A Brit Player

by Brenda St John Brown

  What I don’t count on, though, is all of the other celebrities at Prohibition. I see a couple of reality TV stars, a news reporter, and, right before I get to Max’s table, Daniel Craig. My eyes are wide as I grip Max’s forearm. “Oh my God, did you see who’s here?”

  “Bunny Adair?” Max asks.

  “Who?” I scrunch up my nose and shake my head. “Never mind. No. James Bond is at the bar ordering a drink.”

  “A martini, shaken, not stirred?” Max raises an eyebrow.

  “Probably.” I laugh and slide into the empty chair beside Max. My gaze swivels around again before settling on the man beside me, and holy whoa, does he look good. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit and a pale blue shirt underneath, sans tie. His shirt is open a couple of buttons, exposing his tan skin, and his hair is tousled and pushed back from his face. Except for one stray strand that hangs on his forehead that I have to practically sit on my hands to resist pushing it back out of the way.

  Then I notice the way he’s looking at me – like I’m the cherry on top of his ice cream sundae and he can’t wait to dive in. Butterflies start beating their wings in my stomach and I flush with pleasure as I try to put those butterflies back in their cages. Max gave high school me butterflies. Now I’m old enough to know better. And yet... Pointing to the full glass of fizz on the table, I ask, “Is that mine or was someone holding my place?”

  “It’s all yours.” Max picks up his glass of fizz and waits for me to do the same before clinking his glass against mine. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” I take a small sip before saying, “I thought you said you didn’t drink during the season? Don’t you have a match tomorrow?”

  “One glass isn’t going to kill me. Besides, it’s a special occasion.”

  “Oh?” I take another sip of my drink. It’s fresh with undertones of grapefruit, a huge improvement on the supermarket brand I usually buy. “What’s that?”

  “Being here with you. Seeing you twice in one week. Take your pick.”

  I think about protesting, reminding him that running into each other at Castle Calder was a coincidence. But then I remember my plan – three dates. No complications. No true confessions – and raise my glass again and say, “I’ll drink to that.”

  My voice is so quiet there’s no way Max could have heard me, but he grins. Obviously, he can read lips just fine. And judging by the way he’s looking at me over the rim of his glass, that’s not the only thing he can read.

  “You’re still trouble, Max Foster. You know that?” I give him a half-hearted side eye.

  “Pot meet kettle, T.” Max clinks his glass to mine.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” I take a sip of my drink and Max laughs.

  I love Max’s laugh. I’ve always loved Max’s laugh – the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips curve up, the way his eyes dance – so I let myself revel in it. Even though the little voice in the back of my head whispers that he wouldn’t be laughing if he knew the truth.

  That, he wouldn’t find funny at all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prohibition is so loud, Max and I stay for one drink and bail, which leaves us with an hour to kill until our dinner reservation. If I were with anyone else, I’d suggest hitting the next bar. But given the way Max nurses his glass of Prosecco, that doesn’t feel right. Plus, he’s Max Foster. Even with Daniel Craig in the same room, more than a few people asked Max for his autograph as we were leaving. No one snapped a photo – that’s strictly forbidden, according to a sign on the wall – but that doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be a ton if we went somewhere else.

  We’re a few steps outside Prohibition when Max turns to me and says, “We can either see if we can get in for dinner early or hit up somewhere else?”

  “Like where?” I don’t know this area very well, but my concerns still stand. I don’t want to be Max’s mystery woman in London any more than I wanted to be his mystery woman in the Lakes.

  “Or,” Max continues like I haven’t spoken, “we can wander.”

  When Max and I started spending more time together, we spent a lot of time wandering, peeking in windows, and making up stories of the families inside. We always bought a bottle of cola at a random off-license to share, but it had to be the most off-brand kind we could find. Max would drape his arm across my shoulders, and I carried our drink, meting it out between us since the end of the drink always signalled the end of our walk. I can’t help smiling at the memory and I nod.

