The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1)

by A. Meredith Walters

  “Yes, that’s me.” I got out my passport, knowing I would need to show ID. The now very unhappy man looked at my passport longer than was probably necessary before handing me the tickets and complimentary program.

  “Enjoy the game,” he grumbled.

  “Thank you.” I gave him a smile, even if he didn’t deserve it.

  Phil’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So it was Lucas Bradley huh?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a thank you.”

  Phil raised his eyebrows, his mouth pinched slightly. “A thank you for what?”

  I winced. “Okay, that sounded awful. Not like that, Phil. This isn’t some sort of payment for services rendered.”

  Phil had the decency to look chastised. “That’s not what I was thinking. Not at all. I was only wondering what a man like Lucas Bradley would need to thank you for.”

  “I helped him get a cab on Friday. He was appreciative. End of story. Now can we go to the shop so I can get pom-poms or something?” I didn’t want to talk about Lucas Bradley.

  But I sure did think about him a lot.

  Ugh.

  “Okay. Uh. Sure.” Phil’s mood had soured slightly but led me to the packed shop full of Chester fans.

  “So what should I get?” I looked through a rack of T-shirts in red and black.

  Phil picked up a knitted scarf with Chester stitched in black yarn and handed it to me. I draped it around my neck. “Won’t this be too hot on a day like this?” I glanced down at my heels and skirt. The scarf was long, dangling to my knees. I looked like an idiot.

  Phil wrapped it loosely around my shoulders so that it didn’t hang quite so long. “I think it looks perfect on you.” He smiled. His hands lingered on my shoulders.

  I cleared my throat and unwrapped the scarf, balling it in my hand. “Super. The scarf it is.”

  Phil took it from me, pulling out his wallet as we got into the line at the register. I tried to take it from him. “You don’t need to buy it for me,” I protested.

  “Please. Consider it my thank you. For bringing me today. I’ve been trying to get tickets for this game since they went on sale. I may not be as flashy as Lucas Bradley in my appreciation, but it’s probably much more genuine.” I noted the hint of bitterness in his tone but chose not to comment on it.

  “Well, thanks.” I waited by the door while Phil paid for my scarf then we made our way into the stadium.

  “We need beer. And food.” Phil took my hand and led me to one of the many food kiosks just beyond the doors. “Hot dogs and lager are essential. That’s part and parcel for the whole experience.”

  I chuckled, getting sucked in by Phil’s obvious excitement.

  We got our beer and hot dogs —which was more of a sausage and so much better than the hot dogs I ate as a kid— and got out the tickets to see where we were seated.

  “What section are we in?” Phil asked, taking a big bite of his hot dog.

  “Um, section A, row 1.” I took a sip of beer. I wasn’t a beer girl, but it was good. Heavy and thick.

  “Really?” Phil took the tickets and looked at them. “Those are great seats. Right on the pitch. I guess Lucas Bradley was feeling really thankful.”

  “Can we stop talking about that?” I asked with an edge to my voice. If Phil were going to spend the day acting like a jealous jerk, I’d call it a day and head on home.

  Phil put an arm around my shoulders in an awkward hug. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I agreed but forcing myself to relax. Phil was an all right guy. And he was trying to make sure I enjoyed myself. Sure he wasn’t sexy and infuriating like certain other men that I wouldn’t think about, but he was nice enough.

  I started towards the stairs, leading to our seats when Phil took my arm. He nodded towards my beer. “You have to drink that first. You can’t have alcohol in sight of the field.”

  “Really? Is that a joke? In America, sports and beer are synonymous,” I laughed.

  Phil took a drink of his beer. “Drunk hooligans are no joke, Morgan. So drink up. There’s nothing to stop you from getting a little pissed here.”

  I downed my beer as quickly as I could and then threw away the plastic cup. I felt a little fuzzy, but pleasantly so. “Come on then.” I looped my arm with Phil’s and we made our way to our seats.

