Were Clara and Libby just hanging around listening to my every conversation?
They stood in the doorway with sour expressions on their faces. Clearly they weren’t joining the Morgan Carter fan club any time soon. Though I couldn’t figure out what I had done to shit all over their day.
“Now ladies, no need to be jealous,” I quipped. Normally I was slow with the comebacks. I was proud of myself for thinking on my feet.
“Jealous? Of being a slag? I don’t think so,” Libby snapped, turning on her heel and walking away.
Clara smirked. “The thing is we Brits have long memories. And once a reputation is made, it’s hard to unmake it. Though I guess you Americans like to play fast and loose with morals.”
I straightened my shoulders and looked my suddenly contentious co-worker in the eyes. “And Americans don’t put up with crap from anyone. Particularly insecure jerks who can’t mind their own business.”
Clara huffed under her breath and followed her friend.
Just great. All I needed was to make enemies.
I quickly walked back to my desk. I really did feel as though people were looking at me. I never liked being the center of attention. It made me clammy and uncomfortable.
I remember once as a kid deciding I wanted to perform in my elementary school talent show reciting a poem. I forgot the lines and stood on stage while my classmates laughed at me. Even after all these years I remembered the horror of being watched. Of being talked about. Of being ridiculed.
So I tended to avoid any and all situations where the focus was on me. Which was difficult given that I was now a foreigner in a land far from home.
I sat down at my desk, ready to get into my day. But there was something I needed to do first.
I opened my browser and typed Lucas Bradley’s name in the search engine. The articles detailing Friday night were near the top. Right under a few stories speculating about his possible transfer to other football clubs.
I hesitated clicking.
But of course I did.
I was a glutton for punishment.
And there was the grainy photograph of me holding onto Lucas. Another that to a casual eye would look as though we were making out with Alan watching us when really I was trying to hold him upright and my face was turned away from whoever was taking the picture.
There was another picture of Alan and me putting Lucas in the cab. I was leaning over Lucas and Alan was right behind me. It did look questionable but in truth was completely innocent.
The whole thing was embarrassing. I hoped Charlie and Phil were right that it would all blow over soon enough.
But I also wondered about Clara’s statement about Brits and their long memories. Would I now be known as the slutty American girl?
Wow, my mother would be so proud.
I started on one of the dozens of tasks I had for the day. I wasn’t an IT nerd by any stretch of the imagination. It was something I had taken to in college. I had been able to snag a good internship during my senior year with a good-sized tech firm doing project management.
I had done well in that role so I had figured this job would be easy.
I had learned very quickly how wrong I was. I was having a hard time getting a handle on things. I had always considered myself savvy when it came to navigating systems, but I was struggling.
The timelines I had been given seemed impossible and my boss was a micromanaging tight ass. I wasn’t sure the man ever smiled. I checked the time. I had to meet with Mr. Tight Ass himself in five minutes.
I hurried to his office, hoping rather belatedly that he didn’t follow football gossip. Could that be what this meeting was about?
Oh shit.
Peter was behind his computer, frowning at the screen when I arrived. He was an older man with thinning hair and thick black-framed glasses. His mouth was turned down and by the deep lines in his forehead it was apparent that was a normal expression.
I cleared my throat after a few seconds and Mr. Richardson looked up. “Can I help you?”
Did he not recognize me? That was humiliating in and of itself.
“I’m Morgan Carter, you sent me an email that you wanted to meet with me?” Shouldn’t he remember that? He did just send the email an hour ago.
“Oh right, Morgan Carter. Come in and close the door behind you,” he instructed, tapping at the keyboard some more.
I did as he asked and sat down in the chair across from his desk. I smoothed my skirt nervously. I noted the Chester Athletic coffee cup on his desk and could have groaned.
Oh man…
“Morgan, you’ve been here how long?” he asked. Did he really not know? He was the one that hired me.
“Three weeks, sir,” I answered.
“How do you feel you are settling in at CFL?”
“Um, fine.”
Mr. Richardson continued to tap away at his computer, barely glancing at me. “I’ll get right to the point, it’s come to my attention that the project you were hired to manage has encountered some delays. Timelines not being met. That’s obviously a problem for our customer.”
“There was already a delay when I started. I’ve been trying to get the team caught up but there have been some hiccups with infrastructure—” I started to say defensively. Was this man blaming me for inheriting a project already behind schedule?
Mr. Richardson raised his hand, silencing me as if I were a child. It made me want to hit something. Or someone.
“That’s not the point. We’re on a deadline for the end of the third quarter. You were hired to finish the new platform. Excuses won’t be accepted or tolerated. I’ll want you to submit daily status updates so we can keep track of how you’re managing your time.”
What the hell?
“Mr. Richardson I was hired to take over a project that had a lot of problems. I’m trying to learn the system but it has only been three weeks,” I pointed out.
“Look, we can only sponsor your Tier 2 Visa as long as there is a sustainable project for you to work on. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Mr. Richardson finally looked up from his computer, the crease lines in his forehead deepening.
