by Lily Harlem
Fellows picked another reporter who asked a question about substitutes. Then another who wanted to know where the players were staying during the tournament. The Donbass Palace Hotel. Another was sarcastic about Ted Hatton, the goalie, and how he’d let in three penalties for his club, Arsenal, the weekend before. Lewis responded with a short remark about moving on and I spotted a muscle flexing and un-flexing in his cheek. The question had irritated him.
Each time Fellows searched for another reporter to pose the next question, I offered forward my iPhone, jigged up and down then felt my guts twist in frustration when he asked someone else.
After fifteen minutes Fellows stood, straightened his jacket and scanned the room. “Right, thank you gentlemen for coming. We’ll see you in Donetsk.”
I bristled with indignation. What the hell was I? Invisible? Lewis also stood, as did Bryers. They turned toward the door. The noise level rose around me, conversations, a few final called-out questions.
Damn, my boss, Reg, would have me hung, drawn and quartered if I didn’t get the scoop about formation.
“Hey,” I shouted, elbowing my way further forward and breaking free of the crowd. “What about me? I haven’t asked my question.”
Lewis, Bryers and Fellows carried on walking. Fellows put his hand on the door handle and pushed it down.
“Hey, for crying out loud,” I bellowed. “I might be a female sports reporter but I still have as much right as all these guys to ask my question. What are you, a bunch of pig-headed sexists?” As I shouted out the last few words I was aware of the room becoming quiet.
No, more than quiet. Utterly silent.
Lewis stopped, turned and settled his piercing gaze directly on me. His brows hung low and his lips tightened.
My throat felt tight and my mouth dry. Had I really just called the captain of the England football team a sexist pig?
It seemed I had.
The two reporters, who had until now been shouldering me, pushing into me as though I wasn’t there, moved away. It was as if I were suddenly contagious. They didn’t want to be associated with the hysterical woman with the wild hair wielding an iPhone like it was lethal weapon.
Well, fuck them. If they’d been the only member of the official press team not to get their moment they’d be huffing and puffing too—but later, when it was too late, over a whiskey in the bar. Well that wasn’t me. I was a strike-while-the-iron-was-hot type of girl.
Lewis was still staring at me. His attention dropped down my body, from my rapidly heating cheeks, to my red top, dark denim jeans and scarlet stilettoes. He then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black joggers and cocked his head.
I pursed my lips and squared my shoulders. Refused to be stared down.
“Hang on, Fellows,” Lewis said in his deep, rumbling tone. “You missed someone.”
Fellows turned and looked at me. His nose twitched as he shoved in a stick of gum and began chewing like a mastiff dog; open-mouthed and noisy.
The withering look he shot my way could only mean one thing—the misogynistic bastard had missed me out on purpose.
It was well known he was superstitious about women around the team during big matches. He thought we were bad luck, like a bunch of witches or something. Hence his obsession with the abstinence rule.
Well, it was too bad. My flight was booked and Reg had sorted out my accommodation too. I was going to the Ukraine along with every other qualified and experienced sports journalist in this room.
Fellows glanced at his watch. “We really have to get going,” he said, still chewing rapidly and now making icky snapping noises with the gum as it rolled in his mouth.
Without breaking eye contact, Lewis nibbled on his bottom lip and continued to stare at me.
My heart was beating so hard I could hear my pulse whooshing in my ears. My legs had turned jelly-like so I buckled my knees to keep from swaying. The man was devastatingly beautiful, but no amount of photography or admiring from a distance had prepared me for what it would feel like to be scrutinized by him. It was as though every fiber in my being was laid out bare. His eyes seemed to go right through my clothes, right through me.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice loud in the eerily hushed room. “Nicky Thomas, Kick Magazine.”
“Nice to meet you, Nicky. So sorry about you getting overlooked, if you would like—”
“We really haven’t time for any more questions,” Fellows interrupted.
Lewis pulled in a deep breath, and the material of his red and white top strained as his chest expanded. “I don’t think one more will make any difference.” He paused. “Fire away, Nicky.”
One corner of his mouth kind of twitched. I couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or the start of a rare smile.
I didn’t ponder that puzzle. This was my moment. “Thank you,” I said then harnessed my most professional tone. “Because of the adjustments in defense are you still going with a four-four-two formation or do you think a four-three-three would be more sensible? Up the armor, so to speak.”
Lewis nodded slowly, as though mulling over his answer. “Mmm, yeah, we did think of switching, but as Bryers already mentioned, Taylor is playing well and should cope just fine. Not only that, we’ve trained in four-four-two so switching at this stage might not be sensible. Having said that, nothing is set in stone and the decision is flexible. We’ll see how the team holds, not just defense but also up front.” He paused. “Does that answer your question?”
“Great, thank you.”
“Come on,” Fellows said, opening the door and half stepping through it.
Lewis made no move to follow. “Anything else, Nicky?”
Yeah, come and do me a private strip in my room later.
“Er, no, that’s it, thanks,” I said.
He nodded, turned, and the star of all my dirty dreams and football fantasies left the room.
“How did it go?” Reg asked when he called ten minutes later.
