His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1)

by Alison Ryan

  “I’m very fond of Ellie and very much looking forward to getting to know her better, as well as you, and your entire family, sir,” Patrick replied.

  “At least you aren’t wearing a dress, I was worried about that,” Al said, chuckling.

  “Dad, it’s called a kilt. And Patrick isn’t Scottish,” Ellie said, while her eyes rolled nearly into the back of her head.

  Although with his legs, I bet he’d look amazing in a kilt, Ellie silently daydreamed.

  When the two men were finally finished with what seemed an interminably long period of sizing each other up, Patrick and Ellie embraced in a hug (not too close) and kisses on the cheeks.

  “You’re ravishing, Ellie. You must have arrived this morning and spent all day getting your hair and makeup done. You can’t possibly have just gotten off a plane,” Patrick whispered in Ellie’s ear, the closeness of his face to hers and his breath hot on her neck giving her goose bumps, a blush, a flutter in her heart, and a clench down where it mattered most.

  As the trio strolled toward valet parking, Patrick explained their dinner plans. “We’re eating at a place called Arisaig. Ellie told me you were interested in trying haggis, sir, and they’ve got some of the best in the country. It’s in the courtyard at Merchant Square, very historic, it’s located on the grounds of what was the largest produce market in Glasgow, dating back to the 1750s. Great seafood and steaks. I’ve never had better chateaubriand. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

  As they walked, Ellie noticed her dad surreptitiously rubbing his right hand. Patrick had evidently gotten the “firm handshake” part right.

  Patrick and Ellie both admired the way the other walked—Patrick’s confident, easy stride and Ellie’s hip-swaying sashay. Truth be told, as much as they looked forward to dinner, they both would have been happier to find a bed, an empty elevator, even a broom closet, in which they could get naked and resume the scorching sex they’d both been fantasizing about the past few weeks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dinner was, as advertised by Patrick, fantastic. Al didn’t love his haggis, but he did his best to disguise his distaste, managing to get the appetizer down before the arrival of the recommended chateaubriand. He wasn’t a fan, but he could now brag to his buddies back home that he’d eaten a sheep’s stomach. The steak was perfect and Ellie’s father savored every bite of a dish designed for two.

  The younger couple opted for venison steak (for him) and herb crusted hake (for her), and neither were disappointed with their choice.

  Patrick had clearly done his research and the dinner conversation flowed smoothly. Each time a lull appeared to be looming Patrick would bring up a topic near and dear to Al Peavey’s heart—Leonard Bostic, Coach P’s state championship winning teams, and Notre Dame football.

  Despite coaching at a school just a few miles from the Ohio State campus, as practicing Roman Catholics the Peavey children were baptized into the Irish Church of South Bend at an early age. Ellie never cared much whether the Notre Dame Fighting Irish won or lost, but she preferred they win as a loss meant doom and gloom in their house for the rest of the weekend while a win never failed to put smiles on Peavey faces.

  A point in Patrick’s favor, besides his name and firm handshake, was his choice of teams. Celtic FC were the team supported by Scotland’s Catholics, while their nemesis the Glasgow Rangers appealed to the Protestants.

  Al, for his part, kept the conversation going with soccer questions. Since high school soccer and football were played during the same season in Ohio, he’d never gotten around to watching a game. Patrick did his best to explain the basics, rules, and positions so that Al, and to a lesser extent Ellie, wouldn’t be completely lost once they entered Celtic Park, two days hence.

  Dinner more than filled the three of them and they all begged off dessert.

  “I’ve arranged a private tour of the Kelvingrove tomorrow morning for the two of you with one of the curators. Her uncle is one of our team doctors and I understand she’s very accommodating. I’ll touch base with you in the afternoon but with training, video sessions, team meal, and meeting with the physios, it’ll be tough to get away. The match Saturday kicks off at noon, I think you can get in as early as 10:00 a.m. so you can turn up whenever you’d like. I’ve never been to a game in Scotland as a fan so I can’t give much in the way of practical advice. Just enjoy the match. You don’t have to wear green but you absolutely cannot wear blue. That’s Killie’s color and Rangers color. The locals will be nasty to anybody wearing blue at Celtic Park. I’d love to get together after the game. If you two find a place you’d like to eat or somewhere you want to go, just let me know.”