“Yes, I understand what you’re saying.”
He was threatening to ship me back to America. But given how I was feeling about my adopted country lately would that be such a bad thing?
“I look forward to your progress report at the end of the day,” my boss concluded, finishing our conversation.
I got to my feet and let myself out, my mood worse than it was before, if that were possible.
I stopped by Hayley’s desk before I reached mine. “Do you think we can get out of here at four instead of four thirty?” I asked her.
“Does a one legged duck swim in a circle?” she asked.
“I don’t know what that means,” I responded with a chuckle.
“That’s an of course we can!” she enthused.
At this rate I was going to become a full-blown alcoholic.
Lucas
“There are much better pubs than this place, you know,” my sister pointed out, grabbing a handful of peanuts and dropping them into her mouth.
I tipped back the bottle of beer into my mouth, draining it dry.
“Why did you want to come here? The bar’s sticky and it smells like armpits,” Anna complained. She took a drink of wine and made a face. “They don’t even have any decent Chardonnays.”
“You’ve become such a snob, Anna. You seem to forget you were raised on a council estate in Kent,” I reminded her, watching people as they filtered into the bar for happy hour. “I like it here. It’s laid back. No frills.”
“With loads of people waiting to tell you how wonderful you are,” she deadpanned, rolling her eyes when a group of men in suits offered to buy me a round, which I declined. I was making an effort to rein in my more unsavory impulses after another weekend spent on the front page of the gossip mags.
“I’d think you’d be used to it by now,” I t
eased. Anna’s car was in the shop so I had offered to pick her up from school after training. We were both hungry so I had decided to stop and get us something to eat. The Thorny Rose just happened to be the closest pub to the house.
“That’s a nasty cut you have on the side of your face. You’ll catch ugly if you’re not careful,” Anna quipped, pointing to the injury just below my ear that was a result of Finn Skov’s studs colliding with my head.
It had been a grueling training session. Brutal to the point of too much. Jack was pushing us extra hard with our first match coming up this Saturday. We were playing the Bolton Flyers, another Championship team that had been promoted this season. We had a lot to prove with this first game. We had to come out swinging. We had to make an impression. And that impression was that we were in it to win.
I felt ready to get the season started. The team was tight. We were playing well together. And even though Jack Millwood wasn’t one of my favorite people, I appreciated how he forced us to a standard where we were unstoppable. He was one of the great managers for a reason.
I rubbed the scabbed over cut. “It makes me look rugged. The women love that shit.”
Anna made a face. “You’re ridiculous. But seriously, it only takes one blow to the head or one torn hamstring and you’re out of commission. Remember that. I think football players are pushed too hard. Your body has limits,” she lectured. It was a familiar diatribe. Anna had decided to go into sports medicine after watching one of my teammates get knocked unconscious during one of our games.
“Well hurry up and get your degree so you can become our team physician then,” I told her with a grin.
“Hey Lucas! Can’t wait for the game on Saturday!” someone yelled and I lifted my beer in acknowledgment.
“Can we go somewhere else? This is annoying,” Anna muttered.
“No way. This is my public, baby sister. I have to make them happy.”
“You sound like a twat,” she said.
“And you sound like a jealous little kid,” I countered.
“Here you go. I gave you extra chips,” the bartender said, putting plates of food in front of Anna and me.
“Thanks, mate,” I said, not wanting to be a jerk and tell him I couldn’t eat them. I took the veggie burger off the bun and cut into it.
I was on a strict nutrition regimen, which meant no carbs until Thursday. The nutritionist had us deplete our body of all carbohydrates and then slowly increase the amount we consumed up until game day. I didn’t really understand the science behind it but I did as I was told.
I took a sip of the chicken and pepper broth and made a face.
“You should have let me make something. This food is crap,” Anna said, pushing her chips around on her plate. “Why did we have to stop here again?”
I shrugged, looking around the crowded bar. It was full of the after work crowd. Men in suits and women in high heels. I had liked the place when I was here on Friday night. Though that may have had more to do with the excessive amount of booze I had ingested.
And the hot piece of action I had gotten in the toilets.
The bartender handed me another beer. I hadn’t even realized the one I had been drinking was empty. “Thanks, uh—”
“Doug. My name is Doug,” the bartender filled in enthusiastically.
“Thanks, Doug.” He was hanging around staring at me like a star struck kid. I was used to the staring. I got it a lot. But this guy was standing two feet from me while I was trying to eat.
“I think we’re fine here,” I told him, hoping he’d get the point so I didn’t have to be a dick about it.
“Okay, but I’ll be right over here. I’ll come and check on you in a minute,” the bartender went on. “I’m Doug. Wait, I already told you that. You just have to yell my name if you need me.”
Anna snorted and I kicked her beneath the bar. “Okay, Doug. Thanks.”
But the guy continued to stand there.
“I can’t wait to see how Chester does this season. You guys are great. It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to be proud of our local team but you and the rest of the guys have done something special,” Doug the bartender enthused.
