by Alison Ryan
“I’ll let you go out first; I’d hate to cause an international scandal,” Ellie joked, half expecting the mirage of the day to dissolve into Patrick briskly walking away, meeting what must be his breathtaking wife and perfect kids at baggage claim.
“All right, love, I’ll see you at our gate in ninety minutes—don’t be late!”
The butterflies that had been turning somersaults in Ellie’s stomach since first meeting Patrick became full-blown pterodactyls. Had he really just called her “love”? Her reverie was broken by the commotion just around the corner as the first child in a Chelsea Football Club jersey noticed Patrick Sievert emerge with the rest of the passengers into the busy terminal. A dozen mobile phones began snapping pictures as the six-foot-three American and erstwhile Chelsea defender tried to slouch and remain inconspicuous. It took the first two children scant seconds to approach him, asking for autographs. The crowd buzzed—some hoping for pictures to share with their social media contacts; others, supporters of rival teams, tossing heckling insults in Patrick’s direction.
As Ellie took a step out of the path of her fellow disembarking passengers opposite the direction Patrick had taken, she marveled at the spectacle. A portly, red-faced lout to her left was clearly irritated by Patrick’s presence and kept calling him a “tosser” and a “wanker” in a louder and louder voice, obviously attempting to provoke a reaction. Patrick diligently signed shirts and took pictures, at one point making eye contact with Ellie and shrugging his broad shoulders with a sheepish grin. She rolled her eyes playfully and felt her phone buzzing away in her bag, remembering she was supposed to check in with friends and family at home to let them know she’d arrived safely.
The news of her demise, or lack thereof, could wait, she decided. What was most important was sharing the news of her impending wedded bliss! Ha! She watched as Patrick was ushered away through a nondescript door by airport personnel, probably to calm the furor his unannounced appearance caused, before finding a chair where she could text her best friend, Meg.
Google image search Patrick Sievert, Ellie sent, via text, to Meg.
Welcome back to the world of cell service to you as well, Els, replied Meg.
Ellie’s phone rang moments later, the excited voice of Meg at the other end. “Who is THAT?”
“Oh, just the guy I spent the entire flight talking to. And who ended our conversation by calling me ‘love.’ And who I’m going to fly to Glasgow with. And probably marry. I wonder if they have a lottery in England. I should probably buy a ticket,” Ellie responded breathlessly.
“OK, first of all, I hate you. You’re my best friend, but I hate you. And I feel sorry for whoever the poor person is who gets to clean up the puddle you left on your seat on the plane.”
“Meg! Gross! Stop it! Anyway, I wiped it up myself when we got up to leave. Ninja-style. Ha!”
“Girl, you are crazy. Did you seriously meet this guy? He’s fucking gorgeous. They have candids on here of him on the beach in, let me see, Trinidad, I guess. He’s like a Greek god. OMG. I want to hear everything. Every. Thing.” Being that Meg was usually the one with the salacious tales, Ellie had to admit that it was nice to have something to talk about for once. Even if it was probably nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“I was on the plane, looking at work stuff on my laptop, and the flight attendant asked if I’d mind changing seats. Next thing I know, I’m face-to-face with Mr. Perfect. And he’s, like, a total gentleman, and totally down-to-earth, and we just started talking, you know, like old friends. It felt like a movie. One directed by Rob Reiner. After a while, I thought I must be getting Punk’d. No guy who looks like that could be so interested in me. A guy from the comic book store taking a break from World of Warcraft in Mom’s basement, sure, but a professional athlete who looks like a younger version of Don Draper? And his eyes, Meg. You wouldn’t believe his eyes. Glaciers in Iceland or Norway or wherever they have glaciers are jealous of how blue Patrick’s eyes are.” Ellie sighed just thinking about them. She could practically hear Meg’s eyes rolling.
“Here I was, all excited to go to Applebee’s with Trent tonight, and Ms. Ellie Peavey, evidently the new Queen of Conyers, is hooking up with the American David Beckham. Fuck my life.” Meg and Ellie’s laughter echoed through their phones.
