His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1)

by Alison Ryan

  “I could probably drop by, I don’t know,” Ellie replied. Parties, especially big fraternity house affairs, were definitely not her scene.

  “How about this, then, how about you come out to Muggsy’s with me tomorrow night before the party. Whenever you can get away from your books. I’d love to catch up. I went back for a game last fall, said hello to your dad, but that was the first time in a couple years. I know coach said we had to stay away from you, hell, he told the team that before every season began, but I think that’s expired now that we’re in college, right?”

  Is Jace Trapp actually asking me out on a date? Ellie pondered.

  “What do you say? 8:00 p.m.? Just let me buy you a drink or two, hang out, no pressure, I think it would be fun.”

  Ellie agreed to the “date,” inhaling deeply through her nostrils as she watched him swagger away, a walk she’d spent so much of high school appreciating from within her cloak of anonymity. Or so she thought.

  Dad warned the team to stay away from me? But not from the slutty cheerleaders? Thanks, Dad . . .

  ********

  Beer at Muggsy’s turned into shots and conversation turned into making out in a booth. Drinking had been new to Ellie when she reached college, and while she enjoyed it, she was far from experienced. She didn’t feel like Jace was taking advantage of her, exactly, she’d spent four years imagining kissing him. And more. A few drinks and she became the aggressor, hands all over his chest and arms, kissing him back harder than what he’d initiated.

  When he suggested they go somewhere a little more private, she agreed, but not before two more fateful shots of Cuervo.

  Jace’s off-campus apartment was just a few blocks from the bar, and he told her his roommates would be gone for the evening. Part of her was ashamed at herself for falling victim to Jace Trapp’s jawline and pecs, but another part of her felt like this would be her revenge against the high school cheerleaders, against her dad, against all the guys who didn’t ask her to homecoming and prom. She was attractive enough now, at least for this one night, to be noticed by Jace Trapp. So screw the rest of them, she was going to have sex with the hottest guy on campus. Slut-shamers be damned.

  Jace’s apartment was typical college jock style–Xbox controllers, empty beer cans, cheap furniture, and empty pizza boxes. They made out from the door to his bed, beginning the act with perhaps a touch less foreplay than Ellie would have hoped for, but damn he felt good.

  His physique was magnificent, his sexual experience evident, and she was just finding her groove when it happened.

  Tequila, after beer and Jack Daniel’s, on an empty stomach, the stomach of an ingénue like Ellie Peavey, was a deadly combination.

  Jace was gaining speed, his long, slow strokes becoming quicker and harder, when Ellie, with little warning, began to vomit. Violently.

  Jace jumped back with an uncharacteristic squeal, looking at Ellie with unabashed horror. The mess was on her, on him, on the bed. She’d felt a queasy twinge when they started, but he felt so good, and she wanted so desperately for it to be good for him, that she ignored it, hoped it would pass. But it didn’t.

  “El, Ellie, what the . . . oh shit, what the fuck, girl? All over my bed? On me? Oh fuck, I’m gonna be sick. Holy shit!”

  If Ellie wasn’t mortified enough, there wasn’t the slightest glimmer of understanding, or compassion, in Jace’s eyes.

  “Just . . . I need a fucking shower now, shit. Here’s a towel, just get out I guess, get your stuff. Just keep the towel . . . I don’t know. I need a shower,” Jace said, slamming the bathroom door behind him after tossing Ellie a towel, questionable in its cleanliness.

  Ellie sat up and cleaned herself as best she could, putting enough of her clothes on to be decent, and slipping away into the night, fighting every step not to burst into hysterical sobbing. There would be plenty of time for that once she got back to her dorm.

  She never spoke to Jace again after that, and thought it may have been her imagination but she could have sworn that whenever she encountered male athletes on campus, they all gave her a look like they knew what a disgusting pig she was.

  ********

  Ellie slid beneath the surface of the water, the huge tub swallowing her up. She held herself under as long as she could, emerging with a gasping inhale. She’d run out of tears for the moment and thought back to what had just happened.

