by Liz Crowe
“Fuck me, ow!” Holding a palm over her now-throbbing face, she glared up into the darkest, largest, most expressive eyes she had ever seen which, at the moment, did not seem too pleased. The man who belonged to them had his arm to his forehead and blinked fast.
“Uh, sorry,” she whispered. They still had a little empty circle around their tableau. She scrambled gracelessly to her feet, put the back of her hand to her nose, and drew it away to find drops of bright red blood. Her gaze drifted back to the man who stood deep inside her personal space bubble.
He gripped her elbow and began walking her outside the crowd. She struggled against his bossy assumption, uneasy with the intimacy of his touch, while another part of her reacted in a different way—a completely inappropriate and unwelcome way.
With her gut churning, she yanked her arm out of his grasp. She glanced over her shoulder. He was still…there. Pressed up into her damn grill as if about to yell at her or, better yet, kiss her with those plump, delicious-looking lips.
“Thanks, uh, I’ll find some ice and….” She looked away, face flushing to the roots of her carefully coiffed hair.
“No, no, pardon,” said the guy, no doubt the stuff of sex-fueled fantasies for legions of soccer-loving women. “Please, allow me.” He guided her to a chair and pushed her into it, a little more firmly than the moment warranted.
The tempting man continued to shove his way through the crowd. While Alicia remained one-hundred percent mesmerized by the breadth of his shoulders in the dark suit coat, the length of his legs, and the perfection of his face when he returned, holding a bag of ice and a beer.
She took them both without speaking, embarrassed beyond words. He knelt, his warm palm on the bare skin of her knee. Forcing her gaze upward—anything to avoid his eyes—she put the ice on her nose. They sat silent for a few minutes. Without taking his proprietary hand off her skin, he sipped the beer she silently gave back to him. She shivered and ignored another rush of mortified anger.
He leaned in to her ear, tickling and teasing. “I’m Metin, Metin Sevim. You must be Alicia?”
Glaring at him, the stupid ice bag still held to her face, she attempted to not be impressed. He grinned and the clouds shrouding her brain for the last few weeks parted, letting in a bright, beautiful shaft of possibility. She smiled back, unable to resist. “Yeah, how did you know?”
She knew who Metin Sevim was—one of the most famous players in the room, a Turk who’d been in the Spanish league for years, a true soccer savant, an artist of the highest order and sexier than any human male had a right to be. When he set the beer down and put his arm around her bare shoulders, her body went on high alert while her brain seemed to do the opposite, fuzzing over in the sort of girlie way she despised.
“Because, guzelim,” he crooned, simultaneously pissing her off even more and turning her on so much she had to bite her lip, “you are the only stunning, tall blonde woman in here whose hatred for this room full of men like me is visible. Frankly, you look like you’d rather be picking up dog shit than socializing with professional soccer players.”
Fury lit the edges of her horniness. “What? I mean… how… um….” Then she sighed and slumped in the chair, giving up.
“No, no, my dear, I don’t blame you.” He fixed his gaze out over the crowd of people on the dance floor. “I hate half of these assholes myself. Alas, I just happen to be one of them.” He smiled, his face dangerously close, making her very aware of her American tendency to put more space between people.
He tightened his grip on her knee, and she choked off a gasp. “I know you play, Alicia. I’ve seen you. As soon as I heard who was sponsoring this little junket, I did some research. You are an incredible athlete,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry things aren’t working out for a women’s league.”
With a conscious effort, she closed her gaping mouth to stop the drool before it escaped her lips. She had to get out of there lest she risk doing something utterly stupid, like yanking this sexy hunk of Turk into a dark corner to see if his lips tasted as good as they appeared. As if reading her mind, he got to his feet and pulled her up. Smiling the whole time, he plucked the ice bag out of her freezing hand and put it on a passing drinks tray.
Chapter Two
I’m dancing with Metin Sevim. I’m dancing with Metin Sevim. I’m dancing with….