“Great, I got what I needed. I’m going to write up my report and email it to you by ten.”
“Nine would be better.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And, Nicky, don’t forget I’m relying on you to get the scoop on this. I could have sent Jeremy, who by the way is completely pissed off that he isn’t going, so make sure you get me inside gossip. Stuff no one else has.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than your best. I want to be in the know. Kick readers are relying on you.”
I braced for what I knew was coming next.
“Kick hard.” Reg chanted the annoying office motto he’d introduced the year before. “Kick fast and kick better than the rest.”
“I will.”
“And you’re staying at the Hilton tonight, right, with the team?”
If only I was staying with one particular member of the team. The player who’d made my whole body tingle with just a glance earlier. “Yes, but they’re dining privately and having an early night.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Fellows is seeing to that. That guy is anal about WAG rules.”
“I know, and I don’t think he’s too happy a female reporter is going to be hanging around either.”
“Tough shit.” Reg laughed.
It was no secret that he and Gavin Fellows didn’t get on. Reg had played professionally at the same time as Fellows many years ago, and the two had clashed on more than one occasion. I couldn’t help think my lucky break in getting sent to cover the Euro had something to do with their long-standing feud.
“I’ll get the report over to you asap, okay, boss.”
“Yeah, and make sure you keep your eyes open and your ears pricked every second of every day.”
“I will.”
The line went dead and I picked up my Mac. I was determined not to let Reg down, but equally I had my reputation as a sport’s reporter to think about, which meant it was the football I was reporting not the antics of the players off the pitch. And if
Reg didn’t like that, it was too bad, he should have sent Jeremy. I could always get another job. What I couldn’t do was repair my to-date, professional and pristine reputation in the industry I adored.
My attention was drawn to a quiet lounge to the left and I decided to order from the bar menu and write while I ate. That way I wouldn’t be eating alone in a restaurant, which I hated, and it would make my immediate task more pleasant.
The bar menu was fancy and because I was now officially on expenses, I ordered a crayfish and guacamole salad and a large glass of Pinot.
“England captain, Lewis Tate, looked confident and determined the night before his team flew to the Ukraine. The recent draw against Spain appeared to have only made his faith in Gavin Fellows’ final selection all the stronger. When Kick magazine asked about formation plans, he reported that his decision to stick with four-four-two remained unchanged at the present time...”
Two hours later my three-page report was in my sent box. I’d enjoyed a fabulous supper and a delicious glass of wine followed by the frothiest cappuccino of my life.
I settled the bill and shut down my Mac. The flight to Donetsk was early, and with the additional delay of London morning traffic, it would be an indecent hour that I had to haul myself out of bed and get to Heathrow. I decided to collect my suitcase from the concierge, who I’d stowed it with earlier when I was running late, and head to my room. There I would take a hot, deep bubble bath and listen to Adele, my absolute favorite singer at the moment. Then lounge in bed and catch Sky Sports. See what was being reported about the team’s departure.
As I wandered across the lobby I spotted several of the players, including Bryers, slipping into the POP bar. They appeared relaxed and at ease dressed in smart trousers and casual shirts. I could just make out their light-hearted banter. Bryers digging mid-fielder Carlton Clare, about his new, shaved haircut.
I would bet my last pound that Gavin Fellows had no idea they’d sneaked off for a drink and a bit of fun.
Good for them.
I dragged my attention away and smiled at the concierge. “You have my case. I left it earlier. Nicky Thomas.”
“Ah, yes, certainly, madam.”
He disappeared through a walnut-colored door to his right then returned with my cerise holdall, pulling it on its small wheels.
“Here you are, madam.”
“Thank you very much.” I took the handle and made my way to reception, checked in and was told to head to the sixth floor.
As I walked to the elevator the noise in the POP bar cranked up to disco level. It seemed a party was beginning to evolve. Perhaps I should drop off my case and head back down, see what was occurring. Reg’s words rang in my ears: “Get the inside scoop, the stuff no one else knows.”
I clicked my tongue on the roof of my mouth, annoyed with myself for even thinking it. That was not the journalist I was; if it wasn’t to do with the game then I wouldn’t be sticking my nose in. Sod Reg and his need for dirty gossip.
The large, golden doors of the elevator slid open and I stepped in, rattling over the rail between marble floor and green carpet. I hit level six and breathed in the waxy scent of polish.
“Wait.” Someone’s hand appeared around the shutting doors and stopped them closing. “Hang on.”
‘’Oh, sorry.” I quickly jabbed the door-hold button and the doors re-opened.
Lewis Tate stepped into the elevator holding a newspaper. He glanced at me. “Thanks.”
“That’s okay, er, which level do you want.” My heart was thudding. Gone were sleepy bedtime thoughts. Now all I could think of was that I was alone, in a very small space, with Lewis Tate, the Lewis Tate. Oh, if only time could stand still, freeze, then I could lick him all over, starting at his mouth and work my way down. See if he tasted as divine as he smelled—fresh citrus mixed with a deep base note of something like bergamot, or maybe sandalwood.