  The sun was out and it was incredibly warm. But I continued to wear my scarf. Phil had been right, our seats were amazing. Even though the seats themselves were tiny and constricting. There was no way to spread out. I was squished between Phil and a sweaty oversized man who had painted his face red with a black stripe down the middle, right over his nose.

  Both teams were already on the field warming up.

  The stadium pumped music over the speakers. The giant screens flashed pictures of the team, clips of previous games, and shots of the fans as they waited for the game to start. A man dressed like a giant bird danced up and down the field, waving at the kids in the stands.

  “Who’s the bird?” I asked pointing to the mascot.

  “That’s Frankie the falcon. He’s Chester’s mascot. And that box over there is for the owners of the club. Bernie Campbell bought the club last year. That’s when he brought on Jack Millwood and turned the club completely around. A lot of times these owners are just a bunch of tossers with too much money. Big Bernie has been this club’s savior,” Phil explained, though I was barely listening.

  The atmosphere was overwhelming. I had never been to a professional sports game before. I remembered a cousin inviting me to a college basketball game when I was little. All I could recall about the experience was eating too much cotton candy and throwing up on the floor.

  But this was something else.

  The energy was electric and it was hard not to get carried away with it.

  I bounced my legs in rhythm to the pumping beat of the music. I was starting to sweat in the hot sun so I used the program as a makeshift fan.

  “So which team is which?” I asked, scanning the faces, all of them unfamiliar.

  Phil leaned close to me, his arm slung over the back of my chair, his fingers brushing my skin. He was becoming pretty touchy feely.

  He pointed to the guys wearing red shirts. There were a dozen or so of them kicking a ball back and forth and running sprints. “That’s Chester. In the red and black. They were in terrific form last season. Let’s hope they keep it up now they’re in the top flight. Some pundits say they could go all the way, though only time will tell.”

  I barely heard anything Phil said because my eyes had zeroed in on a certain man with tattoos and a closely shorn head.

  Lucas.

  We were close enough that I could see him frowning in concentration. He was already sweating. I could see the glistening sheen above his upper lip and dotting his forehead. He kicked a ball to a man I recognized as his friend from the pub. Alan something or other.

  A man in a tracksuit with Chester emblazoned on the back called Lucas’ name, who came jogging over to talk to him.

  I couldn’t help but watching him. Lucas grinned at whatever the other man was saying. His smile was sort of amazing when he wasn’t using it to be a douche.

  I sat up higher in my seat, all too aware of Phil’s fingers still on my arm. I ate the rest of my sausage and watched Chester—and Lucas— as they ran sprints up and down the field. Lucas—and the other players of course—were obviously physically fit. I tried not to stare at the way his muscles rippled beneath his tight fitting shirt. And I definitely tried not to remember how it felt to touch them.

  Nope. I wouldn’t think about that at all.

  I crossed my legs, feeling a throbbing there that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. All the while Phil reeled off facts about the team. About the owner. About the players. And I tried to suppress the giddy buzzing that had unleashed in my belly as I watched Lucas the super football player.

  “They’ve brought on some interesting new players this season. Take the new keeper, Claudi
o Pacetti. He came from Juventes and made a name for himself there as one of the best keepers in the Italian League. They paid over twelve million for him. Their biggest purchase to date. Even Bradley didn’t get that much when he re-upped his contract this year.”

  “Mhmm,” I murmured, trying to act as though I were listening. I leaned forward in my chair, trying to put some distance between me and Phil’s clingy fingers. Lucas had stopped and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. It was impossible not to look at him. Which was more than a little annoying.

  He took a drink from a water bottle and tossed it to a young boy on the sidelines. Then he looked up. His eyes scanned the stands. Maybe taking in the crowd. Maybe searching for something in particular.

  Then his eyes met mine.

  And it was like something out of the movies. My heart sped up and I lifted a hand in a goofy half wave.

  He smiled and waved back.

  I gave him a thumbs up and Lucas laughed.