  “Have you graduated to name-brand soda now that you’re in the big leagues?” I ask.

  “Not a chance.” Max drapes his arm around my shoulder and it’s all I can do not to purr in contentment. “Come on.”

  We walk a few steps until he veers off the street filled with bars and restaurants, heading down a quiet side street. It doesn’t take long to see lights in the windows of the flats and Max points to one on our right. “See those bookshelves? The woman who lives there is an author. One shelf has her published books, one shelf has her favorite books, and the rest are books she keeps meaning to read.”

  “That doesn’t stop her from buying more, of course.” I smile. “Do you know the Japanese have a word for buying books and not reading them? It’s called tsundoku.”

  “And you know that how?” Max asks. “Wait, don’t tell me. You went to uni for a term in Japan? You worked on a project building a ryokan?”

  “Look at you, slipping the Japanese words in.” I nudge him in the ribs. “I worked with a Japanese client here in London and did a lot of reading up on culture and history while we were working together.”

  “I would expect no less.” Max points to the window. “What kind of books do you think our author friend writes?”

  “Romance. When she first started writing, she thought she’d write literary fiction, but then she realized how much harder and more gratifying it was to write a good sex scene, so she switched genres and hasn’t looked back.” I shake my head. “And before you ask, no, I’m not a closet romance writer, but I had a friend at uni who was. By day she studied literary criticism and rhetorical devices. By night she self-published romance novels under a pen name.”

  “Really? Maybe she’s our mystery woman in flat 2B?”

  “She’s not. Kate lives in Exeter and teaches English at the university there.”

  “Does she still write romance novels?” Max asks.

  “She does, and I’ve read them all. She’s published something like ten books and says she has ideas for at least one hundred more. Crazy, right? You never know what someone’s going to end up doing.”

  “Sometimes you do.” Max’s voice drops. “Are we ever going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

  I know exactly what Max is talking about, but it’s so much more convenient for me to play dumb. “First of all, there’s no room here. Unless you’re talking about that one up there. I say the family who lives there has twin girls and they’re overrun by Peppa Pig paraphernalia.”

  Max gives me a long look, but I refuse to meet his eyes. I know I’m being spineless, but I can’t talk about our past. Even the version he wants to talk about. I can’t. Finally he says, “It would be worse to have boys obsessed with Roary the Racecar, especially for the downstairs neighbors. You’d be trying to sleep in on a Saturday and all you’d hear is the kids upstairs racing their toy car with its plastic wheels at eight a.m.”

  “Imagine being hungover on a Saturday and having the kids upstairs obsessed with Roary the Racecar.” I give a laugh that sounds false to my own ears.

  But if Max notices, he doesn’t call me on it. “That would suck. You win.”

  It feels like he’s talking about my refusal to discuss our past, but I’m not ready to talk about it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, but I do know that telling him the truth after all these years will tear us apart.

  I just got him back, and even though it’s fraught and emotional, the alternative is not having him at all.

 
I’m definitely not ready for that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Twelve Years Ago

  I’m shivering in the misty rain and waiting for Max outside the changing room where he’s supposed to be gathering up his things so we can walk home. Most of the other players have already come out and there’s still no sign of Max. I could leave. Of course I could leave. But we haven’t seen each other much this week – every night he’s been free, I’ve been working and vice versa. So I thought I’d surprise him by hanging around and studying at the library until he was done with practice. It’s not like I can’t use the study time with exams coming up.

  Will Freeman bangs the door open and I jump. I haven’t exactly been embraced by the football crowd since I’ve been dating Max, but Will’s always nice.

  “Oh, hey, Tara. Waiting for Max?” Will asks, slinging a gym bag over his shoulder.

  “Yeah. Is he still in there?” I’m pretty sure he’s still in there. If he’s got training in Manchester, he always texts me from the bus and my phone’s been silent all afternoon.

