Emily is right. She’s always right.
***
Sunday
Determined to “do me”, as Em says, I decide to start tackling my bucket list ASAP. Starting with line item #2: Go see Rhys Maddox play in real life.
I know, I know, it’s a total cop out—to tell the world (read: Emily) that I’m pursuing an activity of empowerment and self-actualization when in reality I’m stalking my ridiculously hot crush—but hey, I put together my list before the whole Rhys/best-sex-of-my-life thing happened, so it still counts, right?
Right.
I gather a flask of whiskey and a couple girls I met this week through the Mertyon in Madrid program—Viv, Maddie, and Rachel—and head to the Sunday afternoon match at Madrid’s famous football stadium.
The seats I nabbed online aren’t all that bad. We’re a few rows up from the field—or “pitch” as proper football fans call it—close enough to hopefully see the sweat on the players’ faces, which Rachel especially appreciates.
“My type is hot and sweaty,” she says. “The gym is my personal nirvana, and not because I like to workout.”
It is hot, and it is loud. The noise is deafening. People shout and sing, a kind of chant that rises and falls throughout the match. From the nosebleeds, drums sound out a Gladiator-esque beat. The smells of cheap beer and cigar smoke fill the air; the sun beats down on our shoulders, making us sweat almost as much as the players on the field.
My stomach flips when Rhys and the rest of the team make their way onto the pitch. The crowd goes crazy, and I can’t help it, I do, too. The girls and I jump up and down like lunatics, screaming Rhys’s name, waving our arms over our heads. The old dudes sitting next to us would totally hate us if they weren’t doing the same thing. I guess hot footballers make fools of us all, young or old, man or woman. They are just that hot.
So hot I can hardly stand it. I’ve never been this close to the action. I’ve never been to a game, period. Watching Rhys jog out to play, his stride effortlessly limber, his handsome face a mask of deep concentration, makes me feel short of breath. He wears his blond waves loose, held back by a very Euro, and very thin, elastic headband.
Throw in the white Madrid uniform, and it’s like I got hit by two-ton weight of want.
“The whiskey,” I sputter. “Where is it?”
Maddie presses the flask into my hand, giving me a small pat. I’ve only just met the girls, so I haven’t told them about my hookup with Rhys (yet). I can’t decide if I’m embarrassed about the whole thing—about Rhys not calling me back—or if I want to keep the memory of that night for myself. It was pretty delicious.
“I’m gonna need a lot of this today,” I say.
“We’re all gonna need a lot of it,” Viv murmurs, her eyes following Rhys as he moves down the pitch. “These guys are all so…fast.”
“Sweaty,” Rachel says, transfixed.
“Foreign,” Maddie adds.
I take a long pull of whiskey. It burns my throat and riles my stomach, but it does nothing to quell the ache that swells just beneath my breastbone. Being up close and personal with Rhys’s footy skills—with Rhys, period—is not for the faint of heart.
I read up on all things football and Rhys related this morning. Apparently he is a winger, meaning he hangs in the “wings” or right and left sides of the pitch. He’s an offensive player, one who either assists his strikers, the guys who score goals, or scores goals himself. A couple sources said he’s one of the fastest players in the league; there’s an urban legend floating around that he was clocked running 30-something kilometers per hour before he hurt his knee.
The match starts to the roar of the crowd. The energy in the stadium is insane—Spaniards take their football very, very seriously. It’s so loud the concrete beneath our feet trembles; I feel like I’m in the epicenter of football-induced earthquake. Across the field—sorry, pitch—a legion of photographers aim their giant lenses at the players as they dash up and down the sidelines.
Luckily for the girls and me, Rhys is playing on our side of the pitch today. He’s so close at some points I can hear the not-safe-for-work things he shouts at his teammates. He is lethally fast, zig-zagging and ducking and turning with surgical precision. And he’s got this cocky confidence about him that makes my heart skip a beat. He plays like he owns the pitch, broad shoulders square, his cleats (like most people from the UK, he probably calls them “boots”) moving so quickly they’re a neon green blur. He challenges the opposing defenders, mowing them down when they get in the way.
