The Beautiful Game (Man of the Match Book 1)

by A. Meredith Walters

  With many positions in varying degrees of difficulty.

  When we were finished, Morgan had passed right out. I had been forced to fight for the tiny scrap of mattress I was now laid on. And when I tried to gently move her over during the night she had elbowed me in the ribs. Hard.

  The woman had some boney elbows.

  Now it was morning. Light was shining through the window. It was too bright to go back to sleep. She really needed to get some black out curtains. It felt like I was lying on the surface of the goddamned sun.

  I tried to inch away from the edge of the bed but Morgan kicked my leg so I didn’t push it. I feared her flailing limbs.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept over at a woman’s house. It was probably Nikki, my girlfriend from more than three years ago when I was living in Guildford.

  Or was it Diana, the girl I had dated briefly right before signing with Chester?

  Regardless it had been a while.

  And now I remembered why.

  Because sleeping in another person’s bed sucked. Especially when they took up all the room and snored like a freight train.

  But it was easy to over look that when they had a body like Morgan Carter. The blanket pooled at her waist and her breasts were on full display.

  I lifted the duvet and carefully peeled it back so I could see all of her. I was definitely a perv. I grinned as I took in the sight of her.

  And that fellas, is why I spent the night.

  Fuck me she was fit.

  We had screwed four times last night.

  Four times.

  Not a record for me by any means, but still an impressive number.

  Which is why this morning I felt like I had been run over by a lorry. My groin muscles ached and I was pretty sure there were nail marks on my arse cheeks.

  I picked up my phone from where I left it on her bedside table and checked the time. It was almost noon.

  Shit.

  I had practice in an hour. And I still had to go home and get my kit before heading to the training grounds.

  But I couldn’t be asked to move out of her bed.

  Because I was hoping for round five when she finally woke up.

  I hadn’t planned to come back. Particularly after she all but threw me out. The after sex had been uncomfortable. I could tell she didn’t want me there, which was odd. Most women were begging me to stay and I was forced to sneak out of a bathroom window or something.

  I had never experienced a situation where I was all but shoved out the door.

  I had been mad as hell.

  And ridiculously turned on.

  So I had found myself back at her flat and we screwed all night long. In the living room. In the kitchen. In the shower. Then finally in bed.

  There hadn’t been a lot of talking. Except for Morgan barking orders. It seemed she was a bit bossy. “Touch me.” “Kiss me.” “Shut up and fuck me already.” She liked what she liked and that seemed to include my cock.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” I ran my hand down the length of her body, finding her already wet. That did something to a man. Knowing how much a woman wanted him. And it was different than the goal diggers who panted after me at the clubs. Or how Marla made it her mission to get me back in the sack. Those women wanted me because of who I was.

  Morgan seemed to see me only as a man she wanted to fuck. Not as a footballer. Not as a guy with a boatload of cash. Just a bloke she fancied.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, not opening her eyes. I slid a finger inside her and she squirmed against my hand.

  “You want this?” I whispered, kissing the side of her neck, her skin salty and warm.

  “Mmhmm.”

  Ten minutes later she was crying out, coming all over my fingers.

  “You’re going to kill me,” she groaned. “I can’t even lift my head. My body is jelly.”

  “Good. Then I’ve done my job.” I leaned over and kissed her on the nose before getting out of bed. I had put off leaving long enough. She watched me through heavy lidded eyes as I rooted around for my clothes.

  The weirdness had descended again. It seemed Morgan and I had the sex thing down pat, it was the afterwards that could use a little work. “Do you have anything planned for your Sunday?” I asked her, trying to make small talk. It seemed the right thing to do after sharing the woman’s bed.

  She pulled the duvet up to cover her. She really was gorgeous. Her long dark hair mussed and trailing in straggly tangles down her back. Her lips red and swollen. “I’m not sure. I thought I’d go wander around the city. I haven’t seen nearly enough of Chester yet.”

  I buttoned my jeans and pulled on my T-shirt. “That sounds like fun. Have you been to Chester Cathedral? I hear it’s pretty old and shit.”

