Her bluntness left me grasping at straws and gaping at her. I would need to speed up in this city it seemed like. I already felt six steps behind in every conversation.
"Leah, from America. Oklahoma to be exact. I'm studying public relations. And I really was at work last night. Brutal Force, you know the movie? I worked the red carpet."
That caught Bridget's attention. She flicked her long auburn ponytail over her impossibly slim shoulder and eyed me flirtily. "Really now? Which celebrities can you hook us up with?"
"Why are you screaming?" I turned again, seeing a petite strawberry-blonde rub the sleep out of her eyes as she walked out of the bedroom I wasn't staying in. On closer inspection, magenta streaks ran through her shoulder-length hair.
"Emma Stewart, this is the new girl. New girl, this is Emma Stewart." Bridget made introductions, her melodic accent swimming over my ears.
"Did you walk of shame already, love?" Emma inspected my outfit as she moved to the teapot and began lazily filling a mug of her own.
"No...Jesus...I had work unexpectedly!" I could feel my blood boiling in my veins now at being judged. Especially when I’d just explained myself to Bridget. Not that I thought she believed me.
"Alright, don't get you knickers in a twist. You look rather nice actually, is that designer?" She eyes the dress and begins to poke at the material.
"Emma is a design major, ignore her grabby hands." Bridget doesn't even look up from the article she's reading.
I maneuver out of her grasp. "I'm Leah, by the way. Yeah, it is designer. I got it from this wardrobe department in Leicester Square, I was there for a premiere."
She smiles. "Oh! Brutal Force, lucky, lucky girl. Did you meet anyone cute?”
I look down at my sweats, wanting desperately to change, but wanting more to connect with my new roommates.
I walked over, taking a seat on the stool next to Bridget. Emma busied herself making oatmeal, and I studied her. She was tiny, like a punk rock Tinkerbell. She had a British accent, or so I assumed, and she had at least five earring holes in each ear.
"I had to handle this guy. Sounds more sexual than you'd think. Basically, what people in my position do is walk celebrities down the red carpet, make sure they don't go off script or get photographed in the wrong position. My celebrity last night was some guy named Killian Ramsey?"
Emma drops her bowl of oatmeal on the floor, cracking it and sending mushy breakfast food all over the laminate. Bridget chokes on the sip of tea working its way down her throat. Well, this will certainly get me some bonding time.
"You touched Killian Ramsey?! You...you talked to him?" Emma was spluttering, mouth agape and spoon still in one hand.
"Um, yeah? Who even is he? An athlete? Seemed to be making a bit of a big deal of himself..." I trailed off, saying that last part under my breath.
Apparently Bridget heard me though. "Um, that's cause he is a big deal. The biggest deal! He's only like, the most successful, knicker-meltingly hot football player in the entire world. Jesus, you Americans need to get with the times."
"God, I used to think about him when I went downtown. Still great fodder. Those Puma ads? Jesus, I might have to go pull those up." Emma licked her lips and started clearing the oatmeal off the floor.
Uh, what? If Emma was talking about what I thought she was talking about, I'd just given her images for what Taylor's frat brothers used to call the "Spank Bank." Gross.
And of course Killian played sports. Because apparently I was some sort of magnet for jerks who liked to play with balls for a living. I couldn't have been paired with anyone else? I groaned at my bad luck.
"So tell us, what was he like? Is he as much of a player as The Mirror makes him out to be?" Bridget leans forward, giving me that look again. I can't tell if I like her or am afraid of her, but I find myself amused at her personality.
"Full of himself, and yes. I'm going to go change." I shrug and smile, turning to complete my initial mission of changing. I wasn't spending any more time on useless athletes.
* * *
I was sorting my clothes and shoes out in the living room around noon when Heidi finally emerged from our bedroom.
After setting up my laptop on British time and settings, I'd checked in with my family, who was understandably freaking out after not hearing from me for a day after my plane landed. My mother had threatened to call Interpol and my father had gone all Liam Neeson, even going so far as to quote, "I have a special set of skills."