I freaking love watching him work. The ache inside my chest burns. God damn Rhys. Why didn’t he call me back?
I hardly know him. But I’m nervous for him. I know he’s trying to come back from his knee injury; he was obviously upset about it the night we met at the bar. While reading about Rhys this morning, I found out his dad is kind of a washed-up footballer. The article didn’t go into detail, but I wonder if that has anything to do with why Rhys is so hard on himself—or why Rhys totally shut me down when I asked him about Wales.
Not that I have any right to wonder. It’s clear he’s over me—
“Stop.”
I look up at the sound of Maddie’s voice. “What?”
“We may have only just met, but I recognize that look, Laura. Whatever death spiral your thoughts are leading you down, stop.” She takes a sip from the flask, then passes it to me. “We’re in Madrid, watching these stud-muffin-athletes slay it while getting drunk on a Sunday afternoon. Life is good. Chill out.”
Chill out. Right.
I take another slug of whiskey.
The visiting team nabs the lead early in the match. By now Rhys’s jersey is so soaked with sweat it’s plastered to his torso. When he runs—and he’s always running—the muscles in his shoulders and chest pop against the flimsy material. Never mind his enormous leg muscles that bulge and harden when he launches a pass across the pitch, or streaks up and down the touchline.
“I mean, seriously!” Rachel says. “I might need to excuse myself for a minute.”
After a while my body starts to feel warm and buzzy from the whiskey. During a break in the action, Rhys stands a few feet away, his back to us, his hands on his hips as he surveys the pitch. My eyes rove over the strong, confident lines of his body, the ink scrawled on his wrists and arms. The longing inside me glows brighter. I remember tracing my fingers over those tattoos. How Rhys would make this sound, a masculine rumble-growl-thing in his chest, when I did.
I fan myself with the flask. I swear to God, I just might faint.
The match starts back up and he launches into a sprint again, and I marvel at his talent, his passion. I’m a little jealous. What I would give to be so confident, to find my belonging and be so ridiculously good at it. I’m trying to figure my life out, sure, but no matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’ll ever be part of something quite like this. I’ll never be the brightest star in a crowded night sky.
The minutes pass, and the girls and I pass the flask as my nerves return with a vengeance. The other team is still in the lead at the sixty-five minute mark. Football matches last ninety minutes, plus injury time (thanks, Wikipedia!), so there’s plenty of time left. Still, the clock is winding down, and play is getting a little sloppy as the players tire.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Rhys manages to steal the ball from a rival midfielder. He dashes up the sideline, moving with almost brutal speed and focus, and crushes a pass to Olivier Seydoux, who waits inside the goal box. Seydoux leaps into the air and heads the ball. A ripple of excruciating anticipation moves through the stadium as we watch the ball arc through the air. Half a heartbeat later, it soars just over the goalie’s outstretched arms into the net, tying the match.
The crowd erupts into pandemonium. The old man besides me grabs my face and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. We both laugh like little kids, gleeful and uninhibited. On the pitch, Rhys leaps into Olivier’s arms, and their teammates pile on. The giant sta
dium scoreboard shows a close up of Rhys’s face. He looks bewildered, like he can’t believe what just happened.
Like he’s utterly shocked by this sudden, unexpected stroke of luck.
My pulse skips. Keep it up, I silently urge him. You certainly could on Sunday night.
The other team keeps possession of the ball for the next several minutes. The clock is ticking: seventy-two minutes, seventy-nine, eighty-four. I bounce on my toes, trying to keep my nerves at bay. The game is still tied, and the opposing team still has the ball. Things do not look promising for Madrid.
In the eighty-ninth minute, one of our defenders manages to deflect a pass intended for one of the other team’s strikers. A Madrid midfielder grabs the ball and darts down the field. Halfway across, he passes the ball to Rhys, who’s been waiting patiently on the side of the pitch.