“Hate to be rude, but even the Queen of Conyers has to go to the bathroom. Or, wait, I have to ‘go to the loo’ as Patrick would say.” Ellie giggled at her own silly joke.
“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. OK, I’m throwing up now, Els. Go find the loo and have fun with your stud. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you bitch!” taunted Meg.
“Patrick is a gentleman and I am a lady, Meg. If you must know, we’re planning to spend the flight to Glasgow discussing art and literature, then spend the evening drinking wine in a castle.” Ellie burst out laughing as they said their good-byes and she wandered off to find the bathroom.
CHAPTER THREE
Heathrow security noticed the commotion at international arrivals and hastily assessed the situation. Celebrities always caused a stir - even aging, unemployed footballers. Patrick Sievert was escorted into a corridor away from the public, a hallway with which he was familiar.
“Thanks for the rescue, mate.” Patrick credited the portly security guard who had helped him escape the crowd.
“No problem. I support Hammers. Any chance . . .” The guard looked hopefully at Patrick.
“Heh, sorry, no, no chance. I’m not leaving Chelsea for another team in the Prem.” Patrick’s plans weren’t finalized, but he’d made up his mind that his time playing in the English Premier League was over. New challenges abounded all over the globe.
“No worries. Worth a try, isn’t it?” the disappointed security guard replied.
“You’ve got a good side over at Upton Park. The last thing your lot needs is a slow, over-the-hill defender like me,” Patrick joked, reaching the end of the corridor taking him to the private lounge near international departures, where he couldn’t wait to resume his conversation with the younger American girl who’d so effortlessly burrowed her way into his heart on the flight over.
He couldn’t quite figure what it was that made Ellie so alluring. Did she remind him of home? There was something so kind, so honest about her. Not like so many of the slags he’d watched teammates bring round the team hotels and out to dinners and pubs with friends. They all seemed fake to him, desperate schemers, the lot of them. Just a little more makeup, a slightly tighter top, a skirt shortened to the point of obscenity, and maybe they could lure a millionaire. The whole approach disgusted him, although it wasn’t what had kept him single throughout his professional career.
Patrick arrived at Furman University as a unique athlete, planning to play both soccer and basketball. Basketball had long been his meal ticket; he’d been widely recruited by schools up and down the East Coast. Furman was one of the few places that offered him a chance to play soccer as well, and he jumped at it. Soccer had been an afterthought; he’d really played only during the high school season, eschewing summer select teams in favor of AAU hoops.
By the time his junior season arrived, however, he had become such a defensive force that he was getting some honorable mention All-American notice, and he decided to forego being a part-time starter on the basketball team to become a full-time soccer player. The single-minded focus paid dividends, and soon he began to be called in to train with the U-23 national team and drew the notice of Major League Soccer, the top American professional league.
A conversation with a national team assistant set his career path in motion. His physical style and strength could succeed in England, the coach assured him, and he had contacts to get him some trials in the UK. Becoming a pro would require complete dedication, though, meaning that at least for the short-term, his popularity with the ladies would have to take a backseat to proper diet and training.
Upon arrival in Birmingham to practice with lower-league team Kidderminster Harrier
s, Patrick made a vow to himself that women would wait until he was finished playing. He had a chance to eventually earn serious money, making him attractive to scammers and gold diggers. On the off chance he met somebody he truly cared about, what sort of relationship could he have, given his irregular schedule and constant travel? In fairness to both himself and any potential love interests, Patrick took a personal vow of celibacy. At twenty-two.
The tabloids, of course, had a field day with the “American Monk” who seemed to go from home to the training ground and back home alone again, despite his devastating good looks. As he moved up the ladder professionally, joining larger clubs and signing more lucrative contracts, he began popping up on “Most Eligible Bachelor” lists, and from there to finding himself the subject of nasty “closeted footballer” lists.