After double checking my classes and installing the 73Bulbs email from instructions someone had handed me last night, I had nothing else to do. Not being able to unload in the bedroom due to my slumbering roommate, I began to organize in the living room.
In the middle of folding a pile of shirts, I looked up as the exact replica of a 1990's Cindy Crawford walked out of my new bedroom door. I did a double take, swiveling my head like the voyeur I knew I had become. I just couldn't help it though.
Even after being at the premiere last night, surrounded by dozens of beautiful people and celebrities, none of them held a candle to my new roomie. Great, as if I didn't feel homesick and alone in a strange new city, now I was insanely jealous of this girl I didn't even know yet.
She had long, shapely legs, even longer than mine, and a waist so small in her skintight pajama tank that I wondered if she used one of those asinine waist-cinchers that celebrities back home did. Her skin was a deep brown, like she'd just spent the better half of a year on an exotic beach in France or Italy. My flesh felt pale at the best of times, but around her I would probably look translucent. Her face was full of deep, rich browns, pouty, mauve lips, and that type of exotic beauty that can only be achieved through birth. And to top it all off, she had the hair all girl's dream of. Rich chocolate brown with streaks of gold, tousled with just the right amount of volume. It looked like she'd stepped off the runway rather than just rolled out of bed.
I wasn’t usually envious of other people’s looks, but right then I felt like cowering in the corner I was so insecure. Guess my oblivious self-conscious side had finally met it’s match.
"Are you the new roommate?" Her voice was mix of breathiness and British. I was instantly even more jealous.
"Yes, I'm Leah...Leah Watson. I'm starting at Hale in a week." Hale University was one of London's best colleges, and I was lucky to even have made it in for the semester after my last minute application.
"Heidi Frye. I'm in the engineering school." She folded her long bronzed legs underneath of her on the stool and grabbed a mug to pour some tea. She looked like all of those Pinterest pictures you saw with those skinny, perfect girls. And on top of it all, she was smarter than me. "Hang on, was that you bumbling about early this morning? What, did you get lost on the way here or something?"
Now the entire apartment, or flat as Bridget kept calling it, knew about my late night entrance.
"Yes, I had to work actually, right when I landed. I hadn't been expecting it, but 73Bulbs called and-"
"Did you say 73Bulbs? You're working for Cressida? Oh lord, bless your soul, love! That woman is a monster!"
I blinked at her knowledge. "You know Cressida?"
She flicked her long, highlighted hair over her shoulder and smiled, her white teeth gleaming across the living space. "Know her? I once saw her dump an entire iced latte over a messenger's head. I'm a model, I've done some work with and for some of her clients. I move in her circles, so to stay, and that's one woman you want to obey and then stay away from."
Of course Heidi was a model. I would be surprised if she wasn't. "Thanks for the advice. I didn't see her at the premiere last night."
She places her half-drunken cup of tea down, hops off the stool, and begins to remove her tank top as if I'm not even there. I get a glimpse of the swell of her boobs before I avert my eyes to the floor. This girl's boldness makes me look like a nun.
"I'm going for a run in Hyde Park. You should come with me. No girl abroad should be sitting insid
e folding clothes on the second day of her across-the-sea adventure."
She was right, and I was almost glad she'd come out of her hibernation when she had. "Great, I'd love to. Let me just um...find my sneakers in this mess."
Twenty minutes later and we were jogging along the most beautiful park paths I'd ever seen. Plopped down right in the middle of the city was a lush amazon of green grasses, man-made lakes and beautiful sculpture gardens. We passed Speaker's Corner, where men and women stood on their soapboxes preaching about this or that. We ran to Serpentine Lake, where the most beautiful restaurant sat on the edges of the water and walkers wrapped in down jackets grabbed coffee from the cute cart in the park.