“Um, what?” Alicia shimmied closer, trying to hear the man in question as his lips formed words her overheated brain couldn’t sort out. A flush of heat rose from her shoulders, up her neck and face. His grin turned wicked, making it worse. She frowned and forced her body to move to the music. But the way he did the same thing was way too distracting. He could be a dancer or a porn star.
“God, stop it,” she muttered to herself, mortified that she’d allowed him to convince her to dance—her dancing skills were somewhere near the level of her cooking talent, which was to say, nonexistent.
His face held an adorable and somewhat out of character, quizzical expression, and she smiled in return. The music faded, the tiny dance floor emptied, and she remained, frozen, hypnotized by how his bright white teeth contrasted with his exotic, olive-skinned face.
“So,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets, “can I get you another beer? Ice bag? Wheelchair?”
“No, jerk,” she stammered when he placed a very warm palm to her elbow to steer her to the side of the room. She yanked away from him, determined to leave. Now. Before he touched her again. Josh’s braying laughter nearby sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m not thirsty,” she declared as he pulled out a tall bar chair.
“Well, I am, and I think you should take a seat before you pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your face is bright red, your breathing is ragged, and your skin is ice cold. And I’m not sure what you were doing could be called dancing. More like,” he waved his arms around, “flailing?”
He motioned for one of the leggy waitresses, who slithered over, smiling and leaning in so he could see her cleavage. Alicia’s visceral reaction forced her to re-bite her wounded tongue to keep from making a move away, slut sound. Metin’s simple glance told her he might as well be flat out reading her jealous mind.
She grabbed the beer he handed her and frowned at him, forcing her attention to the room full of overpaid men and the women who wanted to bed them. Letting what should by rights be an awkward silence spin out as she sipped.
But somehow, the tension that would exist between adults sitting close enough to talk, but ignoring each other, did not appear. If anything, Metin’s gaze on her felt perfectly… perfect. And the silence simply a part of him, a part she already liked. She hated people who chattered constantly just to hear the sound of their own voices.
Finally, she met his eyes. The warmth, humor, and obvious desire in them made her gulp and splutter when the beer went down the wrong way. He stood and put his palm on her bare skin. Waving her hand in front of her streaming face, she tried not to choke and make a bigger ass of herself. The last vision she got of him, as she stumbled toward the hall and escape, were his amazing eyes—sparkling with amusement.
“No, I’m not drunk,” she insisted, sitting on the couch in the ladies room. “I’m just….”
“Hooking up with the hottest guy in the room…right under Josh-the-asshole’s nose. I love it!” Mel took a seat next to her trying to push her onto her feet. “Go, flirt, kiss, and jump his Latino bones.”
“He’s not Latino; he’s Turkish. Leave me alone,” Alicia muttered, horrified by her body’s reaction to the concept that jumping his bones had been on her mind for nearly an hour. She hadn’t had sex since breaking up with Josh over a year ago, instead pouring all her energy into being in the best shape possible for the women’s national team tryouts. Like that made a fucking difference. She shook her head. “I’m gonna sit here until this stupid party is over.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mel insisted.
; She glanced over her shoulder at her sister. “You go. You’re way prettier than me. I don’t even like him… I mean… you know.”
Mel burst out laughing, doubled over, and then sat up wiping her eyes. “You are classic, you know it? I’m washed up. An old maid with two annoying, messy boys. You, on the other hand, are the hot soccer star….”
“But….” Her next words to the contrary were cut off by a sharp rap on the bathroom door. It creaked open, and it didn’t surprise her to see Metin’s dark, handsome face peeping around it.
“Sorry to interrupt.” His melodious voice soothed her and irritated the living shit out of her at the same time. “Just wanted to check on….”
Mel stood and his eyes widened, taking in the vision of her gorgeous sister. “Hello.”
Alicia tried not to be jealous of the way he looked at Melanie.
He moved aside, holding the door for her. “We have not been introduced, I’m Metin.” He held out a hand.
She took it, smiling, lightening his expression some.
“I’m Melanie, Alicia’s older sister.”