  Oh my god, had I seriously just given him a thumbs up? I was so lame. I wanted to smack myself in the face.

  Then he gave me a double thumbs up and I didn’t feel like such an idiot.

  “Did I tell you that my cousin’s son was a ball boy for Chester a few times last season? He has season tickets, but the bastard won’t ever part with them. Not even for family.” Phil rubbed my arm, leaning into me again.

  “Yeah, can you give me a little space? It’s really hot out here,” I said tightly, moving away from my persistent co-worker. Inviting him was most definitely not my smartest move to date.

  I turned back to where Lucas stood on the field but his smile was gone. His eyes weren’t on me. They were on Phil. And he didn’t look pleased.

  I tried waving to him again but instead of waving back, he turned away, rejoining his teammates for drills. My stomach dropped slightly.

  Okay then.

  Lucas didn’t look my way again.

  I watched as Freddie the Falcon ran towards the players. Lucas kicked the ball his way and the bird kicked it back. The crowd loved it.

  After a few minutes an announcement came over the loud speaker. I couldn’t quite hear what was said, but everyone around me got to their feet and started cheering. I followed suit, clapping my hands. I saw the teams start to head towards the tunnel on the opposite side of the field.

  I watched Lucas and Alan follow their teammates. They passed directly in front of where Phil and I were sitting. I could have leaned across the barrier and touched him.

  I thought briefly about calling out to him. Just to say hi. Or to wave again like the loser that I was.

  But I saw the tense set of his jaw and decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “Come on, Chester!” Phil shouted. I continued to clap, still on my feet, my neck sweating underneath the scarf.

  Lucas looked our way again, though not at me. His eyes were fixed on Phil who was whistling and screaming like a crazy person.

  If looks could kill Phil would be six feet under.

  Wait a cotton pickin’ minute.

  Was he…jealous?

  I wanted to cackle in amusement.

  There was no way.

  Not possible.

  But Lucas glared at Phil as he passed. Did Phil notice? Because he suddenly grabbed my hand and squeezed my fingers.

  And Lucas saw it. His eyes met mine one last time before he disappeared into the tunnel off the field. And what I saw there made my knees a little weak.

  Damn.

  Then the team was gone and everyone sat back down, though the noise level in the stadium reached a frenzied pitch. Then the screen flashed with images of each of the Chester players.

  “How much longer until the game starts?” I asked.

  “Only ten minutes,” Phil said, flipping through the program. I continued to watch the jumbo screen as they went through the entire team.

  When Lucas was shown and his name announced Foley Field went wild. People started chanting, “Lucas Bradley, Bradley. He’ll trounce Bolton badly, badly. Watch the ball, he’ll take them all, our Lucas Bradley, Bradley.” The chants were more like songs that everyone sang together.

  And then it started and it was easy to get pulled into the drama of the game. And there was a lot of it.

  Lucas was fouled fifteen minutes into play. One of the Bolton players swept his feet as he went for the ball. Phil and I were both up and screaming our heads off, yelling at the ref.

  “You fucking bell end!” the guy behind me shouted.

  “Yeah! You bell end!” I yelled. Phil gave me a funny look and then we were both laughing.

  “You tell him, Morgan,” Phil said and I realized I was actually having a good time.

  It was obvious that Chester were the better team. Bolton appeared to be scrambling to get the ball from the clearly superior Chester side. Lucas and his teammates played like a well oiled machine and within the first thirty minutes Chester had four shots on goal that were either deflected by the goal keeper or went wide.

  “Come on, Chester! Get on the fucking ball!” Phil shouted. And then, as if on cue, Lucas stole the ball from a very confused looking Bolton player and took off down the field—or the pitch as Phil informed me. No one could catch him and then the ball was in the goal and everyone in the stadium lost their mind.

  I was screaming and jumping up and down, waving my scarf like a seasoned Chester fan.

  Then it was halftime and Phil went to get some bottles of water. I fanned myself with the program, knowing I probably looked like a sweaty mess.

