His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1)

by Alison Ryan

  ********

  Morning arrived too soon for either Patrick or Ellie but she had a plane to catch.

  Patrick had breakfast sent up, bacon, eggs, juice, and some wonderful potato cakes Patrick called “tattie scones.”

  The weary duo returned to Glasgow International Airport with Ellie’s suitcase, carry-on bag, and purse in tow with Jane Austen’s finest work in hand.

  They bid their farewell with no shortage of kisses and hugs, and despite the best efforts from both parties, tears were shed. Patrick did his best to hide his, as Glasgow’s paparazzi sought to accompany the story of Patrick’s heroic crime-fighting escapades that had dominated headlines with pictures of the hero’s good-bye to his damsel in distress.

  Sad as she was to be leaving Patrick, Ellie looked forward to her delayed reunion with Maisie and to sitting down with Meg over a bottle of wine to rehash every moment of her Ellie in Wonderland trip to the UK.

  Patrick returned to the hotel, his flight to London wasn’t until late afternoon. He took a hot shower and spread out the books he’d picked up in Hay on the desk. He settled on Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson, getting one hundred or so pages into it before deciding she’d be awake.

  Sarah Sievert’s phone rang in Monck’s Corner, South Carolina, and she smiled at the sight of her only son’s name on the caller ID. She’d spoken to Patrick briefly after he signed the deal with Celtic FC, but she wanted to hear more about Glasgow and the team.

  Instead, she nearly dropped her coffee cup when she heard what Patrick had to say.

  “Mom, I’ve met a girl. She just might be the one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Weeks went by. Patrick had settled in Scotland. His flat was a few blocks from Paradise, the locally recognized moniker by which Celtic fans knew their home ground, Celtic Park. Patrick got on well with his new teammates, and he’d actually crossed paths with a handful of them in the past. Two had spent time at Chelsea, and one had been a youth player at Kidderminster where he’d trained from time to time on the top team with Patrick.

  There were many reasons Patrick had decided on Celtic: familiar faces, a solid, talented lineup, a devoted fan base, and a stadium filled with ghosts from one hundred twenty years of Glasgow Celtic football. It was the perfect place for Patrick Sievert to put an exclamation point on his decorated career.

  As well as everything was going, however, he missed Ellie terribly. They’d Skyped, e-mailed, Snapchatted, and communicated in all the myriad ways technology allowed but he missed her. The way she smelled, the way she kissed, the way she walked, things that didn’t translate through devices, no matter how smart they were. None of that could equal her presence.

  Ellie, for her part, returned home to an anxiety-ridden Maisie and a boss expecting a stack of reports on her desk—sooner, rather than later. She also was hit with an inquisition from Meg, who demanded “every sordid detail, leaving nothing out.” There were even more questions from her family, all of whom had been tipped off by her brother Andy who’d fed them a convoluted tale about Ellie’s new “Ferrari-driving, rugby-playing, British boyfriend.” She’d had to correct many a misconception.

  She eased back into her mundane life, but Patrick was never far from her thoughts and he consumed her dreams.

  She cyber-stalked him of course, reading everything she could about his career and watched his highlights (and inevitable gaffes) on YouTube. Unless she had reason to go somewhere formal, when she wasn’t working she was almost always wearing something from the huge box of Celtic-themed, and (in some cases) Patrick-specific swag she’d been surprised by on her front porch ten days after arriving home.

  Her casual wardrobe became almost exclusively green with the occasional blue nod to his former club, Chelsea. She was surprised how often she was out in public and her “Sievert” Celtic jersey would spark a conversation with a stranger. American soccer fans were more ubiquitous, and informed, than she’d imagined. She discovered that her local cable provider ran Scottish Premier League matches every weekend during the season, and in the interest of including a nagging Meg in her newfound interest in The Beautiful Game, her research led her to a Scottish Pub in Roswell. It was called the Green Terrier and advertised itself as “Atlanta’s Home for Hoops Supporters.” Celtic’s uniforms traditionally included horizontal green stripes wrapping around white shirts (or vice versa) from collar to waist, which resembled hoops, hence the nickname.