“Level eight, please,” he said, turning to face me. “Nicky.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, he remembered my name. I smiled and managed to suppress a delighted, girly giggle. “Eight, okay.” I pressed the button, relieved I’d removed my chipped nail varnish that morning and replaced it with clear.
Fleetingly I wondered if I should ask him another question about formation, or maybe something more personal like if he was looking forward to the first game. But my brain barely registered these thoughts, because as the elevator started moving, a low buzzing noise hummed around the small space.
Fuck!
The sensation of my guts pooling in my abdomen had nothing to do with the elevator taking off. Unfortunately the mechanics lifting us upward were smooth and silent and all that could be heard was an eager whirring coming from my holdall.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The bump into the elevator must have jostled Big Ben. I wanted to be sick, let mortification eat me alive, fall through the floor, hell to the consequences. Where was a damn black-hole when you needed one?
I glanced at Lewis. He was looking straight at me, his brows raised and his lips slightly parted, as though about to speak. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he glanced down at my holdall and stared at it, as if he could see right into it.
Swallowing tightly, I gave the holdall a jolt against the floor, hoping to turn the damn rampant rabbit off. No such luck. If anything the drone increased in enthusiasm as though it had flicked itself up a speed. Big Ben was always enthusiastic, I would give him that. Though at this moment in time I wished he was the silent, droopy sort.
I buckled my legs—they felt like noodles—and tried to fight the blistering flush that was searing its way up my chest, neck and onto my cheeks. I could just ignore the sound. Hold my head high and hope that he hadn’t really heard it— either that or pray this was a bad dream.
Please let me wake up!
But it wasn’t a dream. This was real. Lewis Tate was standing right next to me listening to my vibrator having a solo moment.
I had to face the music with as much dignity as possible.
“It’s er, my...” Think brain, think. “My electric toothbrush, it has a faulty connection. Goes off on its own all the time. Drives me crazy.” I shrugged, hoping to project nonchalance.
His gaze settled on my hot face again. The right side of his mouth twitched, just a little. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I pursed my lips, indignantly, to show I wouldn’t lie about such a thing and if he was thinking of something else he had a dirty mind.
“Well you should get it seen to.”
“I will.”
“Otherwise,” he said, folding his arms, his knuckles bulging his wide biceps outwards, “when you want to use it the batteries will be dead and you will be...”
The elevator was pinging up the floors, surely it had reached six. If it hadn’t I was just going to accept my fate and die of embarrassment. “And I will be what?” Fuck, my voice had come out as a squeak.
He rolled his lips in on themselves and cocked his head. The buzz continued, oblivious to the acute state of discomfort it was causing.
Black Hole, I could really do with you right now.
“Because,” he said, tugging the right side of his mouth up into a definite half smile, “if the batteries wear out you’ll be left feeling very frustrated.”
How could this be happening to me? Was it some kind of sick, karmic joke to let Lewis Tate know that my only release was a vibrator? Next thing he’d know I fondly called it Big Ben—not that I was feeling fond of it right now.
Finally the screen flashed six and the elevator doors slid open with a faint whoosh.
“I will, get it seen to, that is,” I said, tilting my chin and willing my legs to work for at least another five seconds.
I stepped out, pulling my traitorous luggage with me. As it clanked over the brass bar onto the corridor carpet, the buzzing stopped.
Bloody typical.
“Good night, Nicky,” Lewis called.
I could almost hear the amusem
ent in his voice. Well fuck him. Just because he had a super-model at his beck and call, some of us weren’t so lucky and had to rely on mechanical means of satisfaction.
Not replying to his goodnight, I stalked down the long stretch of corridor, holding my head up and forcing my shoulders down.
It wasn’t until I heard the elevator doors ping shut that I fell against the wall, dropped my head in my hands and let humiliation devour me. Crunch me up and roll me around in its jaws.
What the hell had I done to deserve that?
If you enjoyed the start of Nicky and Lewis’ story you can get your copy from Amazon and find out what happens next. But watch out, it gets seriously raunchy!
THE GLASS KNOT BY LILY HARLEM
Prologue - Josh
“Here’s to us.” Nick clinked his glass against mine and gave a seductive smile, one that promised a night of sex hotter than the Costa Del Sol’s midday sun.
“To us,” I said, tapping the rim of my champagne flute against his, “and surviving against the odds.” I leaned forward over a plate of delicate canapés and kissed him. My stubble scratched his smooth chin, and I berated myself for not finding the time to shave before our romantic moonlit meal. All I’d done today was lounge on the beach listening to the lapping waves and losing myself in my Kindle. I’d had a beer and some watermelon at lunchtime and hadn’t even noticed Nick step away to book the best table at The Pier restaurant; the one right at the very end, set slightly apart and partially screened from other diners by a row of potted pink Acacia plants.
“Ten years since tying the knot,” Nick said, knocking back a slug of champagne. “And man, it’s been pretty up and down.”
I glanced out at the endless stretch of black water. A single strip of silvery light from the moon shone down, creating a magical sparkling path that tapered into the horizon. I popped a spicy battered prawn into my mouth and savored the sweet chili, so different to the rank, prejudiced flavor I’d had constantly in my mouth as we’d battled my father’s revulsion of our gay union.