The truth was, yes, the life he lived was lonely, and he often reconsidered his intentional bachelorhood, but he also wanted to do nothing to jinx the career he enjoyed, a career beyond his wildest dreams growing up in rural South Carolina.
He’d been tempted before, of course, as no shortage of beautiful women threw themselves at players spotted on team buses or out in public—whether at Tesco, the green grocer’s, or down the pub.
At thirty-four, he’d been careful enough with his money that he could stop playing whenever he wanted to, but the passion hadn’t left him, and he expected to have two or three more seasons at the top level of the game. Legendary Scottish side Celtic F.C. reached out to his agent, Tom Borchers, with an attractive offer. They were stocked with young, talented defenders, but adding a player with the résumé of a Patrick Sievert could give the crew something of a mentor, a hard man who’d seen it all and could lead the club to ever greater glory.
Somehow, the whole Celtic conversation had stayed out of the papers, although there was no doubt his visit to Glasgow would make its way into social media. And it wouldn’t take much for the rags to pick up on his plans.
Plans that seemed solid until he laid eyes on Ellie Peavey.
CHAPTER FOUR
Amanda Eleanor Peavey was always “Mandy” or “Coach P’s little girl” while hanging around the football practices and games her father held sway over in the shadow of the gridiron juggernaut at Ohio State University. The youngest of four, and the only girl, Mandy was relegated to cheerleader, when all she really wanted to do was escape into books. In the world her imagination created, there was no football, boys didn’t care that she wasn’t blonde or skinny, and her dad and brothers included her in everything, rather than making her feel left out or “dumb” for liking the things girls were supposed to like.
It was probably why she’d had such a difficult time with men. She typically just couldn’t relate to them, and she was always so defensively watching out for meanness that she didn’t give herself a chance to experience niceness. She still couldn’t decide why Patrick was different, but she thought she could probably convince a jury that his overwhelming masculinity caused her defenses to crumble. There was just such a presence to him, his eyes, his shoulders, and his jaw . . . just everything. Flawless masculinity. Who could blame her for dropping her guard completely?
Even the way his deep voice said her name was different. She’d been a Mandy growing up, then an Amanda, but in the sixth grade when Amanda Brinck put a banana on her chair in the cafeteria—a banana that wound up smeared over an ass she’d spent years trying desperately to conceal, an ass that was now the laughingstock of the entire middle school—she never wanted to hear the name of that horrible bitch again.
The obvious choice was her middle name, Eleanor, but no eleven-year-old wants a name that belongs to grandmothers and first ladies, so she settled on Ellie. It always sounded like a little girl’s name to her, but it was a million times better than Amanda.
That is, it always sounded like a little girl’s name to her until it was spoken by Patrick Sievert. When he spoke it, fireworks went off inside Ellie’s body. In places no mere voice should be able to ignite them. Staring into Patrick’s eyes as he said her name was almost more than she could stand. She threatened to melt.
The whole thing was ridiculous, of course. As she finished up in the restroom, she thought, I’m always going to call it “the loo” from now on, to the point that it becomes a terrible annoyance to everyone. She stood before the mirror now, trying to devise a plan to MacGyver herself into something reasonably attractive before she next ran into the glorious Patrick Sievert. He seemed to enjoy their conversation enough; it had been absolutely “smashing,”—to borrow something else she’d heard him say—but he couldn’t possibly have been attracted to her. Ellie was sure of that. Her black pantsuit concealed at least a few of her extra pounds, but nothing could be done at this juncture to fix the face and uncooperative hair she’d hated for twenty-six years. Would it be too desperately slutty to rip open the top of her shirt and at least distract him with what were unquestionably, at least in her mind, her best assets?
Truth was, more than one of Ellie’s friends had expressed envy of her looks and insisted that she was beautiful, but it was hard to get the awkward years out of a girl’s head. She would never quite see herself for what she had become, but always as something she hadn’t been since high school. What she saw as frizzy hair, others saw as luscious and enviable curls. When she felt like she was “thick” others were admiring the curves of her body, not so different from a guitar, all smooth and sensual. It hadn’t gotten past Patrick Sievert. But Ellie would never allow herself to see herself as anything but ordinary.