  Patrick bid Al and Ellie a wistful adieu, leaving them in the lobby of the Grand Central Hotel, a kiss on the cheek for Ellie and a firm but reasonable handshake for Al.

  Returning to their suite Ellie finally had the opportunity to get her father’s opinion of her beau.

  “Well? What do you think?” Ellie asked.

  “I think that the people in this country ought to learn to speak English. But they do cook a damn fine steak. And they know how to build hotels here,” Al replied, waving an arm across the lobby to emphasize his point.

  Rolling her eyes, Ellie answered, “Dad, they do speak English. And you know I wasn’t talking about food or architecture. What do you think of Patrick?”

  “I think,” Al stated, with a chuckle, “he could have made a good linebacker.”

  Ellie punched her dad in the arm, recognizing that coming from her father, this was a huge compliment. She stifled a giggle, excited about the prospects that lie ahead.

  ********

  The following morning, after breakfast, Al and Ellie Peavey set out for the Kelvingrove, Glasgow’s most famous gallery and museum.

  The private tour Patrick arranged was fabulous in Ellie’s opinion. They were met right at the front doors by a tall, slender woman in her mid-twenties with an Irish accent who, as Patrick had explained, was the niece of one of Celtic’s team doctors.

  “Welcome to the Kelvingrove! My name’s Tess and it’s my privilege to show you around today, we can take our time and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  Tess was a bit too pretty for Ellie’s liking but she was friendly and knowledgeable, and the tour was fantastic. Her fears that her father would be bored to death by the artwork were unfounded. Instead, he was moved to tears by the Kelvingrove’s most famous exhibit, Salvador Dalí’s Christ of Saint John of the Cross. As they approached the large oil work, over six feet tall and four feet wide, Tess explained the history of the piece. It came to Dalí in a dream and Ellie looked over at Al to see his reaction to this. He appeared awestruck. He stood before the painting, open-mouthed, bottom lip trembling.

  Ellie moved next to him, taking his hand in hers. “What do you think, Dad?”

  Al Peavey tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come. For a man in his sixties, who still attended church in the same parish in which he’d been an altar boy, his dogma was one of the “three Fs” upon which he’d built his family and by which he tried to live and coach: Faith, Family, and Football.

  His teams for years wore practice gear and team T-shirts with “F F F” across the back, and despite persistent questions from administrators eager to eradicate God from the school system, Al was resolute. “F F F” was, and would always be, part of the program for as long as he was.

  The painting hit him powerfully. Jesus suspended on a cross, sans nails, looking down from the heavens on the people of Earth, in this case a pair of fishermen. Al found a handkerchief deep in his pocket, and dabbed at his eyes before excusing himself to recompose in the bathroom.

  The tour was a rousing success, even if too short for Ellie, but they’d planned an open air bus tour of the city for the afternoon.

  Thanking Tess for her hospitality, they grabbed lunch and boarded a bus, which took them through the streets of Glasgow; including their first look at Celtic Park, in t
he heart of the Parkhead district in the East End.

  As they circled the green monolith, they were treated to a giant emerald mural picturing over two dozen men wearing the famous green and white striped shirts of Celtic between the words “Paradise” above the picture and “Where legends are made” below.

  Al nodded approvingly. One couldn’t help but to be impressed by the sign. “Something like that would look good at Notre Dame. It’s got the right colors and everything. Just need to replace the soccer players with some young men in pads and helmets. Is Patrick on there?” He asked, scanning the faces.

  Ellie reminded him that Patrick had only just joined the team, and that he hadn’t been there long enough to be considered a legend just yet.

  “Well, he ought to be.” Al stated flatly, soaking in the scene.

