His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1)

by Alison Ryan

  OTHER BOOKS BY ALISON RYAN:

  For the Love of the Billionaire Serial:

  NEED

  CRAVE

  COVET

  WANT

  FATE (Winter 2016)

  Sons of the Billionaire Titan

  ATLAS

  ATLAS 2 (Winter 2016)

  ODIN (Winter 2016)

  The Alpha Soccer Saga:

  HIS TO WIN

  HER DURHAM BLUES (February 2016)

  OUR TIME TO FALL (Spring 2016)

  You can also find Alison Ryan on Facebook and Instagram. Or email her at alisonryanbooks@gmail.com. To get news on the newest releases and to win free stuff, sign up for the Alison Ryan Newsletter. You can unsubscribe at any time.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Excuse me, miss?” The voice was accompanied by a gentle nudge on the shoulder as Ellie Peavey removed her headphones and looked up from her laptop to find a flight attendant, much too cheerful for before six in the morning, trying to get her attention. The badge she wore said her name was Kelly.

  “Sorry, yes?” Ellie responded politely.

  “It seems we’ve overbooked the flight, or at least made a mistake with the seating assignments, and we have a mum and small boy who find themselves seated in separate rows. We were hoping, since you’re traveling alone, that you might consider changing seats to accommodate them?” At this point, Kelly leaned in close to Ellie, her voice just above a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll thank me. Three rows back, across the aisle, on the window.”

  Ellie turned her head, craning her neck to see past the afro of the passenger behind her, catching a glimpse of her potential new seatmate, eyes widening and then turning back to make eye contact with her new friend Kelly.

  “Ah, yes, sure,” Ellie stammered. “I think that should work just fine.”

  Ellie gathered her things, and Kelly escorted her to her new seat.

  “Sir? We’re moving some passengers to make room for a mother and child; this is your new seatmate.” Kelly turned, motioning for Ellie to introduce herself.

  “Aman. . . Ell . . . Ellie, I’m Ellie.” And with that, Amanda Eleanor Peavey locked eyes with the ice-blue gaze of the most magnificent man she’d ever seen, instantly spellbound.

  Ellie wasn’t usually a believer in love at first sight. She was far too pragmatic for such a thing. But anyone who caught a glimpse of someone like the man with whom she’d just come face to face, with his handsome face and athletic body, would possibly reconsider their entire belief system to have a moment alone with him. Even on a cramped plane. As much as she hated to admit it, she was instantly drawn to him, if only for the simple fact that he was such a damn fox.

  “Nice to meet you, Ellie. I’m Patrick, Patrick Sievert,” he said, extending a hand. With that, Kelly’s impromptu matchmaking was finished, and she scurried off in search of her final two passengers.

  Before Ellie could settle into her seat, Patrick rose, insisting she take the window.

  “I noticed you had the window up there. What sort of gentleman would I be if I made a lady who preferred the window take an aisle seat? Wouldn’t be a bit chivalrous, would it?” He smiled. Of course, his teeth were perfect.

  Ellie laughed nervously, wishing she’d taken a bit more time in front of the mirror that morning, chosen something more flattering to wear, maybe spent the past twenty-six years doing CrossFit, so she’d have a snowball’s chance of this Patrick remembering her once he’d taken two steps off the plane in Glasgow, probably into the arms of his supermodel girlfriend.

  At least he isn’t wearing a ring, she thought to herself.

  “Thank you; you’re very kind,” Ellie said, easing herself past Patrick toward the window seat. As she squeezed past him, brushing against his body couldn’t be helped. He was lithe, moved easily, but he felt like granite. There was nothing soft about him. And those eyes. She’d held his gaze for only a moment before she had to look away. Any longer, and she feared for his safety. She—hell nobody—could be found guilty for just ripping the tailored shirt off him and kissing him wildly. He was a thing of beauty. If she’d been told he had just stepped off a shoot for GQ, she wouldn’t have questioned it even for a second.

  She adjusted herself in the seat, cursing the lack of even an extra millimeter of space into which she could cram her hips and thighs, to prevent herself from spilling into his space. Ellie was certainly not overweight, but her curves could pose a problem in the ever-shrinking size of the economy-class plane seat.

  He sat down next, sighing and turning toward her. “So, Ellie, what’s taking you to Scotland?”

  There was a hint of an accent to his voice—British best she could discern, and only on certain words. As if he was either a Brit who’d spent most of his time in America, or vice versa. Or maybe he was Canadian. It’s not as if Ellie was any sort of expert on accents; the only ones she knew for certain were the ones surrounding her home state of Ohio. Michigan and Pennsylvania sounded distinctly different from each other, and neither sounded anything like Kentucky. Questions piled up in her mind, a habit picked up as she’d pursued a journalism minor at Ohio State.

  What kind of accent is that? How did you get that scar over your left eye? Are those contacts, or are your eyes naturally that color? How does it feel to be the most handsome man in any room you’re in? Why don’t you kiss me and never stop? How many of your babies may I please have?