  Life was good, and if anything Patrick was more persistent that they communicate regularly than even she was. Of course, all the chatting, texting, and instant messaging in the world were no substitute for watching the muscles ripple in Patrick’s forearms up close, or seeing every little movement cause a new muscle in his legs to contract and expand. She missed looking up into his blue eyes, the kindest eyes she’d ever encountered. Yes, he was sexy, but Patrick was such an inherently good man. Their passions for each other were linked in such a way that she couldn’t dismiss it as fate. She’d never allowed herself to believe in such things but this was the best thing about Patrick. He made her believe anything was possible.

  ********

  “We play home and away against a Swedish team, and if we win we get to play this season in the Champion’s League. It’s a big tournament including the best teams from all over Europe. If we don’t, then we drop into the Europa League, sort of a second-tier affair,” Patrick explained to Ellie. He tried not to bore her with too many details of what he thought of as “work,” no matter that his work was covered by television, newspapers, and websites all around the globe.

  It was a big part of his charm, in Ellie’s mind, the fact that despite his fame and fortune, he was so down-to-Earth. He was always so quick to steer conversations away from things he could certainly be forgiven for bragging about.

  “I’d love for you to come to our first home match of the SPL (Scottish Premier League) season, if you can get away from work. I’ll pay for everything. If you want to bring Meg or one of your brothers, whomever you like, I’ll handle the tickets and hotel. You can come alone if you’d like of course, it’s just that during the season I don’t have nearly as much free time and I’d hate for you to be bored, sitting around waiting for me. If work can do without you for a few days, I would love to see you. And if you want to see me, too . . .”

  They both knew the last part of Patrick’s request was beyond superfluous. They communicated constantly, and more often than not the conversation turned to how much they missed each other. By the time the first home game of Celtic’s season kicked off, the two lovebirds would have been, painfully, apart for almost two months.

  Ellie had always thought of herself as a goal-oriented, career woman. If she was going to “settle down” with a husband and children, it would be after she’d made her mark professionally, established herself, and built up her 401k, that sort of thing. She didn’t want to juggle day cares, turn down promotions, and have to take school districts into account when deciding where to live. She’d grown up in a house where everybody was under the thumb of her domineering father who, although not a cruel man by any stretch, was a control freak. He had a difficult time leaving “coach” on the sidelines and becoming “dad” at home.

  Patrick seemed the opposite of that. Her time with him showed her that although he was a man who could have what and who he wanted, when and where he wanted, he was blessed with humility and generosity.

  She had no doubt he’d be a terrific father, even though they hadn’t really discussed children. He was genuinely interested to hear about Ellie’s eldest brother, Alex, and his wife, Stefanie, who was close to giving birth to the couple’s third child, Ellie’s first niece, little Abigail. Ellie adored her nephews, Albert and Charlie, and little made her light up the way she did when she talked about them.

  She daydreamed about Patrick kicking a soccer ball around the backyard with a little toddler version of Patrick, Maisie nipping at their heels. She imagined herself sitting on the porch sipping something
cold, her body heavy with their second child. “Amanda Eleanor Sievert,” her driver’s license might read.

  “Ellie? Still there?”

  Patrick’s voice interrupted her reverie.

  “Yes! Sorry that was rude of me. But of course, coming to a match would be amazing. Meg would love to go, and my brothers would be thrilled as well. Alex would have to take a pass, of course what with Abigail on the way.”

  Her second oldest brother Aric was in his third season following in his dad’s footsteps coaching high school football. He worked at a school near Richmond, Virginia. He couldn’t take a trip just as twice-daily practices were kicking into high gear.

  Meg and Andy, Ellie’s other brother, were both available and excited about going. Ellie, however, didn’t feel right asking Patrick to spring for three transatlantic flights.

  Rather than choose between them, Ellie offered a suggestion to Patrick.