  Patrick was fucking her like she’d never even dreamed she could be fucked, hitting places in her she didn’t even know she had, and she’d experienced an orgasm so powerful she lost control of her motor functions, becoming a complete spaz. A horrifically ugly spaz, she was sure. There was no coming back from something like that. Patrick was too classy to leave on his own, but she was sure he wanted nothing more than to get away from her before she started throwing up—or worse.

  If she’d thrown up on Patrick, she would have gracefully gotten up, walked to the window, and jumped. Mortified couldn’t begin to describe such an event.

  She’d obviously done him a favor by telling him to leave. It gave him an out. All the awkwardness vanished in an instant.

  The whole thing had been a mistake. It had to be. This was the universe giving her a dose of cosmic karma. She wasn’t a wild, one-night-stand kind of girl. Know your role, stay in your lane. She wasn’t Meg. Her phone buzzed while she dried herself, and a message popped up, not from Patrick, but from Ian.

  Are you really going to stand me up on your last night in the UK???

  No, she wasn’t. Ellie Peavey needed to get drunk.

  ********

  Gutted. Devastated. Patrick Sievert, in his suite a floor above Ellie’s, was in ruins.

  He’d made it to his room intact, but once inside, he fell completely apart. He cried into a pillow, angry at himself for whatever he’d done to hurt Ellie, disappointed in himself for taking a chance, for dropping his guard and allowing a woman back into his life. The whole thing had been a mistake. It had to be. This was the universe giving him a dose of cosmic karma. He was the Mad Monk for a reason. Know your role, stay in your lane. He wasn’t Shelton.

  But why did she have to be so damn sexy? And so adorable? Her laugh, her walk, her eyes, her mouth, her skin, her . . . well, her vagina, too, as he now knew. Just everything about her was so perfect, so exactly what he wanted.

  As hurt as he was, as furious as the whole thing made him, his heart was still filled with her smile. Everything had been so perfect, until it wasn’t. What had he done wrong?

  A walk, he decided, along the breezy River Clyde, would help clear his head. And even alone, he ought to avail himself of a meal at the restaurant Paddy recommended, the Shandon Belles.

  ********

  Ellie arrived at Murray’s Drafty Kilt after 8:00, meaning her team had at least an hour head start on her, but she was determined to catch them in the race to full-blown intoxication as quickly as possible. She desperately needed to forget the disastrous romantic interlude with Patrick, the embarrassment during and after their brief lovemaking, the memories it had dredged up of her evening with Jace—all of it.

  The pub was more crowded than she expected for a Thursday night, but she located her group quickly with the help of an Irish homing beacon.

  “Oi! Ell’s Bells! Over here!”

  Ian stood on a chair, hoisting a pint, waving her over.

  Beer flowed, chased by whiskey, then more beer (no tequila!). Ellie was starting to get that warm, fuzzy feeling all over, and Ian’s shameless, and much too physical, flirting was welcomed by the heartbroken American girl.

  Colleagues with early flights trickled out of Murray’s, eventually leaving only Ellie, Ian, and the girl he’d been keeping late hours with, Helen.

  Ian was a drinking machine, and despite a never-ending procession of pints and shots, he showed no sign of slowing down. Helen and Ellie, on the other hand, were both well past feeling groovy and on their way to being blind drunk. Helen and Ian had both been pawing at Ellie, and making no secre
t that they’d be more than happy to have her up to one of their rooms at the Marriott to continue the party.

  Ellie wasn’t sure, even in her state, that a threesome was really her cup of tea, but she didn’t relish that thought of being alone, either. Ian was handsome enough, if a little punk rock for her taste, but if Ellie was going to experiment with a girl, she could certainly do worse than the raven-haired, green-eyed Helen.

  Staggering down the street between Murray’s and the Marriott, Ian, Helen, and Ellie laughed and fell over one another, the picture of drunken merriment.