  Morgan smirked. “Old and shit. Wow, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

  I reached under the blanket and tugged on her foot. “Don’t be a smart ass. I’ve heard it’s nice to visit.”

  “Have you not seen it?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and put on my socks. I took my time. I was finding myself wanting to put off the moment I had to leave.

  Great sex had a way of clouding the brain.

  “I’ve driven past it a few times but never have had a chance to go inside.” I realized that even though I had lived in Chester for over a year now, there was very little I knew about my adopted city.

  “Maybe we could go together sometime. We could take one of those river tours too. I heard they’re nice,” I suggested.

  Morgan’s eyes widened and she clutched her chest. “Lucas Bradley wants to take me sightseeing. What have I done to deserve such an honor?”

  “All right, well whatever. I have to go. So I’ll see you later?” I posed it as a question. Waiting for her to agree.

  Why was I being such a pussy?

  “Sure,” she replied non-committedly.

  She didn’t say anything else.

  Her silence was my only goodbye.

  “THIS IS BULLSHIT! What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re running around like a bunch of little shits with no fuzz on their sack!” Jack Millwood bellowed. Everyone stopped and looked at the gaffer, knowing he was on the cusp of one of his epic blow ups.

  For once I didn’t blame him. The lot of us were playing like crap. Simple set plays were being fumbled. I knew at least half a dozen were hungover as hell. And it was only the start of the season. This wasn’t a good sign.

  “I know you think you’re all top dicks with your first big Premier League win. But that won’t mean anything if you can’t maintain it. If you can’t keep winning. You think anyone will give a shit that you won this game if you can’t keep your shit together to win more? Fans are fickle. The owners are impatient. And unless you give them results, you won’t last here!” Jack barked.

  “Bradley, Hughes, Dubois, and Denham, get your asses into the weight room for some core training. The rest of you are running drills.” Jack turned to Fred. “Watch these wank stains, I need to speak to the boys.”

  Jack headed towards the weight room, jerking his hand in a motion for us to follow him. I traded looks with the other guys and we jogged to keep up with our manager. Once in the weight room there was no pep talk. No dressing down either. He just put us to work.

  After forty-five minutes, I was drenched in sweat and felt like I was going to vomit.

  “We’re up against Barnet United next weekend, we don’t have time for you to be anything but at your best. I expect no more late nights. No more carousing. Stick to your diet. Stick to your training and we may be able to take the gunners,” Jack lectured.

  “Yeah, okay,” I muttered, following my teammates into the dressing room.

  “Bradley, wait a minute,” the gaf called out. “I know you don’t like me. I’m not too fond of you either. But I respect you as a player. You’ve got talent. What you have can’t be taught. But stop fucking about. You’re not hurting me when you slack. I could give a toss. I can move on to an
other team. You on the other hand are only as good as your last season. You’re still a babe in arms. Me, I’ve been around a long time. I was winning silverware when you were still sucking your mum’s tit. They care about Lucas Bradley now because you’re scoring goals. You’re winning games. You faff about, no one will care. You’ll be back in the lower leagues faster than the ink can dry on your contract.” Jack smiled almost as if he enjoyed reminding me that at the end of the day, I meant nothing. I was nothing.

  I could kick a ball, sure. But he was telling me that next year there would be a bigger and better player.

  And he was right.

  I hated that more than anything.

  I didn’t respond. Neither of us expected me to.

  I went into the dressing room more than a little cheesed off. “What did Millwood want?” Rhys asked noting my stormy expression.

  “You mean other than to tell me that I was essentially replaceable?” I opened my locker and got out my clothes. I stalked back to the showers, not wanting to talk to anyone.

  No such luck.

  “Hey mate, why did you leave so quickly last night?” Craig asked, lathering up his hair.

  I could see Nolan grinning at me out of the corner of my eye. I purposefully ignored him.

  An image of Marla’s legs spread wide erupted in my head. I’d never be able to unsee Craig’s wife’s snatch.