  “I know this is going to be weird, but I’m thinking about asking my dad along. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to crowbar you into any sort of a romantic commitment here. I just think it would be a really cool trip to take with my dad. He and I have never gone anywhere together, just the two of us. And he’s a huge sports fan. But he has no time for soccer, honestly, he thinks it’s for ‘sissies.’ I want him to see it up close, at the highest level, to change his mind. But Meg and Andy are both dying to go, too, and I haven’t mentioned it to my dad, so if you’re at all uncomfortable with the idea, just say so, nobody’s feelings will be hurt, I promise.”

  “Do you think I’d pass on the opportunity to meet the great Coach P?” Patrick replied, instantly.

  After thirty-four seasons as a high school football coach (“With three state championships and twenty-one league titles!” he’d be quick to remind anyone who’d listen), Al Peavey had retired from coaching the previous fall, after an overachieving team had scratched out a 9–3 record, losing in the second round of the playoffs. He had four grown children, three living out of state, and a third grandchild on the way. It was time to let somebody else have the whistle. The school had already named the stadium after him and his last team defied local sportswriters’ predictions of a losing season. Why hang on too long?

  Ellie’s mother, Pamela, would fly to Charlotte to spend a week visiting her two grandsons and awaiting the birth of baby Abigail. Ellie had to promise Meg that if and when Patrick invited her to go along on his annual summer trip to Trinidad and there was room for a guest, that Meg had the right of first refusal, no matter what. Ellie agreed, knowing that according to Patrick, his best friend Shelton, the man he visited in Trinidad, was a ladies’ man of the highest order who preferred blondes. Meg might never return to Conyers.

  Ellie and Al were bound for Glasgow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Celtic had played four qualifying matches for the Champions League, a tournament that included the best teams from all over Europe, eliminating a team from Moldova by beating them in Glasgow and again in Chisinau. The second set of qualifiers were against the team that had won the Swedish league the previous season. Celtic drew with the Swedes 2–2 at home, but the return match in Stockholm ended as a goalless draw, meaning Celtic were eliminated due to an arcane rule that weighted goals scored away more heavily than those on home turf. Celtic had failed to score in the away leg, and they’d have to settle for the second-tier Europa League. The only consolation Patrick felt was that Shelton’s Portuguese team would also be playing in the Europa league, so there was a chance the old friends could meet competitively once again, something both men relished.

  Patrick hadn’t been named to the active roster for the matches against the Moldovan team, who were considered minnows. Against the stronger Swedes, he’d been an unused substitute at home, but he started and played the full ninety minutes in Stockholm. Keeping a “clean sheet,” or shutting out the opponent, was a source of pride for goalkeepers and defenders alike, and the fact that Patrick was at the backbone of a defense that kept a clean sheet boded well for his role on the team during the upcoming year. The regular season home opener against Kilmarnock would be a chance for him to play in front of his home fans for the first time in Scotland.

  Ellie gave her dad a crash course on football (it annoyed him that she insisted on calling a short pants, sissy sport “football,” but he tried to play along for her sake) and Glasgow during their flight, but the barbs he sent her way were endless.

  “Leave it to you to finally show some interest in sports and it has to be soccer,” Al teased his daughter.

  “Patrick played basketball and soccer in college, Dad. And believe it or not, in most of the world football—real football—is a much bigger deal than the American version. Besides, Patrick is too smart and too handsome to have ever put on a football helmet,” Ellie replied.

  “And he grew up in South Carolina of all places? And he didn’t play football? Football is practically a religion down there. And he grew up not too far from one of the best coaches to ever blow a whistle, John McKissick. Damn shame, Amanda . . . all that wasted athletic talent.”

  John McKissick was a legendary high school coach in Summerville, South Carolina, a town near where Patrick grew up in Moncks Corner. Al Peavey had gotten to know McKissick through mutual friends and they had crossed paths at various coaching clinics.