  “He’s talking to Coach. There’s no one left in there if you want to get out of the rain. It’s pretty grim out here.” Will flips his wet hair for emphasis. My hair is back in its school braids or it would be a frizzy mess, but I do admire the flip.

  “Thanks but I’m good.” Plus there’s no way I’m going into the boys’ changing room. Hanging outside of it makes me feel uneasy. Inside, I’d be downright apoplectic.

  “Your choice. See you around.” Will turns to head towards a waiting Volkswagen but turns and says, “Hey, are you still friends with Rina?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Do you know if she’s doing chem review before exams? She said she might and I need all the help I can get.”

  “Um, I don’t know.” What I do know, though, is that Rina thinks Will is hot. So I shrug and continue. “Maybe text her?”

  Is it my imagination or does Will’s face flush a little as he gives me that curt nod of his? “Sure thing. I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  I wave as Will jogs towards the waiting car and pull my phone out of my bag. Will won’t be out of the car park before I finish my text to Rina because, hello, opportunity’s knocking. Also, selfishly, it would be fun if Rina started dating Will. Maybe they could go to Shake a Leg. Maybe we could even go together. Then I wouldn’t be the odd one out. Or at least not the only odd one out.

  I’ve just pressed send when I hear the door open and Max hurries out. “I’m so sorry. I saw you out here, but Coach wanted to have a word and then I couldn’t escape.”

  I slide under Max’s arm. He’s freshly showered and smells of soap. I take a deep breath in. “Is it weird that I’m sniffing you?” I laugh. “Don’t answer that. Is everything okay with Coach?”

  “You can sniff me all you want.” Max laughs, too. “And yeah, he’s good. He’s getting some offers in.”

  I hear the excitement in Max’s voice and grin up at him. “That’s great. Can you say where?”

  “Oxford and Ipswich. They’re both League One, so that’s not terrible, especially since I’m not coming from an Academy team. But…” Max pauses and I’m not kidding when I say his face is glowing. “There’s a team in Madrid that’s keen. Technically, it’s an elite academy team, but I’d still get paid, and Coach says I can write my own ticket after two years there.”

  Madrid? Madrid, as in Spain? As in a plane journey away?

  “Wow.” My voice sounds a little breathless and I paste on a supportive-girlfriend smile. “That’s amazing. And well deserved, obviously.”

  I’ve seen Max play football plenty of times, but when I went to his game last week I really watched, and damn, he’s good. I can see why he’s getting offers and I’m super psyched for him. But I didn’t realize any of those offers would be in another country.

  “Why, thank you.” Max feigns a bow and says, “Do you have time to get something to eat on the way home?”

  “Not really.” I stick my lower lip out in a pout. “I’m on dinner duty tonight because my mum has book club. The only reason I could stay to meet you is because my dad’s working late. He’s got a meeting with a customer or something.”

  “Oh, what are you cooking? And can I come?” Max laughs.

  “Uh…” Max hasn’t been back to my house since he joined us for family dinner, but… “There’s no reason why not, I guess? I’m making a pasta bake, so it’s nothing exciting.”

  “The excitement isn’t the food. I don’t care about that.” Max pulls me closer. “I want to see you.”

  “I want to see you, too.” I glance up at him and my pulse picks up a bit. “You know, if we hurry, we’ll have the house to ourselves for a little while?”

  I phrase it as a question because, although Max and I make out plenty, it’s always stolen moments or kisses goodbye. He never pushes for more and I know I should be glad he’s such a gentleman, but my insecurity gets the best of me sometimes and wonders if it’s because he’s not attracted to me “that” way.

  “Oh, I like the sound of that.” Max wriggles his eyebrows at me.

  I like the sound of that, too. Although when we’re in my empty house fifteen minutes later, I feel awkward and unsure. I don’t really know what I want to happen, and I sure as hell don’t know how to make the first move. Max does, I’m sure of it, but he’s leaning against my kitchen counter across from me and it kind of feels like the floor between us is molten lava judging by the way we’re avoiding it.