  “I had somewhere to go,” was all I said. Craig deserved to know what a lying cow his wife was. But it wouldn’t be from me. I needed to stay out of that drama at all costs.

  “You went to see our American girl, didn’t you?” Alan asked, throwing his soap at me as he started humming Tom Petty.

  “I’m not picking that up. You’ve seen one too many prison movies,” I said laughing, kicking the soap back over to him.

  “What American girl?” George Fletcher, a second string defender and all around nice guy, asked.

  “Does her name even matter? It’s not like it will be worth remembering when Bradley moves on to the next one,” Shane laughed and everyone joined in. It seemed my revolving bedroom door was a source of humor for my teammates.

  “Ha, ha. So funny,” I snapped, turning off the water and wrapping a towel around my waist.

  “So true though,” Alan called after me and I flipped him off.

  Craig finished up at the same time and followed me back out to the dressing room. “Are you sure everything was okay last night? Marla said you had gotten a little shirty before you left.”

  I felt my temper flare. Why would that bitch mention me at all? Was she trying to start shit?

  Of course she was.

  “I was tired. I’m sorry if I offended your wife.” I practically spat out the words. If Craig were swifter on the uptake, he’d pick up on the undertone. But it was Craig, so he took my words at face value.

  “Of course you didn’t offend, Marla. She loves you. She was only worried something was wrong.”

  I had to bite my tongue. Instead of telling Craig the truth about his wife, I got dressed, keeping quiet. Maybe I should tell him about Marla. Spare him years of unnecessary bullshit. But I didn’t want the drama. And with Marla Denham, there was nothing but drama. Did that make me a crap friend? Most likely. But I had enough on my plate without worrying about Craig’s marriage.

  Alan slung an arm around my neck. “We’re heading out of town to a new club. You game?”

  “I just had my ass chewed by the gaf about my shit performance. I don’t think boozing it up at a nightclub is the best idea. Plus, it’s Sunday, who parties on Sunday?”

  “Uh, I do,” Alan responded, as if it required answering.

  “You’ve got problems, mate. You should address it.” I shoved him away. “Put some clothes on. I don’t need to feel your tackle brushing against my leg. “

  Alan shook his hips, his dick slapping back and forth. A couple of the guys threw towels at him.

  “Cover that thing up!” Sam Garcia, a second string midfielder yelled, putting a hand over his eyes.

  “Prudes,” Alan muttered, bending over to pick up a towel and giving everyone in the vicinity an eyeful. I could only chuckle. Alan was a special breed of oblivious and not giving a fuck. “Come on, Bradley, just come out for a few hours. You don’t have to drink—”

  “Drunk is the only way someone can tolerate being in your company, Cole,” Shane piped up.

  “No one is inviting you, Given, so shut the hell up,” Alan shot back.

  “I’m wounded,” Shane pouted.

  Alan turned his back on our teammate and glared at me. “Don’t laugh. He’s not funny and it only encourages him.”

  “I’m not really up to going out tonight. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I closed the locker and slung my bag over my shoulder.

  “Too much shagging? I know how it goes,” Alan sighed in mock sympathy. “Just an hour. Come on.”

  “You’re not going to give up are you?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t. Alan had a way of wearing you down until you agree just to get him to shut up.

  “No. So put those keys away and get that sweet ass of yours to my car. I’m driving.” Alan smacked my bum and I punched his shoulder. He winced. I didn’t punch lightly.

  “Can I come?” Martin asked, his eyes wide.

  Alan and I traded a look. I shrugged. “Okay. But we might be out past your bedtime, Stoney,” Alan warned.

  Martin drew himself upright. “Mum never waits up for me. I just turned eighteen.”

  I covered my laugh with a cough. “Okay, well as long as Mummy won’t be upset.”

  “Fab! I’ll only be a minute. Wait for me.” Martin hurried back to his locker to get his stuff.

  “Really? We’re taking the kid?” Alan complained.