  ********

  Patrick pushed himself away from the table, surrendering by waving his linen napkin as a white flag. A rich meal of polenta, wild boar sausages, and toffee pudding had his six-pack feeling more like a keg, and he thanked the wait staff, chef, and manager profusely for the experience, promising to return once settled in Glasgow, but for lighter fare once his preseason training with Celtic commenced

  Returning to the street, Patrick found himself under a waxing moon, the water on the river choppy from the wind. Now for the first time since leaving the Grand Central for his walk, he scanned the messages on his phone, disappointed to have texts only from his football buddies, none from Ellie.

  Patrick moved quickly through the streets, walking briskly to avoid being recognized as he explored Glasgow in the moonlight. His meandering found him approaching the rear of the Marriott, site of the his first kiss with Ellie, a thought that subconsciously had him licking his lips, hoping for some remnant of her flavor there.

  Stopping to look up the side of the building, trying to recognize which room he’d stayed in and which room had been hers, Patrick heard a muffled cry from somewhere nearby.

  Grimacing with the effort of focusing his ears over the wind, he heard voices, female and male, not arguing exactly, but definitely emotionally charged. Something was clearly amiss, but he couldn’t tell exactly what or where.

  Turning to the sound of footsteps, he watched two men, a tall, lanky bloke and a shorter, huskier fellow, emerge from a side street, an alley, really. They gave him a quick glance, then sauntered off in the opposite direction.

  Crying, now he definitely heard crying, more than one voice, and he headed toward the alley to investigate.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God, there’s so much blood, so much . . . oh my God, help! Somebody has to help, Ellie, what do we do? Oh God, open your eyes, Ian!”

  The name “Ellie” and the frantic tone of the voice made Patrick’s breath catch in his throat as he rounded the corner. Ellie and a girl with dark hair knelt in the alley, in a pool of blood, a man’s body laying between them, alive or dead, Patrick couldn’t tell.

  Ellie and Patrick locked eyes.

  “They stabbed Ian, took everything, help us Patrick, please!!” Ellie was clearly terrified. The fear in her large eyes pleading with him turned something over in his heart.

  Patrick looked back down the street at the two men he watched exit the alley, and they had increased their pace, doing their best to put distance between themselves, their victims, and any would-be heroes.

  Patrick produced his phone, tossing it to Ellie. “Dial 999! Do it now! Get help!”

  She nodded through her blinding tears, watching Patrick take off in pursuit of the thugs who’d mugged the three travelers mere blocks from their hotel.

  Ian had resisted them, tried to be brave despite the knife the tall man waved in his face. His alcohol-fueled bravado crumbled, however, when the blade entered his stomach, and the girls could do little but hand over phones and purses while the shorter of the muggers frisked a bleeding Ian, removing his wallet and phone.

  Patrick cursed himself for wearing Moreschi loafers rather than trainers, but his loping gait closed the distance between him and the miscreants as easily as he tracked down opposing forwards on the football pitch.

  Once they realized they couldn’t outrun their pursuer, they ducked into a parking garage to make their stand.

  Patrick reached the garage entrance he’d seen them disappear into, and he slowed his pace, moving cautiously.

  “Show yourselves, you cunts! Let’s see if you’ve got the guts! There’s just one of me and two of you!”

  The two men rose from their crouched position behind a nearby car, deciding to get the showdown over with before Glasgow’s finest arrived.

  “You shouldn’t try to play hero, you wanker. Walk away now and I won’t have to cut you like I did that Mick back there,” the tall man said, waving his knife menacingly.

  Getting them face-to-face, Patrick’s fear at discovering Ellie on her knees, splattered with blood, turned to blind rage. The Mad Monk replaced Patrick Sievert as surely as he did during any big game he’d ever played in.

  “Let’s have it then,” Patrick replied, eyes were wild, veins on his neck pulsing with fury, fists balled.

  Swinging the knife, the man approached, but rather than retreat, Patrick lunged for the weapon, surprising both his opponents. Spending a few off-seasons dabbling in Krav Maga taught Patrick the value of “bursting,” attacking an assailant with a quick jolt to stun and knock him off-balance, especially useful against multiple adversaries. A devastating head butt incapacitated the taller man as Patrick first evaded a stab and got inside the tall man’s guard. Grabbing and twisting his arm enough sent the blade skidding away and under a nearby Saab. The stocky associate got in a punch and kneed Patrick’s midsection, but both blows met hardened muscle and the assault was ineffectual.