  Ellie gave her dad a hug and gave herself a tiny pinch, still afraid she was going to wake up from this incomprehensible dream. It occurred to Ellie that Patrick was in there somewhere, and she suppressed the urge to stand up and shout his name.

  ********

  The bus dropped them in the West End, an area paved with cobblestone streets and filled with shops, pubs, and spired buildings made of stone.

  They stuffed themselves at a restaurant Tess from the museum had suggested, The Ubiquitous Chip, and then ended their whirlwind tour of Glasgow by collapsing at the Grand Central; Al falling instantly into hibernation. Ellie was as restless as her six-year-old self on Christmas Eve, hopeful that Santa was somehow going to cram a pink bicycle down the Peavey chimney.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Opening day of the Scottish Premier League season dawned bright and sunny, an early August day so perfect it seemed the Glasgow Chamber of Commerce must have ordered it.

  Ellie dressed the part of a fan proudly wearing one of Patrick’s replica jerseys. When Al emerged from his bedroom Ellie was suitably impressed by his game-day attire—a crisp green polo complete with the Celtic FC logo.

  “Dad, I thought only ‘sissies’ played soccer?” Ellie teased her father.

  “Do I look like I’m planning to play soccer today?” Al asked, holding up his hands in mock innocence.

  The two made their way to the lobby, ate breakfast, then hit the street, which had transformed into a river of green-clad humanity streaming toward the Parkhead section, toward Paradise.

  Songs were sung, chants recited, and the joviality was contagious. It was as if the entire city was celebrating, and in a way they were. Their heroes had returned to once again defend the honor of Glasgow, and indeed Scotland’s, Catholic populace.

  Ellie and Al had planned to take a taxi to the stadium, but they instead were swept up in the fervor of the masses and took the long walk to the stadium. Ellie lent her singing voice to the chorus and her dad puffed out his green chest proudly.

  Walking got them into the stadium a bit later than they’d planned, but they still had time to enjoy the ambiance before kickoff. After picking up their tickets and walking through the gates of sixty-thousand-seat Celtic Park, both Peaveys stopped in their tracks to admire the view.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen grass so green!” Al marveled. “Do you think Patrick can introduce me to the groundskeeper? I’d love to get my lawn this color.”

  As ridiculous as the request sounded, Ellie knew her dad was used to getting what he wanted and that he was completely serious.

  “Sure, dad, in fact why don’t we see if the team will fly their entire grounds crew to Columbus to work on your yard personally?” Ellie replied.

  “Look! There he is!” Al was pointing to the far touchline where Patrick and a group of Celtic players warmed up with quick, short passes. Her dad sounded like a child at his first major league game, and Ellie knew that he was, in his own way, as impressed with Patrick as she was.

  They reached their seats amid the raucous crush of green just a few rows from the field on the sideline opposite the Celtic bench. Watching Patrick going through a series of sprints and transforming into the Mad Monk, putting on an intense visage that reminded her of the look on his face when she rode him as moonlight streamed in on the two of them. It made her heart pound in her chest. Her dad’s eyes were everywhere, scanning the field, the crowd, and the stadium. The coach in him didn’t want to miss a detail, no matter how minute.

  Patrick, for his part, was in full game mode. He’d been named in the starting eleven, center back, at the heart of the defense. The opponent, Kilmarnock, was expected to finish the season in the middle of the pack and the bookies had Celtic as a heavy favorite. He’d noticed Ellie walking to her seat, and he thought she looked great wearing his jersey, but he was locked in and did nothing to indicate that he’d noticed her.

  Lineups were announced, the national anthem played, and the match began. Celtic defended the goal nearest the Peaveys.

  Celtic began the match with a jolt of adrenaline, attacking the Killie goal aggressively. They hit the post within the first three minutes and forced the opposing goalkeeper into two fine early saves. The crowd was in full voice and the two Americans in the fourth row could easily have been confused for Glaswegians. They sang, screamed, applauded, and were fully invested from the first minute.