  “You said we’re only going for a couple of hours. What trouble can you get into in that amount of time? And maybe Stoney will keep you in check,” I said, though I knew nothing could keep Cole in check. No one held Alan back from anything. Together we were a right mess.

  “Whatever, come on.” Alan grabbed his kit and we left the dressing room before anyone else could tag along.

  “THIS PLACE IS dead,” Alan complained after arriving at Night Dragon, an Asian themed club between Chester and Liverpool. Alan was right, there were maybe a few dozen people inside. The music was too loud and there were only a couple of girls dancing on the main floor.

  “It’s Sunday night. Most people are getting ready for their nine to five,” I reminded him, sipping a cider. It tasted like arse.

  “Should we go somewhere else?” Martin suggested. He had ordered a beer, taken one sip, and quickly put it down. Stoney was clearly not a drinker. His tee totaling wouldn’t last long hanging out with us.

  Alan was in a mood. He slammed back a shot and wiped his mouth. “What’s the point? We should head back to Chester.”

  I pulled out my phone. It was after ten. I had thought about calling Morgan.

  I wanted to see her again.

  I’d rather be with her than drinking shitty cider in an empty club.

  I tapped out a quick text.

  Busy?

  Her response was quick.

  Who is this?

  I grinned thinking I could play with her a bit.

  Who do you want it to be?

  “Oh my god, you’re Alan Cole!” a girl squealed. A group of women having noticed us at the bar and realizing who we were, had now attached themselves to Alan and Martin.

  “I am. And you probably recognize this ugly mug.” Alan clasped my shoulder and I thought about punching him.

  “Oh my god! It’s Lucas Bradley! Cheryl, do you see who it is?” a woman with big blond hair exclaimed, grabbing her friend’s hand.

  My phone buzzed in my hand.

  This is Lucas, isn’t it? No one else is that cheesy over text.

  There was no fooling Morgan, that’s for sure.

  “Cheryl is such a huge fan, Mr. Bradley,” Blondie was saying.

  “It’
s Lucas. Mr. Bradley sounds so formal. And we’re all friends here, right?” Alan was smooth. I’d give him that. Within a minute he had drinks for everyone and a girl already on his lap. He moved fast. It was almost admirable.

  “Really? That’s nice,” I replied offhandedly, barely sparing the Cheryl woman a glance.

  I messaged Morgan back.

  How was sightseeing?

  Great. The cathedral was amazing. How was training?

  Long. I was thinking that we should see each other again.

  “Can I get a picture?”

  “Huh?” I looked up just in time for a woman to stick her boobs in my face and a flash to go off.

  “Thanks so much.” The woman named Cheryl sat down beside me. She had brown hair and too much makeup. “I’m a big fan. My dad has been a Chester supporter since he was a kid. You’re going to do amazing things this season.”

  She moved her chair closer, her arm brushing against mine. I knew where this was headed. A couple of weeks ago I would have gone with it. Cheryl was decent looking, even if she gave off the musk of desperation. A quick bang in the bathroom and the night would have been set. Women like Cheryl would do just about anything I wanted them to.

  My phone buzzed again and I glanced down at the new message.

  That’s rather presumptuous of you.

  A few seconds passed and then another message.

  I’ll be up for another couple of hours.

  Cheryl flipped her hair behind her shoulder and pushed her breasts into my arm. “I must admit, I have a horrible crush on you.” She ran her finger along the lines of the tattoo on my arm. “I think it’s all the ink. And the muscles. And the—”

  “And the money?” I filled in a little nastily.

  Cherly looked taken aback. “No. That’s not what I—”

  “I know. Forget it.”

  I started to type out a response to Morgan’s text. I wanted to tell her I’d be there as soon as I could.

  She was a nice distraction.

  Someone I could be Lucas with. Not Lucas Bradley star striker.

  She didn’t expect anything.

  Which was good because I couldn’t give her anything substantial.

  And she was nothing like the women in this club. Needy women wanting to sink their claws into a footballer at whatever cost to their pride and self-esteem.