  Ellie’s father was the only person in the universe who insisted on calling her by her given name, Amanda, rather than her preferred moniker, Ellie. She’d long ago given up correcting him. It was something that would score points for Patrick as Al Peavey liked to use full names rather than shortened versions. He alone referred to his sons as Andrew and Alexander as opposed to Andy and Alex. Aric was just Aric. The fact that Al was short for Albert never seemed to occur to him and to most people he had become simply “Coach P” anyway. When Ellie first discussed Patrick with her folks, Al had been immediately impressed by his “strong Christian name.”

  Landing at Heathrow thrilled Ellie, knowing she was once again sharing an island with Patrick rather than having the vast Atlantic Ocean separating the two of them. The father-daughter pair enjoyed a light meal at the airport waiting for their connection, wanting to save their appetites for dinner. Patrick was busy with preparing for the match Saturday afternoon and apologized to Ellie that he likely wouldn’t be able to see her on Friday; however he’d love to have dinner with her and her dad Thursday evening when they arrived. Al was determined to try haggis and Patrick assured Ellie that he’d pick an appropriate spot for that to happen.

  A car picked up the travelers and whisked them away to their two-bedroom suite at the Grand Central once they’d arrived in Glasgow. Being surrounded by the sounds and sights of Scotland’s largest city gave Ellie a jolt, and upon arriving at the hotel she fairly skipped across the elegant lobby.

  Ellie worried that such a hotel might make her Midwest-raised, meat-and-potatoes father feel out of place, but he was suitably impressed. “A man could get used to this, Amanda. Hell, even when we went to Miami to watch Leonard play we didn’t stay in a place this nice. It’s a castle!”

  Leonard Bostic was the most accomplished player to have suited up for one of Al Peavey’s teams, playing college football at Oklahoma and eventually for the Miami Dolphins. He’d flown Ellie’s parents, Al and Pamela, to Miami to watch a Monday Night Football game during his second year in the NFL. Al had never stopped bragging and reminiscing about the first-class treatment he and his wife received, including sideline passes for the game. It was the trip against which all others were measured in the Peavey household and Ellie looked forward to at least equaling it, although Patrick couldn’t get them onto the field at Celtic Park during the match.

  ********

  Shortly after they dressed in their semiformal wear for the evening and Al called home to let Pamela know they’d arrived safely, Ellie’s phone buzzed, announcing that Patrick was waiting in the lobby downstairs.

  The elevator ride down seemed to take ages as Ellie clen
ched and relaxed her hands in an attempt to dispel nervous energy. She was dying to see Patrick, but at the same time filled with apprehension at the thought of him meeting her sometimes irascible father.

  Patrick for his part had been pacing the lobby for ten full minutes before inviting the Peaveys down to join him. Ellie had warned him that her father wasn’t generally quick to warm up to new people, especially those outside his football bubble. The best tip she gave him was to make sure he gave Al a firm handshake, that it would actually be better to break his hand than give a “dead fish” shake. Ellie spent many a night at the dinner table listening to Coach P ripping apart the fathers of his players or college recruiters who’d come to watch his teams who, upon meeting him for the first time, gave him a limp handshake. It was one his biggest pet peeves and once you’d made that mistake it was an uphill battle to earn his respect.

  Patrick watched the lighted numbers above the lift counting down to the ground floor. He sucked in a big breath through his nose and stretched, uncomfortable in his suit, no matter how debonair he looked to the women whose heads helplessly turned as he strode through the lobby.

  As the Peavey’s emerged from the elevator, Patrick and Ellie exchanged sheepish smiles. They were both unsure how to proceed in the presence of her father.

  Coach P made the decision for everyone, extending a meaty hand toward Patrick. “I’m Al Peavey. You must be Patrick. Nice to meet you. Amanda has told me and her mother a lot about you. I think she thinks she’s in love, which of course is ridiculous, since you couldn’t possibly have had time to get to know each other.”

  Ellie cringed, holding her breath, waiting for Patrick to flee in horror.

  Instead Patrick took Al Peavey’s hand in his, shaking it with a firm, crushing grip. He looked the older man right in the eye, continuing a handshake that appeared at any moment like it might devolve into a Greco-Roman wrestling match as each man tried to out-squeeze the other.