Floored

by Karla Sorensen

  Chapter Two

  Jude

  Things I did not need tonight:

  - Beer.

  - My brother to be out of town the one night I was in London and felt like stopping by to see him.

  - A cheeky American woman with big blue eyes and long dark hair.

  Yet knowing the safest course of action would be to not drink the beer, go back home and pretend I'd never stopped by, and ignore the invitation in her eyes, I damn well ignored it.

  The woman laughed at my blatant come-on, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple on the right side of her face. But after a shit day, a shit week, indulging in something that I wanted—not needed—sounded perfect.

  Like me, she must have been caught in the rain, which was heavier than I'd expected it to be when I came to see Lewis. The ends of her hair looked damp where they curled against her back.

  But the smile was all I got in response, which only intrigued me further.

  "Educate me on soccer, huh?" she mused quietly, leaning back on her stool and folding her arms over her chest. Those big eyes focused on the match, one I'd wanted to watch from home, except I had an appointment with my agent, something I couldn't ignore. Looking at her delicate profile in the dim light of the pub, I couldn't even regret that I wasn't at home, watching Tottenham and Bethnal Green, the latter who I'd be playing in short order.

  "Football," I corrected with a grin. When she rolled her eyes, I laughed. "Been in London long?"

  "About ten days." With graceful fingers, she traced a line of condensation along the surface of her glass. "I'm here to study at Oxford for Michaelmas."

  I nodded. A smart, cheeky American then.

  "You probably meet many interesting people," she said carefully.

  "Why's that?"

  She gestured at Carl. "I assumed you worked here or were here a lot or something."

  He lifted his bushy gray eyebrows in question, probably wondering if I'd answer her honestly.

  I was a footballer, and my brother was the pub owner. And not only did I not spend a lot of time here, but it was the first time I'd ever stopped by without my little brother asking first.

  "My brother owns it," I said. "While I do meet some characters in my job, I'm sure Carl has me beat for good stories."

  Carl snorted. The American smiled.

  "Let's say I'm interested in this soccer lesson," she began, turning slightly on her stool until her knees touched my legs under the bar. I didn't move. Neither did she.

  My elbow bumped hers. "For the sake of argument, and since the rest of the world calls it football, can we dispense with the s-word, please?"

  She grinned. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

  "Well, it's the wrong name, so yes." And not that I'd say it out loud, but playing that game—the one she was currently disparaging with her American label—was the center of my entire universe. If we sat at those stools long enough, or Carl flipped to the right channel, a replay would likely come on showing me on the pitch, doing what I did so well. The only thing I did well, it felt like, even as my body was trying to tell me I was getting too bloody old to keep going at it the way I wanted.

  Thirty-one felt a decade older some days, especially given the young talent.

  She gave a magnanimous wave of her hand. "Fine. When in Rome and all that."

  "They call it football there too," I pointed out.

  Carl walked past and shook his head when he saw how closely we were sitting together—the American and me.

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  She licked her lips, pulling my attention to her mouth. It was a bloody marvelous mouth too. When I tore my eyes away and met her gaze again, it was knowing. It was also full of banked heat. The pretty American girl had no problem with me staring at her pretty lips.

  "Lia," she answered.

  I held out my hand. "Jude."

  No last names were offered, which was fine by me. If she didn't live here, and paid no attention to football, my last name wouldn't mean anything to her. But all the same, I decided not to risk it.

  The past few weeks, the pressure of being me—Jude McAllister, who was carrying his team on his slowly aging back and trying desperately to keep them out of mediocrity, who was trying to keep his younger brother from meddling in his life, who was making sure his family knew how wrong they'd been about him—was a slowly growing millstone around my neck.

  For one night, I didn't want to feel any of those things.

  Each day that I poorly juggled my responsibilities while balancing a high-demand career was another day that I craved an escape. One night, like this one, where I could pretend no one wanted anything of me. One night when I could flirt with a beautiful woman, a night when I could indulge in something harmless and only for me.

  When she slid her cool fingers up my palm, I felt the charge of it up the length of my arm, like she'd plugged me into a socket.

  "Jude," she repeated slowly.

  Lia was tasting those letters on her tongue, and fuck all if it wasn't the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. I wanted to hear her gasp it into my ear with her nails digging into my back.

  Because I was feeling particularly turned on by every facet of this brief interaction, I did the same back. I licked my bottom lip and met her eyes. "Lia," I murmured. Her pupils dilated, a pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her slender throat.

  "We are definitely having a moment here." She glanced down at my hand, still holding hers.

  Slowly, I pulled mine away, using the tips of my fingers to curl along the edges of hers, and she swallowed.

  I watched her face as she settled her hands back around the pint glass in front of her. "How very American of you to point it out."

  She lifted her beer, and I clinked my glass against it.

  "Don't worry," she said. "I'm about to ruin it."

  "Are you now?"

  Lia set her chin in her hand, like she had earlier, only she fully turned on her stool, so I had no choice but to either bracket her crossed legs with mine or be turned away.

  I chose the former, stretching one arm along the back of her seat. That long, curling hair brushed against my forearm, and I fought the urge to see how it felt tangled in my fingers.