  With sirens sounding in the distance, Patrick sent a barrage of blows back at the second man, connecting twice to the jaw and sending him sprawling.

  Within seconds, both men were subdued, and Patrick, shaking with anger, advised them to remain prone rather than suffer further.

  “Ain’t you the Monk? The Mad Monk? I’m a Celtic supporter, mate!” the tall, stabby fellow mumbled, recognizing Patrick as his club’s newest star signing.

  “I am the Monk, yeah, that’s right. Keep talking and I’ll kick every last tooth you’ve got right down your fucking throat. All four of them.”

  Sirens were close now, both police and ambulance service. Ellie, accompanied by a group of local law enforcement, approached Patrick’s position in the garage, gasping when she saw the outcome of the scuffle.

  “Patrick! Thank God, you’re OK. They didn’t hurt you . . . ?” Ellie’s voice trailed off as she surveyed the scene and then turned her attention to her erstwhile lover. She collapsed against him, every emotion hitting her at once as she babbled.

  “I don’t know what to say . . . I’m so sor—you’re amazing. I, I’m so sorry . . .”

  Without a word, Patrick brought his index finger to Ellie’s lips, quieting her before taking the trembling girl into his arms.

  “Don’t worry about me. Are you well? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  Ellie nuzzled into his chest, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. I’m OK. I mean I’m scared to death. He stabbed Ian; he just stabbed him like it was nothing.”

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. The ambulance came and they took him and Helen—the girl Helen, my friend from work—they took them both to the hospital. She’s OK, she wanted to ride with him, to stay with him . . . make sure,” Ellie answered, struggling to put together coherent sentences.

  “They’ll take good care of him. Let me take care of you.”

  Ellie melted into Patrick’s chest as they watched the police load the pair of assailants into their cars to be taken to jail.

  After taking statements and returning Ellie’s personal effects, an officer bade Patrick and Ellie good night.

  “We’ve had a string of robberies in this area, hopefully these are the two we’ve been looking for. Good on ya, mate, and that’s coming from a Hearts fan. Now you ought to be getting out of here before the press catches wind of your Batman act.” The officer winked at them as his car drove away.

  Patrick flagged down a cab for the short trip
back to their hotel, and en route Ellie phoned up Helen at Southern General Hospital, where Ian had been taken. Doctors seemed confident the Irishman would survive his injuries, but they urged caution.

  Arriving back at the Grand Central, Patrick and Ellie entered the same elevator that hosted their tryst only hours earlier.

  Patrick wrapped his arms around her neck, pulling her close. “Will you stay with me tonight, Ellie? Seeing you in that alley like that . . . we don’t have to do anything, nothing at all. I just want to hold you, to know that you’re safe.”

  Ellie burst into tears and held her man close, nodding her head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The pair slept easily, a combination of food, drink, and emotional exhaustion making their slumber deep and peaceful.

  Ellie’s head spent the evening nestled in the crook of Patrick’s arm, her leg draped across his, her arm across his midsection.

  Patrick stirred first, sunlight streaming in through a window left open hours earlier when they collapsed on the bed. He stared at her angelic face a good long while, then kissed her forehead and eyelids softly, not wanting to awaken her entirely, but needing her to shift just enough to allow him to address the pressing need in his bladder.

  He gradually made his successful escape, and returned to the bedroom of the suite to find Ellie still sleeping.

  Patrick looked out the window at a gloriously sunny day, the clouds and gray from the past few days having finally blown through. He decided to begin the day with his stretching regimen, and he went out into the living room and stripped down to just his briefs.

  Starting on the floor as he always did, Patrick flexed and slowly stretched first his calves, then hamstrings and groin, quadriceps last for the lower half of his body.

  His knees were what would probably end his career before anything else, the cartilage nearly gone and the bones rubbing against one another painfully most of the time. He still felt loose, energetic, and young, but knocks were taking longer to heal and, like an old house, things were getting just a bit creaky.