“Yes, the married one.” He looked down at her left hand in a way that surprised Alicia. “How in the world does one family have two beautiful…?”
“Spare me, sweet talker.” Mel flipped her hair, put on a bit of lipgloss, then shouldered her small bag.
His face changed, took on a a hint of defensiveness. “Sorry.”
“And no, I’m the divorced one with two kids, thanks. Excuse me, if you will?”
The hard nugget of anger in her sister’s tone didn’t surprise Alicia. She jumped up, determined to block any more of his not-subtle flirtation attempts. The way he stared after Mel, as if he disapproved, made it easier.
“Okay, I’m fine. You can leave.” She had her hand on the door.
“Wait, I’m… I’m really here to talk to you again. You know, the way men do when they want a date?”
She glared at him then giggled at the open, honest expression on his face. “Why are you glaring at my sister like she killed your best friend?” She crossed her arms over her chest, already letting herself get sucked into his orbit.
He shrugged and ran a hand through his dark hair. Alicia tried very hard not to adore how he looked when he did that. But failed miserably. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m a bit of a product of my environment. The more modern we pretend to be in Istanbul the worse it is, I think. ‘Divorce,’” he said, hooking his fingers around the word, “is a no-no. Still. But I don’t really mean it. Sometimes my deeply buried prejudice shows its ugly face.” He smiled, and she melted into it. “Sincere apologies.” He held out a hand as if to shake hers.
She put her palm into his.
His eyes widened when skin met skin. Alicia blinked at their joined hands, her own pale flesh seeming to shine against his, mesmerizing her, until the sensation of his breath at her ear jolted her. He held her as if he had been doing it for ages.
“Cut it out,” she whispered.
“I will… after I do this.” His full lips covered hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let her body lead.
Chapter Three
A blur of pain, disappointment, and unhappiness filled the following week and that only at the hands of her soccer coach. Thoughts of the amazing man with the incredible lips, who would soon return from the West Coast leg of his soccer exhibition tour, were never far from the surface.
Alicia groaned, lowering into the training room ice bath, musing about how much money her father had spent through her life on soccer clubs, uniforms, travel to tournaments, private training, the whole shebang. Just so she could have this moment, she supposed. The final test—which she seemed to be failing on an epic scale.
She winced when every nerve in her body sang out in dismay at the freezing cold. But she took deep, long breaths to ease out of her head and into a zone where she didn’t acknowledge how truly miserable she was.
She flicked her fingertips through the water as her skin adjusted to the extreme temperature. Still nothing from the women’s team. No real prospects for tryouts in Chicago. She’d been invited to scrimmage in Portland and Washington though, which was all good. But she wanted Chicago or L.A. Not some backwater team.
Metin.
Shaking her head in frustration, she forced him out… his lovely eyes, those amazing fingers and lips that had drawn some of the more operatic orgasms out of her that first night when they’d escaped her father’s party and ducked into his suite. The guy was as world-class in the sack as he was on the pitch. No doubt about it.
But that was it. A one-off, one-night stand, whatever she wanted to call it. When she awoke in his arms, it took about ten seconds to acknowledge she could have lain there with him forever. That had forced her up, into the shower, and dressed at four in the morning faster than a smack to her ass.
Barely letting him kiss her, she rushed out the door, the whole time in a whirl of terror over her need to stay. She had not allowed herself to even think about a member of the opposite sex since Josh had dumped her. Metin was a sexy, successful, highly-paid soccer player from Turkey—a borderline chauvinist pig mixed with charming gallant—a heady, exotic blend of personality. She had zero business wishing he’d yank her back into his bed like a caveman. Instead, he’d been sleepy but accommodating, kissing her hand like some kind of prince charming before she made her escape.
Easing out of the freezing tub, she had the sudden, crystal-clear memory of his eyes, the second his body was inside hers, and his firm, muscular hips moving in slow, almost dance-like motion against her. Heat rose up from her toes at the memory.