  Feigning the confidence of an experienced international traveler and seasoned flirt (she was neither), Ellie replied, “Oh, nothing exciting. Going for work and hopefully I’ll get to visit a castle or something. It’ll be my first time there. First time in the UK actually.” (First time outside the United States, she could have added, but decided against it. Better to seem worldly, as her self-diagnosed frump certainly wasn’t going to catch Patrick’s impossibly blue eyes.)

  Little could Ellie know, however, that Patrick also felt a flutter at being introduced to Ellie; her smile disarmed him first, and th
en the refreshing scent of her hair as she moved past him into her seat delivered the knockout blow. Would it be rude to ask if I could smell her hair again? He thought to himself. Terribly so, he decided.

  As they conversed, he found himself studying her. With her hair up in a messy bun, Patrick’s eyes were drawn to the nape of Ellie’s neck. The skin there was like soft porcelain, freshly fallen snow—flawless, seemingly soft. To spend a few hours standing behind her, pressed close, kissing that spot—then below her ear and just toward the front, not quite her shoulder, not her throat . . . maybe her collarbone—he decided, would be a fantastic way to spend an evening.

  “What sort of work do you do?” he asked.

  Clearly, I’m a jet-setting international supermodel. Can’t you tell? Ellie thought to herself, bemused. She decided honesty was the way to go, just get it out in the open. “I’m a market research analyst. When my company wants to put a new product on the market, drones like me are dispatched all over the place to check with the locals to see if they like it or not. Then I get to process all the surveys and interviews and give my input as to whether or not we go forward with whatever the new thing is. Exciting, huh?”

  “The travel doesn’t seem like a bad perk though, eh? I mean if your husband or boyfriend doesn’t mind you being gone so much?” Nice, Patrick. Don’t make your fishing too obvious. Why not just completely terrify her and ask her out right now? You’ve known her for all of what, four minutes?

  Before Ellie could respond, bells, whistles, and the voice of flight attendant Kelly interrupted, explaining how best to survive the plane turning into a fireball somewhere over the Atlantic. She and Patrick pretended to pay attention, and Ellie glanced down to notice their hands were so close together they were nearly touching. Kismet. The universe wants us to hold hands, she thought. He may take some convincing, however.

  When the lesson in seatbelts and life rafts concluded, Patrick turned toward Ellie once again, the setting seeming much more intimate than two strangers sharing space on a plane.

  “Where were we?”

  I think you’d just asked me to marry you, Ellie thought, but managed to put a more coherent response into words. “I think you’d just asked if I had anyone at home who missed me when I traveled.”

  Patrick nodded. “That’s right, yes, I meant to ask if you traveled much or enjoyed it, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah, yes, well, actually my travel is usually just domestic. I get to go to exciting places like Kansas City and Birmingham, mostly. This trip is part of a mini-promotion. And there’s no ‘Mr. Ellie’ waiting at home yet, so I figure this beats being stuck in a cubicle and going home to Maisie. She’s my beagle. I’m pretty sure she misses me, but when I’m gone, my niece watches her, so she’s in good hands.”

  “Must be Birmingham, Alabama, then? I used to work near a Birmingham, the one in England,” Patrick answered.

  Seizing the opportunity to take the uncomfortable spotlight off herself and listen to Patrick’s deep voice with its wonderfully peculiar affect, Ellie asked, “What do you do, if it’s OK to ask?”

  “Thank God you’re American, Ellie.” Patrick laughed, then lifted both hands in a calming motion to allay her surprise. “I’m actually unemployed at the moment, although if you believe the rags and bloggers, I’m on the books of half the teams in Europe.”

  Ellie was completely confused by Patrick’s words, but completely enthralled by the way he spoke them. Listening to him read menus, nursery rhymes, or the phone book would be equally charming, she thought. Hell, she’d pay to listen to him read her stupid market analysis reports if she got to watch him do it—preferably shirtless.

  Sensing he was speaking a foreign language to her, Patrick Americanized his reply. “I’m a footballer. A professional soccer player. But I’m out of contract at the moment. Between teams. My agent and I have been plotting, and despite what all the tabloids suggest, I’m leaning toward playing in Scotland next year.

  “Hence, the trip to Glasgow?” Ellie asked.

  “Good word, hence.” Patrick chuckled. “Yes. Glasgow. Hence, indeed.”

  “So, if the tabloids are discussing your upcoming plans, you must be a really big deal over in England, in soccer?”

  “It’s not that I’m such a ‘big deal.’ It’s that football—sorry, soccer—is just about the most momentous thing in the UK. Actually, there’s a famous quote from a guy named Bill Shankly; he was a manager at a big club called Liverpool. He said, ‘Football isn’t a matter of life or death; it’s much more important than that.’ I’m probably paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it. So if you’re a footballer who’s played in a few important matches, or for a top side, and you’re moving to a different team, your future is subject to all sorts of rumor, conjecture, and guesswork. Part of it’s my fault. In an interview last year, I mentioned that I might like to end my career in a far-flung place. Japan or Australia, maybe. Even India. Depending on which fish wrap you read, I’m bound for Qatar, Greece, or even back home to play in MLS.”