She decided against changing anything about her appearance for the moment, and to face Patrick as she had when first they met. As Ellie Peavey. No use changing anything now. Against all odds, he actually seemed like he might possibly be convinced to maybe, sort of, be interested in her. Which was more than enough for her to cling to.
She was famished, having not dared to eat in front of Patrick on the plane, and she headed back out onto the concourse hoping she could squeeze in something before running into him again.
Comptoir Libanais caught her eye; the Lebanese restaurant offered several dishes featuring lamb, a meat she loved but rarely had the opportunity to eat back in the States. While enjoying a delicious lamb kofta, Ellie checked in with her parents and niece, assuring them that she’d survived the trip so far and making certain Maisie was wasn’t too distraught over her absence.
A few pages of Cheryl Strayed on her Kindle and a full stomach later, Ellie made her way back to her gate, after checking her appearance one final time in the loo. Patrick was close, she could absolutely sense it, and her giddy butterflies returned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Patrick wolfed down a meat pie in the private lounge, having barely eaten on the plane. The offered fare wasn’t nearly as appetizing as that maddening spot on Ellie’s neck, or her full lips, he’d decided, and his cravings had swayed from the expected culinary to the unexpected libidinous.
As soon as he’d gotten a spare moment, Patrick had phoned up his agent to beg off the planned dinner that evening, blaming jet lag and rescheduling for an early breakfast before going to meet the Celtic chairman and manager at the team’s ground in Parkhead.
In truth, he was tired. Since Chelsea’s season ended in late May and he wrapped up his obligations to the club, awards dinners and such, he’d been traveling; first in the States to visit friends and family, then on holiday in Trinidad with his best friend and former college teammate Shelton Guyer.
It was Shelton’s name that lit up his phone as he finished eating.
“Hey, Shelt, how goes it, mate?”
“Ey, waz di scene, hoss?” Shelton replied in the Trini dialect Patrick had come to know so well.
“I’m sitting at Heathrow, I’ll be at Parkhead in the morning, looks like we’ll sign if my knees can get past the Celtic physical. Any news on your end?”
Shelton cackled his familiar laugh, “I’m still thawing out from Sweden, padna! I’ve never been that cold in me life!”
“Yeah, must have been terrible. You only managed, what, ten or eleven goals all season?”
“Ha! A baker’s dozen, you wanker! But the chairman there’s so cheap he wouldn’t buy a glass of water for free, you feel me? I’m off to Greece or Portugal next year. One last European paycheck, then I’m done being a nowherian. W Connection or that new Miami side in the States will keep me warm during me declining years,” Shelton replied.
“Nowherian? I need to add a ‘Sheltonese-to-English’ translation app to my mobile.”
“A nomad, hoss, somebody without a home. Like you!”
“Touché, Shelton. Touché.” Patrick laughed.
The two old friends concluded their conversation with a promise to touch base in a few days regarding the success of their negotiations with new teams. Patrick stared out the window at a steady rain pelting the planes scattered around the Heathrow tarmac and reflected on how fate had placed Ellie next to him on the flight over.
The whole Celtic business had been a surprise; he hadn’t even considered the Scottish giant on his long list of potential employers, much less the short list. It had all happened quickly, Tom just calling him with the news yesterday and finding him the last seat on the flight from Atlanta to London. And Ellie being on that flight only due to a recent promotion. The flight attendant dropping Ellie in his lap. So many more ways they might never have met than the random pairing that actually occurred.
Hell, he thought to himself, had I not declined the proffered first class ticket, I’d have missed her altogether, even if we’d shared a flight.
So many people Patrick had encountered in the game and accompanying lifestyle of professional football were entitled divas, something contrary to how he’d been raised. He thought back to The Game, the one that changed everything.