  Fifteen minutes in, Patrick went forward for a Celtic corner kick and his first offensive contribution for the team was realized. The corner kick was lofted across the penalty area, longer than planned, but Patrick broke when the ball was struck, circling deep behind his defender. He rose above the crowd, heading the ball back into the middle, directly onto the head of teammate Walter Stroud who rammed it past the flailing Kilmarnock goalie.

  Celtic led 1–0, thanks to an assist from Patrick Sievert and suddenly Ellie was hugging strangers. Al was giving high fives all around and the mood turned from expectation to jubilation.

  A scant four minutes later young Scotsman Stroud struck again, this time on a breakaway down the far sideline. Celtic were rolling and Killie were helpless. Near halftime, a booming punt sent the ball into the corner directly in front of the Peaveys. A clever flick sprung a Kilmarnock winger clear into the penalty area, but Patrick saw the play developing and he snuffed it out and the chance was gone. The nonchalance with which he relieved the opponent of the ball belied the difficulty with which he took the ball without fouling, but the defensive effort and subsequent smart pass into the Celtic midfield drew appreciative applause from the sophisticated Celtic Park crowd.

  “I told you he’d make a great linebacker!” Al shouted over the crowd to Ellie.

  The halftime score was 2–0 and Celtic added a third midway through the second half for a three goal win, a clean sheet, and an early spot atop the league standings. Al, in his exuberance, had sweated completely through his shirt while making friends with every Celtic fan within shouting distance. To Ellie’s half-embarrassment and half-beaming pride, he also announced to anyone and everyone who would listen that his daughter was “Patrick Sievert’s girlfriend.”

  Patrick couldn’t have been happier. He stole glances from time to time at Ellie and Al and whenever he did he saw nothing but smiling excitement on their faces. He loved seeing them, especially Ellie, enjoying themselves and he was proud of the entire team for their effort, especially defensively. Kilmarnock was held without a single shot on goal, as perfect a result as a goalkeeper or defender could hope for.

  A brief postgame interview session, address from the manager, and time in the whirlpool to keep his legs fresh couldn’t end quickly enough for Patrick. He knew Ellie was waiting and he had no further team obligations to keep them apart for the duration of her visit. For the first time, he wished she’d come alone, but he liked her dad and hoped that with a hearty enough meal, and maybe some strong Scotch whisky, that the old man would sleep deeply enough that he and Ellie might manage some private time after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The trip back to the Grand Central became a pub crawl. A celebratory mood filled the streets of Glasgow and upon hearing American
accents on the father and daughter pair clad in Celtic swag, the locals were in a buying mood. Ellie was more of a wine girl and although Al was no stranger to a beer watching a ballgame, neither Peavey was prepared for the kind of drinking festive Scotch football fans were used to.

  Moving with the flow of humanity, the two wound up in and out of half a dozen pubs within a few blocks before managing to escape into a taxi to finish their journey, still somewhat sober.

  “Dad, did you hear what they were singing in that last place?” Ellie asked, once they were settled in the cab.

  “I heard Patrick’s name, but I couldn’t make out much more over the noise. Did you catch it?”

  “I think so. I heard it at the game, too. I think it went like this: ‘Only one Patrick Sievert! There’s only one Patrick Sievert! Walking along, singing our song, living in a Celtic wonderland!’”

  “You’re lucky I don’t still live at home, or you would be so sick of hearing me sing that song!” Ellie exclaimed.

  Well aware of his daughter’s history of obsessing over singers and songs and singing them to death all day long, it was Al’s turn to roll his eyes.

  “It is a catchy little tune, if a little short on lyrical content,” Al chuckled.

  They arrived back at their hotel, exhausted from the sustained emotional crescendo of the past few hours.

  Patrick called shortly thereafter, and the three agreed that an early dinner sounded like the way to go, since everyone was hungry and the Peaveys had a morning flight to catch.

  ********

  “I’ve got us the private room at the Bothy for dinner. It’s called the Snug; they usually save it for larger parties, but I think we’d all enjoy the peace and quiet, no?” Patrick asked as they drove to the West End.