And then he takes off like a bat out of hell. He’s moving so fast my vision blurs as I watch him. His legs pump at manic speed as he outruns a rival defender. He guns down the pitch, making a beeline for the goal box. He bumps up against another defender, using his arms and the bulk of his body to hit back. It scares me, how fast he runs, how hard he hits and gets hit. Some of the guys he plays against are so big it must feel like being hit by an elephant.
I’m jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd as Rhys barrels into the box. He skids right, then left, and then he launches the ball past the goalie into the goal.
Goosebumps break out on my arms and legs. Holy fuck. Rhys just scored. He just scored the winning goal in the biggest game of the season so far.
The girls are screaming beside me, and then I’m screaming too. Rhys’s epic goal electrifies the stadium. The old dudes beside us are saying, “He’s back! The boy is back!” in garbled Spanish, while the young dudes in front of us are crying literal tears of joy (egged on, no doubt, by gallons upon gallons of beer).
Rhys turns to the crowd, that look of happy disbelief still on his face as his gaze roves over the eighty thousand people chanting his name.
It’s the coolest thing ever. Some part of me—the drunk part—fantasizes that, high on victory, Rhys will finally call me, maybe thank me for providing the sexual mojo he needed to turn his game around.
I roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness. Rhys isn’t going to call. Which is a good thing, because I have more big plans for my bucket list this week, and none of them have anything to do with Rhys Maddox.
Well, except the masturbating thing. I might need to, er, utilize him for that.
Chapter 7
Rhys
That Night
“Zat, it was fucking awesome, mate!” Olivier says, pounding me on the back. “Where did it come from? For so many months, you play like a terrible child. But today? Today you play like a champion.”
“Thanks, dickhead,” I say, laughing as I tug on my trousers. The familiar scents of the locker room—sweat, soap, antiseptic—surround me. For the first time in forever, they fill me with hope. Happiness. I’m actually glad to be here. “Nice goal, by the way.”
“Not as nice as ze assist.”
“That’s it, Cabbage!” William Wallace—I don’t think anyone knows his real name anymore—appears at my elbow, clapping loudly. “Whatever girl you and your dobber mates were chattin’ about at training, I want you to see more of her! I haven’t seen ye play like this since before ye balls dropped.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I mean it,” he says, looking me in the eye. “Ye’re comin’ back, lad. Keep it up, yeah?”
I fight back a smile. The relief that floods me—the disbelief that my luck might actually be turning—is overwhelming. I finally played like the legend I hope to be. In this sport, legends get paid very, very well. And heaven knows I could do a lot of things for a lot of people with that money.
My sponsors lit up my mobile tonight. I even got a new one—a giant diamond company—that promised to pay me twenty thousand euros if I showed up at their event tomorrow night.
Needless to say, I cleared my schedule and accepted the invitation. Relationships with sponsors are fragile, so I always make an effort to put my best foot forward and attend every event they invite me to.
I shake hands, slap backs, smile as the squad compliments me on the pass. But all the while I’m thinking of only one thing.
One girl.
I admit I’m superstitious—what athlete isn’t?—but even I’m not daft enough to think my legendary performance today has anything to do with Laura, or the ridiculously intense orgasms we had together. Orgasms are magical, sure, but they don’t have magical powers.
Do they?
Because that feeling I got when I gunned down the pitch, the way my instincts took over, and guided me—it came from the same deeply buried place inside me that came alive when I fucked Laura, her eyes wet and lucid, her hair wild, her silky skin flushed.
Maybe coach is right. Maybe Laura did make me play any better today. It makes sense—sort of. Nothing else about my life has changed in the past week. I ate the same food, trained the same way, slept my customary nine hours a night.
Hanging out with Laura was the only deviation from my carefully scripted schedule. It was the only time I had fun, cut loose. I spend so much time doing the things I should or need to do; I rarely do what I want. I wanted to get naked with Laura, so I did. There was something so…liberating about it.