She dropped back into the ice with a groan. The string of orgasms had been spectacular. No big surprise there. If the gossip rags were to be believed, he had bedded models, movie stars, and everyone in between since hitting the shores of Spain. She smacked the surface of the ice, willing him and the throat-closing jealousy out of her head. She should get home but even that sounded like hell—one full of angry sisters, misbehaving nephews, an absent father, and yet more memories of the night before to torture her.
“Mel!” Alicia dropped her soccer bag on the floor of the mudroom, kicking it aside so the boys wouldn’t trip over it when they got in from school. She’d showered at the training center, torturing her still-screaming nerve endings and aching muscles with more cold water, since the more she thought about her hot Turkish hookup, the hornier she got.
“Mel,” she shouted a little louder and made her way into the huge, empty kitchen.
Strange, since her sister usually puttered around over cookies or some kind of horrible granola bar thing before getting dinner started. She snagged a banana and a glass of chocolate milk to have while she read the latest news of the soccer world on her tablet.
Sighing, she sank into one of the tall seats and found a story about yet another woman player getting signed to one of the premiere teams. Checking her phone for the millionth time, she acknowledged that all the effort she’d made—all the ass-crack-of-dawn practices, the grueling injuries and recoveries, then the abject torture of playing varsity sports at a Division 1 school—had been for nothing.
She had nothing. No job, no grad school, nada. Zip. Zilch.
“Mother fucking shit!” She pounded the granite counter top, willing herself not to cry. All she wanted to do was play soccer. But thanks to the fact that she had ovaries, not gonads, she had to work that much harder to make that much less money. But hell, she’d take a forty-thousand–a-year, second-string placement at this point…if some team would offer her one.
She glared at the spent banana skin, already browning, getting old in front of her eyes. “Fuck it,” she muttered, sticking her hand into the jar filled with homemade oatmeal-white chocolate chip cookies—her absolute favorite and downfall all at once. She inhaled one then grabbed another. “Oh, my god, that is good.”
“Isn’t that what you should be saying to him?” Mel wandered in, her face set in tense lines, dressed in b
aggy jeans and a sweatshirt.
She glared at her. “None of your business.”
“Oh, I’m just jealous one of us is getting laid. Although I don’t know if I like him much.” Mel dropped into the chair next to her, took a cookie, held onto it a minute, then put it back in the jar and laid her head on her arms. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Alicia rubbed her shoulder while still paying attention to the news on the tablet. “Boys okay?”
“Yeah. At least the school hasn’t called me today, so I assume so.”
“Oh, well….” She hit the off button, unwilling to read about all the successes her fellow players had while she still sat there in Detroit, waiting to get picked up.
“It’s Scott. He keeps calling me.”
“You’d better not be talking to him, Mel. I mean it.” She shoved the cookie jar out of her reach before she ate another one.
“I’m lonely.” Mel kept her head down. “I miss him. Jesus, he’s the father of my son, you know?”
“Yes, I know. And I also know he screwed his way through the secretarial pool, emptied your bank account, and disappeared in the middle of the night. For all you know, he has a bunch more sons with god knows how many women.”
Face beet-red, Mel frowned up at her. “Don’t make assumptions about him, or me.”
“All right, okay, sorry. Jesus.” She walked to the opposite side of the nearly eight-foot square granite island. “I assumed we were all on the same page when it came to your ex-husband.”
Mel’s face crumpled, and Alicia instantly felt like ten tons of shit. “Oh, honey.” She rushed back around to Mel’s side, put her arm around her, and let her sister sob into her shirt. “I’m sorry. God, we are some kind of something with men, aren’t we?” A quick flash of Metin’s dark eyes, his Photoshop perfect torso alongside hers flashed through her memory, making her shiver.
Mel switched off the waterworks, wiped her nose, and leaned back. “No. We are not. You let that hunky, somewhat misogynistic, walking sex god nail you. Give me all the details.” She pushed the cookie jar away as well and found a half-empty wine bottle. “Get two glasses. And do not spare me a single thing.”