I marveled at it all, both excited and sad. I knew I was still young, but I'd wasted so many years of my life not wondering about what else was out there in the world. Turning a blind eye to all of the majestic experiences I could have. I made a promise to myself, feet pounding on the pavement across from Royal Albert Hall, that I would take every chance given to me this trip.
My cellphone began to buzz, interrupting the steady stream of Carrie Underwood coming through my headphones.
"Hello?" I questioned, stepping out of my run and coming to rest on one of the benches behind a row of tulips.
"Yes, Leah Watson?"
"This is she?" The voice was British, and I hadn't even given anyone my number here yet after having my international privileges turned on.
"Yes. This is Anna at 73Bulbs. The senior manager. I believe we met last night when I sent you to the wardrobe closet."
My nerves went into haywire, pumping my blood even faster than the three miles I'd just run. Remember her? I'd had flashbacks of her screaming, angry red face in my vision for the last 12 hours. She interrupted my thoughts when I didn't respond.
"Right, anyway. You must have done something right, because Killian Ramsey has requested you be his new personal assistant through the agency. You'll have to be at his game tomorrow, noon sharp. He can give you his schedule and needs after that."
And then my veins filled with ice cold dread. What? "Wait, what? I thought I'd be working with different clients-"
"The game tomorrow isn't at home, it's away at Mansfield. Don't be late."
"I'm not sure how to get there. And I'd really like to discuss this position, I-"
It wasn't until I began my begged plea that I realized she had already hung up.
Crap. What was Killian Ramsey trying to get at anyway? He'd already blown the wind out of my sails last night, brought me down a peg and made me doubt myself and my vow to stay the hell away from athletes, and men in general. Now he wanted to trap me into being his personal assistant? Where I'd be isolated from any of the amazing opportunities I'd been looking forward to at 73Bulbs.
I could feel the blood begin to boil under the surface of my skin. I wasn't usually filled with rage. I was quiet, content, middle America girl who was happy with a good book, a walk in the sunset and occasionally a great football game. Although it was hard to tolerate those these days.
But in the last two days, Killian Ramsey had gotten me to this point. Twice. And the hot fury under my flesh was about ready to explode.
6
Killian
Beads of sweat sprouted at the base of my neck, rolling down the grooves and tendons of my back, planting themselves just above the waistband of my club shorts. Even though it was the middle of January in North London, I felt like I'd die if I couldn't strip off these warm ups soon.
Wiley rapped into my ear through the wireless headphones every major athlete seemed to have these days. My pulse and pounding blood whirred into the canal, creating a tunnel vision-like state.
And even with all of the noise and adrenaline slamming my senses, I could hear them. The crowd. The fans.
Chanting for my downfall.
The Mansfield Stadium tunnel was dark and cold, sending a chill through the bones of anyone not energized to the core at the impending match. It was like being in the eye of a tornado. You could hear the bone-crushing noise, you could feel the raw vitality of the landscape around you, but you couldn't see it. You were suspended in this vortex of silence for just a minute too long, waiting to be let out of your cage and destroy.
Outwit, outplay, outlast.
I'd gotten the motto I now chanted to myself from some American reality show, but nothing else rang truer. I was going to wipe the floor with these wankers.
Because victory was so much sweeter when you were not only stripping your rival club of a win, but also of their dignity, especially on their home turf.
So let them chant. Let them curse me and my mates, spit at us, wish for broken bones. I'd smile like a bastard and send a silent "fuck you" into their midst before ripping their goalie to shreds.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Olivier Claude, our starting goalie, clapped me on the back as I tore the headphones off my skull.
"What?" I was a surly tosser at most times, but especially before a match. The anger is what fueled me, what pushed me to a 30 goal season last year.
"We gonna gut these bastards?" He just plastered a goofy smile on his classic Frenchman face, ignoring my rubbish attitude.
Olivier had been with Windingham almost as long as I had. He'd been around before the Eve years, after them, and for everything in between. He was probably the closest person I could consider a mate, and I still didn't understand why he put up with me.
"We're going to slaughter them." I scowled as Brennon Mathis and his team came to line up next to us in the tunnel.