  We both took another pull from our drinks, and as I was setting my glass down, she said, "I think your football is the most boring sport in the entire world."

  My entire body froze. "I beg your pardon."

  Glancing over his shoulder, Carl whistled under his breath.

  She shrugged. "They just ... run all over. There doesn't seem to be any strategy that I can see."

  Was my jaw on the floor? My heart pulsing in a bloody heap just next to it? That was what it felt like.

  I took a moment to recover the absolute heartbreak that anyone would say those words to me, but when I caught a flash of anticipation on her face, I knew she was looking forward to my reaction.

  Lia was an unlit match, simply waiting for someone to provide the friction she needed to ignite.

  I'd provide that happily.

  "I can see why it might be difficult for you to understand the grace and fluidity of the game," I told her quietly, leaning in just enough that her breath caught. "Given there's no smash, grab, graceless violence like you lot think is interesting."

  A spark flared hot behind her eyes. "It's hardly graceless."

  "Do tell," I drawled.

  Lia took the challenge like a relay baton, and oh, did she run with it.

  "Have you ever seen a receiver stretched out in the air to make a catch, so aware of his entire body, so in control of it, that he manages to get one"—she licked her lips slowly—"just one edge of his toe inside the line so it counts."

  My voice sounded like I'd chewed glass when I answered. "Those games are like watching a car wreck that someone starts and stops a thousand times and you can't quite stop looking to see where it all went wrong."

  In truth, I had nothing against American football. The opposite, r
eally. As was true of most professional athletes, I had a thorough enjoyment of all sports. Yes, football was my favorite, and it was in my blood, but I watched the Super Bowl almost every year. I tuned in when the league played games in London.

  But there was no way I was admitting that now. Not when it was triggering the strangest type of foreplay I'd ever encountered. She'd slid forward in her seat, foot curling around the back of my calf, my fingers were toying with the edge of her hair. It was soft and cool from the rain.

  "Ahh," she said triumphantly, "but you can't quit watching. There's a structure to it. A framework that requires critical thinking and forethought." Lia glanced at me underneath her long lashes. "When they line up against each other, they're reading everything about their opponent. Each flinch, each flicker of the eyes, each word that's shouted. Will it be a run or a pass? Is that defender going to blitz? Every answer is a different option, and they're ready for all of them."

  It sounded like she was talking dirty, in the hushed secretive tone to her voice. I couldn't tell if I wanted to laugh at what we were doing, or tear her clothes off on top of the bar.

  From the look in her eye, she wasn't entirely sure either.

  I chuckled under my breath. "Look at the telly," I told her, tapping the side of her leg. She turned her face toward it, jaw set stubbornly. Before I slid my stool closer, I glanced over my shoulder. The pub was still practically empty, which suited me fine at the moment. No one was watching us. My arm curled fully around her back as I moved closer, setting my face just over her shoulder so I could murmur in her ear. "Watch," I instructed. "Not just the ball. Watch all the players move along the field. It's like a chess game, see? You can't move too far forward or you're offside, you have to have total awareness of the people playing against you, and the people playing with you. Total awareness of where the ball is and how your body is positioned." My lips brushed against her hair and her entire frame shivered. "Watch the defenders hang back when the other team has possession. Now look, their striker has the ball, and they'll move up, in case they can help. They have to work as one moving piece."

  "Mm-hmm," she managed. "I-I see it." Lia cleared her throat delicately, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed her fingers curl into a fist.

  She smelled fresh, and I turned just slightly, placing my nose in the crown of her hair.

  I inhaled.

  She exhaled, a shaky gust of air as it passed her lips.

  "The back and forth of the game is what makes it so beautiful," I whispered. "It's like water. There's an ebb and flow, a movement that never quite stops. That's what makes it so hypnotizing."

  Her knee pressed against my leg, a helpless gesture she may not have even realized she'd made because her chest was rising and falling so rapidly.

  My voice got deeper. "That's why you can't look away for a single moment. Because that moment might change everything. See," I murmured, sliding my hand over her back until my fingers found the curve of her waist under the cotton of her shirt, "that pass was perfection. If one person hadn't paid attention, if one person wasn't exactly where they needed to be …" I paused, watching a player dart up from midfield, watching one of the strikers hook the ball high in his direction, and the other drilled it into to corner of the net with a perfect header. The stands erupted, the players gathered to celebrate, and an unwitting smile curled my lips. Bethnal Green, the arseholes, would gain three points on the table today.

  When I glanced sideways, Lia was smiling too.

  "There it is," I whispered. Her face turned, and our mouths were a hairsbreadth apart.

  "What?" She spoke so quietly I could barely hear her.

  I licked my bottom lip, and her navy eyes tracked the movement. "The moment you see it, how utterly perfect this game is."

  Lia blinked, backing away slightly, and I fought a wave of disappointment.

  Her hand reached for her pint glass, and as she lifted it to her mouth, the one I very much wanted to taste, the sound of a loud crash and breaking glass had her jumping. Beer sloshed over the lip of her cup, dousing the front of her shirt. She cursed, her face twisting up in frustration.

  "Hold on," I said, leaping out of my chair to snag a bar towel from Carl.