  Frank the Falcon was back, running up and down the field. Then he stopped in front of me, hopped over the barrier and pulled me to my feet.

  “What are you doing?” I gasped as the man in the giant bird suit lead me towards the steps.

  Obviously he wasn’t going to answer me. He led me out onto the field, pointed to a spot on the grass with a giant X made in spray paint. I was apparently supposed to stay put. The bird went and grabbed three more people, an older woman, a teenage boy, and young girl no older than twelve.

  The announcer came on saying that we were going to kick the ball into the goal. If we made it past Freddie, then we’d get a chance to meet the team after the match.

  I felt the weight of thousands of eyes on me, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. But I couldn’t embarrass myself by running off the pitch.

  The young girl went first. I thought Frankie might let her win. After all she was young and obviously a big Chester fan. She was wearing a shirt and her hair was done up in red and black ribbons. But when she kicked the ball, the falcon mascot easily blocked it. She looked upset when she walked off the pitch.

  Next up was the teenage boy. He dribbled the ball deftly, obviously a player himself. Everyone cheered, enjoying his skill. “The next Lucas Bradley, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer told the crowd.

  But once again, Freddie the falcon blocked the attempt. It was the same for the older woman.

  I had never dribbled a soccer ball in my life, so I knew I was seconds away from humiliating myself in front of twenty-six thousand people. Just great.

  Someone passed the ball to me and I lamely tried to dribble it, which was difficult in my ridiculous heels. I knew I looked like a complete moron. I clumsily maneuvered the ball until I was standing in front of the goal. Freddie hopped around, waving his feathered arms.

  I kicked the ball as hard as I could, my heel flying off in the process. Freddie made a show of diving for it but missed. The ball actually went into the net. The stadium erupted into a roar and I felt a strange sort of pride.

  I had actually made the shot. What were the chances of that? I jumped up and down, pumping my fists above my head like some sort of prizefighter. Freddie did a cartwheel and grabbed my shoe, running it back to me, making a show of kneeling down and putting it on my foot. The crowd loved it.

  Then we were ushered off the pitch by staff. One of them stopped me before I went back to my seat. “You need to come to the m
embers’ box after the game and we will arrange for you to meet the team.”

  “Where’s the members’ box?” I asked and the man pointed to an area at the far right of the field.

  Phil handed me my water when I got back. “That was amazing, Morgan!” he enthused, giving me a long hug.

  “Dumb luck is more like it,” I chuckled.

  “You get to meet the team too. Though I guess you’ve already met two of them, so maybe it’s not that big of a deal to you,” Phil remarked. Was he being snarky? I couldn’t really tell.

  I gave him a halfhearted smile, not bothering to comment.

  Then the game was starting up again. By the time the whistle was blown Chester had scored two more goals, one of them by Lucas the other by a guy called Nolan Dubois. Bolton hadn’t been able to break past Chester’s defense to get near their net.

  When the final whistle blew the stands erupted in cheers. The Chester players started hugging and clapping. Lucas and a few other players approached the stands everyone around me went crazy, including Phil. Fans rushed towards the pitch taking pictures of their local heroes. Lucas took off his shirt and handed it to a young boy who looked as though he were going to pass out.

  I wanted him to look at me. When he was high on his victory. As he was being worshipped by the crowd. I wanted him to notice me.

  But he didn’t. His eyes never glanced my way. And I felt strangely disappointed by that.

  “Don’t you have to go and meet the team?” Phil asked.

  I was still watching Lucas, who was completely engrossed in his fans. In his team. In his triumph.

  He was completely different than the man I had met only a few days before. Here he was king. To these people he was everything.

  The crowd started to change “Lucas” over and over again until the floors rattled with the noise.

  Two of Lucas’ teammates lifted his hands in the air like he was a boxer. He was laughing but also soaking up the adoration.

  Then they were heading back towards the locker room, the cheers still ringing in the air.

  “Where are you supposed to go, Morgan? Did they tell you?” Phil asked.