“Hey, can we get some service over here?” someone shouted from the other end of the bar.
“Thanks, I think so too.” I tried to be polite. I loved the fans. I loved their enthusiasm. Even if it was in your face and over the top at times, they were who made it possible for me to buy my mum a house and to pay my bills. I didn’t shit where I ate.
Plus who didn’t like having their ego stroked over and over again?
“Will Millwood keep the 4-3-2-1 formation this season? It worked really well for you guys in the Championship, but will it work as well in the Premier League?” Doug went on.
“I can’t give away all our strategies, can I?” I felt a blast of wind at my back followed by another group of office schleps coming in for their happy hour pint. I barely paid them any notice.
“No, I guess you can’t. But I’ll be glued to the telly this season. I’ve been trying to get tickets, but you have to be willing to sell your kidneys to get one,” Doug was saying.
“That’s too bad,” I said offhandedly, willing the guy to go away.
“Maybe you could give the poor man some tickets, brother,” Anna piped up and I glared at her.
Doug went nearly apoplectic. “Seriously? You could do that?”
“No, I can’t do that actually. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” The bartender deflated noticeably and I felt like a right git. I sighed. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Doug. Doug Fisher.”
“Come to the box office on Saturday before the game and I’ll have a couple of tickets waiting there under your name. Just because I’m a nice fucking guy.” I bared my teeth in a semblance of smile.
“Fuck! Are you kidding me?” Doug shouted, pumping his fist into the air. “Lucas Bradley just gave me tickets to Saturday’s game!”
“You might want to keep that to yourself, otherwise you’ll start a stampede,” Anna laughed, clearly enjoying herself.
I picked up my plate and pint and indicated for my sister to do the same. “I think we’ll eat the rest of our meal over there.” I got up and made my way to the back of the room towards a booth.
“Hey Lucas!”
“Can’t wait for the game on Saturday!”
“The Flyers are going down!”
“Can I buy you a round?”
Anna and I slid into the booth having avoided being accosted by patrons. “That was not cool, Anna. I can’t just be giving tickets away to strangers like that.”
Anna frowned. “If you can’t use your celebrity for a little good, then what’s the point?”
“And how is giving some random bartender tickets to Saturday’s game doing good?” I grumbled, eating a handful of chips, not caring about my strict diet. I wanted fucking carbs, damn it.
Anna leaned across the table and smacked my arm. “Because arsehole, to you it might mean nothing, but to Doug the bartender,” she jerked her thumb in his direction, “it means everything. And you call me a snob?”
I opened my mouth to say something smart arsey when something caught my attention.
Long, dark hair.
A fit body.
A nice smile.
Shit. It was Morgan. The girl from Friday night.
I watched as she walked towards the bar and stood in the queue waiting to put in her order.
“Hello? Are you listening?” Anna snapped her fingers in front of my face and I scowled.
“Not really,” I told her, smirking when she looked annoyed.
“Mum’s planning to come up at the end of the month. She said she’d be here the Friday evening before the next home game against Bristol FC. She’ll drive up after Bingo.”
“I can get her train tickets. She shouldn’t be driving all that way,” I said, though my attention was on the beautiful woman at the ba
r. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed her. I saw the typical elbow nudging and eye fucking going on between the lads as she waited, oblivious to it all.
“Well, you know Mum, she’ll do things her own way—”
“You want another glass of wine?” I asked, interrupting her. I didn’t wait for an answer; I got to my feet and made my way towards the bar.
Morgan was leaning against the bar, her legs crossed at the ankle. She was wearing a knee length skirt that showed off well-formed calves.
I remembered those legs spread wide, her head thrown back.
Thank god beer goggles hadn’t clouded my memory, because Morgan was sexy without being over the top. Nice curves. Excellent tits. Fantastic arse.
Damn, I had done good.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said softly into her ear when I was close enough.
She startled and turned, her head knocking into my chin with enough force to make me wince.
“Bloody hell!” I rubbed my chin.
“Maybe you should give a lady some room to move,” she snapped, holding her hand to the back of her head.
“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching out to touch her arm. To make a move. I put on my best smile. Women ate that shit up.
She side stepped me, her eyes skittering away from my face, not even taking the time to appreciate my incredible smile that was just for her.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” She tapped her foot impatiently, trying to wave down Doug the bartender. “What does a person have to do to get a drink around here?”
“Here, let me take care of you.” I smacked my hand on the bar a few times to get Doug’s attention. He rushed over eagerly.
“Sorry, Lucas, what can I get you?”
I turned to Morgan who didn’t seem all that impressed. “It’s the lady that needs to order.” I tried smiling again. It had to work. It always worked.
She pressed her mouth into a thin line.
It wasn’t working.
“What do you want, love?”
She cleared her throat, taking another step away from me. She was treating me as if I smelled bad. I surreptitiously gave myself a sniff, just to be sure. “I’ll have a lime and soda.”
The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1) Page 8