I never understood the Premier League's rule about this. In American sports, teams emerged from different tunnels, bullpens or benches. But in Britain, in this league? Opponents were expected to psyche themselves up with the enemy standing two feet away.
I sized up Brennon, their striker, and immediately knew I had any edge on him. I’d beat him before, but for my own ego I liked to assure myself of it each time I saw any player who competed against me in the same position. He was stocky for the job we both did on the field, but I also knew he was surprisingly fast, blowing by you in the seconds it took to adjust your eyes. Our center back would have to watch that.
The announcer drolls above my head and the doors to the pitch open, revealing the gorgeous green earth that has come to be my sanctuary. This viridescent field is where I come to worship, to leave my blood, sweat and tears. It’s where I've earned my victories and mourned my losses. I'd spent my childhood grounding my cleats into the pitch, and I've spent my adult years working these muscles and bones, growing older and more weary by the second, towards greatness. My life may seem like virtual hell at times, and I may be the loneliest soul in all of Great Britain, but when I walk onto the plush surface, grown exactly right for London's most revered kings of sport, I am at peace.
The crowd’s roars and insults die down, my entire focus going to the pounding jolts that course through my leg muscles as I start my ritual laps around the field. On my second time around, I peer up into the stands where Jimmy sits, a couple of rows back from the visitor's bench.
And right next to him is the woman I haven't been able to get out of my mind for three days.
Leah is dressed in a long lavender coat that ties at the waist, black slacks falling down her slim legs to modest black heels. She's tied all of that champagne hair into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, making her appear professional but also forbidden. Untouchable. It makes me want to grab the nest of hair and pull as my cock slams between her lips.
I shouldn't be surprised that she came, but I kind of am. When I'd arranged for her to work exclusively with me through 73Bulbs, her boss had been ecstatic. I'd always given them trouble, and now it seemed like, at least to them, that I was finally taking to promoting my public image. Fat chance.
No, I wanted Leah around. Before Eve, and even after her, I’d flirted, charmed women into my bed, had brilliant sex, and even let it happen a couple of times with the same bird. But with Leah? From the moment
I'd seen her, I'd wanted to know her. Feel her. I wanted that waifish body underneath mine and wanted to know the sounds she made when she came undone. I wanted to explore her brain and hear about what her part of the world thought about.
But most of all, I wanted to discover just why I wanted to know all of those things so badly. Why now, with this American girl far too young for me? Why was I drawn to her, a virtual stranger save for a hot moment on a side street in Leicester Square?
Rolling my neck and pulling the warm-up jacket over my head, I turned my gaze back to her. And cocked a grin.
She was glowering at me, her full, pale pink lips turned down with such animation that I knew the muscles in her face must hurt.
Of course I'd expected her to be annoyed with my reassigning her. After she'd pulled me back onto the red carpet, she'd barely hid her disdain for me as I played the perfect little egotistical athlete.
Jimmy caught her attention, amusing her with one of his typical jokes or comments, because I saw her laugh. And it was bloody breathtaking. It was the first real smile I’d seen out of her. The uninhibited kind that swarmed over her entire body and left the aura around her buzzing with an energy that was bright yellow. Almost as if there was a halo around her entire body.
The referee’s whistle blew, jerking my attention to the middle of the field where Mathis stood, waiting to shake my hand as I was Windingham’s captain. I stoically met him at center pitch, using my poker face to secretly try to get in his head.
The whistle blew and we were at it. Passing, sliding, side tackling. Getting in formation, calling out plays and listening for Olivier, as the keeper, to rifle out instructions, observing the entire field from his throne at the back of the net.
I inhaled through my nose and breathed through my mouth, using all of the techniques that had gotten me through nearly 15 years in the league. I was one of the oldest guys on the pitch, and still I could outlaw these toddlers, running nearly 10 kilometers every match. I could see the fear in their eyes as they tried to defend me. Killian Ramsey, a living legend in the football world.
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