulled the team to the winning spot.

  The players were stacking on top of one another. Fellows and a group of coaches rushed onto the pitch and joined in with the pile up. The England fans were going crazy, the cheering and clapping not subsiding, if anything getting louder with each passing second.

  I felt my heart would burst with pride. There didn’t seem to be enough room in my chest for all my emotions. But would the nation’s hero still remember me when all of this was over, or was I just part of his journey to victory?

  The pressroom had a party atmosphere, the journalists as excited as any fan. We’d all been on the nail-biting, roller-coaster ride with the team and treated their victory like our own.

  Fellows marched in, full of self-importance and pompousness. Clare, Bryers and Lewis wandered through behind him. Bryers was grinning, Clare was stripping off a champagne-soaked jersey and pulling another on. Lewis hunted me out with his gaze as soon as he sat down.

  I smiled and felt my eyes mist. The urge to run to him, kiss him, hold him and tell him how proud I was, bordered on overwhelming.

  “There he is,” Phil said. “How does it feel to be dating a hero?”

  I pushed my hair back from my face and shifted my weight off my painful ankle. “He’d still be my hero even if they’d lost.”

  “Thank you all for coming,” Fellows boomed. “This is one hell of an end to what has been a terrific tournament and I couldn’t be happier with the result.”

  “How are the team feeling?” a journalist at the front shouted out.

  “Ecstatic, as you can imagine,” Fellows said. “Ted.” He pointed at Ted.

  “Is it true there were tensions between you and Tate yesterday.”

  Fellows smiled and switched his gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “Nothing to write home about.” He nodded at another reporter.

  “Did you ever consider pulling Hatton from goal and using a sub?”

  “Absolutely not. He played impeccably.” He pointed at a reporter with frizzy red hair.

  “Thanks, I just wanted to ask Bryers if he played even with a suspected injury?”

  Bryers leaned forward and spoke into the mike. “I was fine, if I hadn’t been I wouldn’t have played. The stakes were too high to have a man on the field who wasn’t one hundred percent.”

  “And what about you, Tate?” the same reporter asked. “You must be riding high right now, being captain of the winning team?”

  Lewis nodded, his face serious. “Yes, absolutely. Today is one of the highlights of my career. I couldn’t ask for a better performance from my players. We beat one of the best teams in the world and the cup is ours.” He stood. “However, there is one thing I must do to make this not just an amazing day professionally but also personally.” His attention was locked on me.

  My skin tingled, my heart rate rocketed.

  What is he doing?

  “Tate,” Fellows said, also standing.

  Lewis ignored him. “It’s been a tough set of matches, my focus and commitment hasn’t wavered, but even so, something amazing has happene
d.”

  The room fell completely and utterly silent.

  He pulled in a deep breath. “A kind, intelligent, beautiful woman has fallen in love with me.”

  “Tate, for God’s sake sit down,” Fellows said, his cheeks wobbling and beads of sweat popping on his forehead.

  Bryers smile dropped and he placed a large dark hand on Fellows’ wrist. “Leave it,” he said in a deep voice.

  Fellows sat. I wasn’t sure if it was defeat or shock that sliced across his face but he didn’t move again as Lewis rounded the table.

  “Excuse me,” Lewis said, stepping into the crowd.

  Reporters moved out of the way like the sea parting for Moses.

  Time slowed down, moved in half speed as Lewis walked toward me. He wasn’t smiling; in fact, he was almost frowning. It was that determined, steely expression he wore when nothing would stop him from doing what he’d decided to do.

  “Oh, fucking hell,” Phil muttered.

  Lewis stopped right in front of me. His mouth twitched in a half smile as he cupped my cheek. “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi,” I managed, drinking him up. Every line and contour of his face. His hot male scent and the heat pouring from him. He’d never looked more beautiful.

  “I’m in love with you, Nicky,” he said in a low voice, “and knowing you feel the same has made this the best day of my life.”

  “You are?” I managed.

  “Can’t you tell?” He stooped and kissed me hard and passionately as though we were alone and not in a room full of people.

  Through the sound of blood rushing through my ears, I heard the electrical snaps of phone cameras. Lewis kept on kissing me, he didn’t seem to care in the slightest that the world would see this moment.

  Suddenly he hoisted me upward so my head was level with his. He cupped my jean-clad bum with one hand and with the other held me tight. I wrapped my legs around his waist, the way I had in the shower when he’d fucked me standing up. I ran my fingers into his hair, pulled him closer, fell into the kiss and let my happiness run wild and free.

  Eventually he broke away. “I think I should put you down and finish this press conference.”

  “You probably should.” I grinned.

  I unhooked my legs and he lowered me gently to the floor, keeping his arm wrapped around me. “But I’m not letting you go,” he said. “Not now this is over.”