  Carl headed back to the kitchen to find the source of the sound, and I rubbed the back of my neck as Lia sopped at the mess all the way down the front of her black shirt. It wasn't even remotely supposed to be cut in a sexy way, but it clung to her chest nonetheless, making the line of her bra visible against the wet material

  She laughed under her breath. "What a perfect end to this day," she said. "I'm going to smell like a frat house until I get back to my flat."

  "No spare in that bag of yours?" I asked.

  Lia shook her head. "Of course, I decided I didn't want to look like a tourist today and left my backpack behind." She continued to use the towel to sop up the beer. She looked miserable.

  I glanced around again, making a split-second decision before I could think too hard on it. The couple in the corner had only looked up once but returned their attention to each other shortly after Carl had left the front.

  "If you'd like a clean shirt, there's a spare room upstairs," I told her.

  Lia's hands slowed, and it took a moment for her to look up. Her eyes studied my face intently.

  "Only if you want," I said quietly. "Or I can get one for you and be right back down. There's a toilet downstairs where you could change if you'd rather."

  She set down the towel and lifted her chin to meet my gaze head-on. "I like the upstairs option."

  Bloody hell, I did too.

  I took a deep breath and decided not to weigh the intelligence of walking this beautiful woman upstairs into the empty flat of my brother's pub, where I could close and lock the door. Where there was a sofa. And a bed. Hell, a kitchen table would do at that point.

  Carl returned from the kitchen.

  "Everything all right?" I asked.

  He nodded. "Vickie dropped a glass. All good."

  "Right." I tilted my head at Lia. "I'm going to get her a clean shirt from upstairs."

  His eyes narrowed. I narrowed mine back.

  He'd worked for my brother long enough to know there was no point in talking a McAllister out of whatever course they were on. He held up his hands. "I'll be right here. Where I always am," he muttered.

  I smiled.

  Lia set her hand on my back, and I turned. Her head just barely cleared my shoulder as she stared up at me. "Shall we?" I asked.

  She answered me with a lopsided grin, and I led her upstairs.

  Chapter Three

  Lia

  Two options lay in front of me as I followed the hot man with the phenomenal ass up the narrow stairs that led to the space above the pub.

  1- I was going to be chopped into a thousand pieces because he was a murderer.

  2- I was going to get epically laid by the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

  And he wasn't even just beautiful. Considering I almost orgasmed just listening to him talk about soccer, I figured my chances of satisfaction were pretty freaking high.

  "Do you live up here?"

  He glanced over his shoulder, sending me a grin so boyish and delicious that I almost tripped.

  Smooth, Lia.

  "No, it's mainly used for storage, but there is a place to crash in a pinch." He stopped on the landing, sliding his hands above the doorframe until he found the key.

  The doorknob was beautiful, as was the paneling on the deep red door. "That's beautiful," I murmured, touching one of the raised edges.

  "Have a thing for doors, do you?"

  I tell you what I had a thing for. British men named Jude with long legs and broad shoulders, a jaw cut like granite, and the kind of scruff lining it that made me feel downright naughty. But sure, we could talk about doors.

  I smiled. "Don't you ever look at doors like that and wonder who made it?"

  Jude unlocked the door and pushed it open for me. "Not particul
arly," he admitted wryly.

  The room above the pub wasn't large, but it was clean. Plaster walls painted a soft gray had boxes stacked along one side. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined in beautiful trim looked out at the street below.

  At the back of the room were two identical, white-painted doors with antique crystal doorknobs. He opened one door and stuck his head in, appearing with something large and white in his hand.

  "It'll be big, but it's clean," he said, eyes holding mine steadily. Finally, I could see them clearly. They were a deep, clear green.

  Honestly, I felt a little relieved I could see all of him clearly, so I took the shirt and walked through the second door, which wasn't more than a large closet. A closet it may have been, but it gave me a necessary moment to breathe. As I quietly tugged off my beer-soaked shirt, I studied a few pictures taped up on the wall. Jude had his arm slung around a guy with a similar face. Based on how Jude looked now—I'd pegged him in his early thirties—the picture was easily fifteen years old, both men wearing a team jersey in bright green. A soccer jersey, I thought with a tiny smile. No wonder. Maybe he played in high school.

  Before I left the privacy of the closet, I took a moment to be completely vain. I tugged my phone out of my purse and used the camera feature to gauge just how shitty I looked after my run in the rain.

  With a wince, I caught sight of my hair. Frizz-tastic. The phone went back in my purse, and I did what I could with my hands and an elastic band, trying to wind my hair into a bun and anchor it on the top of my head. With a pinch of my cheeks and a deep breath to gather myself, I had to take a beat. You know the kind. Where you recognize the ramifications of being alone in a room with a bed and a hot British man who made my thighs squeeze together when he said things like, utterly perfect.

  "Would you like another drink?" he called out.

  A metaphorical door opened with those five words. Sometimes, just by nature of studying what I did, I thought about situations as if they were playing out in a book. Was the character making a sympathetic choice? Could the reader understand why—based on previous history, cultural norms, established patterns in the narrative—why things were decided in the way they were?