Sure, I’ve thought about Laura this week. I haven’t called her, though, because that’s my rule. But I have to admit that even my training sessions were better—every single one of them.
I suppose playing so well in the match today just confirms that there’s something at work here.
That I finally played really, really well for the first time since blowing out my knee after I slept with Laura could be purely coincidental. It could be a not-so-funny joke, engineered by the big guy in the sky. The connection between my performance and Laura could mean nothing.
Then again, it could mean everything. It could mean the difference between being demoted from first team, and making all my dreams come true. If I keep playing like I did tonight, there’s a seriously exciting future ahead of me. A future where I can do right by my family, and prove to the world I’m not going to wash up like my deadbeat dad. A future with the biggest sponsors and the biggest paychecks and the best bet to live the life I’ve always wanted for myself, and for mum, and for Maggie.
The kind of life dad promised us, but never delivered on.
I’m certainly not alone in my superstitions. Alexandr swore it was wearing the bright yellow boots his wife “blessed” with a kiss every morning that made his performance in last year’s Euro Cup so astounding. Fred’s got his ice cream. Sergio bangs on the brick wall outside the locker room exactly six times before every match. If he doesn’t, his play will be rotten (so he says). As athletes, so much of our professional lives—our successes, our failures—depends on chance. To touch the divine, and play like the gods we want to be, the timing’s got to be just right; the stars have to align; that ever-elusive shadow called luck must be on our side.
No one knows what it is, exactly, that keeps that shadow in our corner, or lures it away. I’d sell my soul to know the nebulous math that solves the equation in my favor. But as much as I believe in the power chance, I also believe in my own power—my own agency. I can’t control luck, but I can run after it as hard and as fast as I can.
Tonight, I ran pretty damn fast.
Shrugging into my suit jacket, I know what I have to do. I have too much at risk to underestimate this Laura thing. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not, but I will do anything—bloody anything—to keep my stars aligned.
Lucky for me, that “anything” is a gorgeous girl with an even more gorgeous body. Just thinking about that body, the way her pussy clenched around me again and again, has me adjusting the crotch of my trousers.
I’ve got to run like hell after Laura, and convince her, somehow, to let me see her again. Tomorrow, perhaps.
I’ll apologize for not calling sooner, tell her I’ve been busy with training. The diamond guys want me to bring a date to the event, and Laura would look really hot in heels and a tight little dress.
With the most important season of my career on the line, I have to see her. Perhaps make her laugh with more awful pick-up lines, or give her another orgasm, or five. God, the look in her eyes when I slammed inside her…
I swallow, hard.
It’s not serious. It can’t be. But I’ve got to see her.
I think I just stumbled upon the good luck charm I’ve been looking for.
***
Laura
Monday
Today is my first day at the Santa Caterina After School Program (bucket list item #6: Community service—tutor kids, literacy work). Considering I’ve spent the past hour in a classroom with twenty-three five and six year olds I’ve only just met, it’s going pretty well. Only one little boy peed his pants, and the kids seem to be enjoying my terrible Spanish renditions of some of my favorite picture books (The Giving Tree gets me every.damn.time., even in a different language).
I’ve always been a big reader—I began sneaking romance novels from my mom’s bookshelf when I was eleven, and now my massive collection of pink- and purple-spined paperbacks is the thing I treasure most in this world—so I knew when I got to college I wanted to do some kind of literacy work. My dirty book habit aside, I hoped to work with underprivileged kids. I remember what a proud, magical moment it was when I learned to read, and I wanted to relive that feeling with the children I volunteered with.
The kids and I are seated in a circle on the floor. They’re a little fidgety—being asked to sit quietly after a full day of school is not easy when you’re six—but they return my smile when I close The Giving Tree and settle it in my lap.
So, I ask in embarrassingly stilted Spanish, the giving tree was very kind and generous with the little boy. Is there anyone in your life who is kind and generous with you? Someone who gave you something special?
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 6