  “Where’s home?” Ellie asked, her head spinning at the revelation of Patrick’s evident notoriety, her dad’s voice in the back of her head warning her that this Patrick, like every boy and man she’d ever been interested in, was not to be trusted, was after only one thing. Which, given her bedroom’s dry spell and Patrick’s crushing good looks, wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing. Although the whole thing did seem a bit much, and given that her expertise regarding soccer began and ended with the name Pelé, she’d need a private moment and a good Wi-Fi connection to verify his story.

  “That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? Home . . . home, let’s see. If you’re talking home, as in where my roots are, where I grew up, it’s South Carolina. A place called Moncks Corner. It’s near to Charleston. But home for the past few years has been my flat in London, although really I live out of a suitcase more often than not. If I’m able to work out a deal in Glasgow, I’ll rent an apartment there for a year or two, as long as my knees let me play. What about you, Ellie? Where’s home for you and . . . Maisie, was it?”

  The plane finally ascended into the Georgia sky, bound for London, as Ellie told her story. “I grew up in Ohio, near Columbus. I went to Ohio State, majored in English and minored in journalism. I live near Atlanta now; I moved down here after college. I have family here, and I found my job has an office in Buckhead, so it was a win-win. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you or don’t know about soccer; honestly my dad is a high school football coach, and it was all Buckeyes and Browns in my house. There was no other sport besides football. Although once I outgrew the little cheerleader uniform I wore to games in grade school, I had also outgrown football.”

  Patrick’s imagination went to Ellie’s curves filling a cheerleader’s outfit, and he caught himself glancing again at her neck and down lower, wishing her ample breasts weren’t so covered by her business attire.

  “Ellie, the fact that you’re not a soccer person is nothing for which you need apologize. It’s in my top five, hmm, let’s make it top ten, favorite things about you thus far. Talking football day and night is such a colossal bore. I’m quite happy to talk about anything but.”

  This guy has a list of ten things he likes about me? Ellie thought, in complete wonderment. Since college, with an atmosphere conducive to partying and hooking up, she’d been on dates—but exclusively with guys who were attractive only because they were single, male, and breathing. Guys she’d met at the dog park, Barnes & Noble, the coffee shop. Second dates were rare, and a third hadn’t happened in her “adult” life. At twenty-six, she was by no means an old maid, but watching pages on the calendar turn and seeing herself in the mirror getting further and further from what she considered her physical peak (her junior year at OSU) was disheartening. One of these days, she’d wind up settling down with some chubby accountant or salesman, have uninspired sex, pump out 2.5 kids, and live happily never after. Patrick was obviously unattainable, but when weren’t pro athletes kno
wn to sleep around? And would it really be such a terrible thing to wind up in his “London flat” for a night or two, letting Patrick’s perfect body have its way with her? He was clearly being at the very least charming, at best downright flirtatious. If nothing else, it could turn into a story to share with her grandchildren one day. Her brush with fame. Leaving out any sordid details, of course.

  Her typical social nervousness with men was melting away, as it never did without the aid of alcohol. Patrick had a way of holding her in the palm of his hand, making her comfortable, carrying the conversation when all she wanted was to skinny-dip in the ice-blue pools of his eyes.

  “I promise not to talk about your job if you can somehow keep yourself from wanting to discuss my thrilling career,” Ellie replied with a playful pout.

  “Deal.” Patrick smiled, extending his hand awkwardly in the tight space between them, and they shook, Ellie’s left hand in Patrick’s right, a firm grip she never wanted to let go.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eight hours later, Ellie Peavey floated from her seat toward Terminal 4 at Heathrow, her voice growing hoarse. She’d planned to read her way across the Atlantic, had her Kindle loaded, but the conversation never lagged, and Patrick seemed as content as she was to share the time and small space together. As they approached the end of the jet bridge, he leaned down and said something she hadn’t expected to ever hear spoken to her by anyone.

  “I know how pretentious this is going to sound, and I apologize, but when we enter the terminal, people will be taking pictures of me and asking for my autograph. If we walk out together, there’s a good chance you’ll be showing up in the rags tomorrow as my ‘mystery Yank love interest.’ I don’t mind the tabloids—I’m used to them—but you deserve fair warning and the chance to escape, so here it is. Either way, we’ll be on the same flight to Glasgow; I’ll arrange for us to be seated together. ” He grinned at her, a smile that made her knees weak and her heart feel like bursting from her chest.

  Like anybody on Earth would look at us and think we were a couple, Ellie thought to herself, but she appreciated Patrick’s candor and deferred to his experience in such matters.