  “So,” I start. “Do you want anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  My heart sinks a little more. “We could watch telly or something. I probably don’t have to start cooking for about half an hour.”

  “Sure.” Max gestures for me to go first and I feel like I have no choice but to head towards the lounge.

  Why? Why is this so awkward? When we’re making out behind the sports hall or on a random side street it doesn’t feel this way. It feels like we can’t get close enough and if we were truly alone things would progress at lightning speed. But now that we are alone…

  “What do you fancy watching?” I pick up the remote off the TV stand and toss it on the couch. “We don’t have Sky or anything.”

  Max sits down and flicks on the TV. It’s on BBC News, which my dad watches every night before bed and the announcer’s voice blares from the screen about an explosion in a warehouse in Surrey. Max turns the volume down and then extends his hand. “Come here, you.”

  I take his outstretched fingers and he tugs me toward him with just enough force that I stumble and end up falling on top of him on the sofa. Two inches to the left and I’d have kneed him in the nuts, so at least I avoided that. I brace my hands on his shoulders and inch my leg over until I’m straddling him, which is more than I bargained for because we’re close in all the right places this way. I think I should move, but Max places his hands on my waist to keep me where I am.

  I swallow hard and I wonder if Max can feel my pulse. Because I can feel it and right now it’s thrumming through my body like the 10:21 express train from Manchester to London. “Um, hey.”

  My voice is soft, but at least it doesn’t tremble.

  “Will you take your hair down?” Max asks.

  I can, but moving my hands means letting all of my weight rest on my legs and I’m pretty much sitting right on top of Max’s erection. I have very little experience with male erections, but I’ve felt Max’s before when we’ve been plastered together and I have to admit, I like it. I like knowing I can elicit that reaction from him, and I like the fodder it gives me for later, my hand moving under my panties.

  However, the feeling I get from feeling Max’s erection pressing into my stomach is nothing compared to it pressing into my hot center. I ease my weight down as I start taking my braids out and I swear my temperature goes up a good ten degrees as soon as we make contact.

  Max sucks in a breath and says, “Shit, T.”

  “Are you okay
? Do you need me to move?”

  “No. I need you to hurry up and take your hair down so I can put my hands through it when I’m kissing you.” Max’s voice is gravelly.

  I practically yank my hair out of my head taking out the last of my braids and as soon as I finish, Max’s hands are on my face drawing me close. His lips meet mine and that train that’s been running through my veins goes off the rails. All of that pent up sexual frustration and insecurity is in that kiss and I can’t get close enough to him. My hands rake down Max’s back, through his hair, and down the sides of his jaw, but his are just as eager.

  It’s only when I feel his palm on my bare back that I come to my senses. I pull away with a gasp and say, “Oh my God, Max, we can’t. We’re in my parents’ living room.”

  Max leans his head back and looks as breathless as I do. “Shit. I’m sorry, T. I got carried away.”

  “We both got carried away.” I slip off his lap reluctantly with a wry smile. “I guess that’s what happens when we finally get some proper alone time.”

  “No kidding.” Max’s smile matches mine. “Maybe we should find a way for that to happen more often? My mum’s shifts are changing at the store next week. She’ll be working three to nine.”

  And Max will have the house to himself. He doesn’t say that, but he doesn’t need to. A little thrill zings through my stomach.

  Still, I try to play it cool as I say, “Maybe I could come by sometime?”

  “Maybe you should.” Max looks like he’s trying not to smile, but he fails and breaks out into a full grin.

  Matched by mine. Alone time with Max sounds awesome. Explosive, if the last ten minutes are anything to go by, but awesome.

  Out of nowhere, my mum’s reminder comes back to me and I know this was exactly what she was afraid of. But I still can’t imagine regretting it. How could I?