Scored
Authors: Lily Harlem
Text copyright © Lily Harlem
2012
All Rights Reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Lily Harlem.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Okay, so I eat, sleep and breathe football and reporting the beautiful game is my dream career. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for a major crush on the England captain, Lewis Tate. The bloke is sex on legs, hot with a capital H. Add in his awe-inspiring talent, his brooding good looks and what’s not to lust after?
So my excitement is sky-high as I set off with the official press team to cover England’s battle for the European Cup. But when a series of unfortunate, or as it turns out fortunate events, attracts Tate’s attention my way, who am I to say no?
Add in a misogynistic manager, an over-zealous colleague, two blue silk ties and some incredible ball-handling skills and it becomes clear the road to victory, for me, will be an intensely erotic journey. Determined to savor every moment, I hang onto my sanity as best I can while living the fantasy and wondering if it can ever become reality. Because once Lewis Tate has taken me to heaven and back, its clear no one else will ever compare.
Reader Advisory – Scored is an erotic romance suitable for mature readers.
Scored
Text copyright © Lily Harlem
Epilogue
“Please, please, excuse me. Can I just…” I wriggled and shoved my way through the gaggle of sport reporters looming before me, ducking and weaving like an agile gatecrasher as I held my iPhone ready to record. “If I could just squeeze in here…please, thank you, thank you very much…”
Finally I made it to the front of the conference room. I was hot, flustered, anxious about my getting my question heard and only too aware of the grumbles of complaint I’d left in my wake.
Tough shit. I was the only female reporter in here; I barely reached five four in my heels, so if I was to have even a slim chance of getting my few seconds with the England football team, then I had to be at the front—the very front.
Squaring my shoulders, I tried my best to secure my position within two giant journalists and looked around. Pinned onto the wall in front of me was a large red and white England flag, before it a long table with three empty seats and a man in a suit setting out tall, slim glasses of water.
The reporter to my left suddenly lurched forward, bumping me with his elbow. I grabbed his jacket to regain my balance, but trod on the toe of the man the other side of me. Both ignored my stumbling as they strained to see the doorway.
Stooping to peer beneath an arm, I spotted two players and the team manager walking into the room.
The crowd behind surged, knocking into me, almost swallowing me. But I stood my ground. Kept myself firmly planted at the front. I might be little but I was tough, and as those who knew me would testify, it was a grave mistake to underestimate me because of my size. Not only that, if I was going to follow my team to the European Tournament with this bunch of animals I would have to show them what I was made of from the outset.
I watched the footballers take their seats. The captain, Lewis Tate, sat in the middle, his angular jaw tight, his mouth a straight line and his sharp blue eyes assessing the scene. He shoved his hand over his dark blond hair, took a sip of water then rubbed the famous vertical dent in his chin with his index finger.
My heart skipped a beat. I’d admired him for many years but this was the first time I’d seen him up close. His skill as a striker was second to none and he more than deserved his captaincy as the team went into the tournament. If anyone could get the goals when they mattered, when the pressure was on, then Lewis Tate could.
The team’s best defender, Neil Bryers, sat to his right. All impossibly wide shoulders, broad chest and skin the color of the darkest night. On the other side, sat Gavin Fellows, England manager, and one-time England captain himself. I’d seen him on several occasions. He was matter-of-fact, said it how it was. I rated his abilities in managing the team.
“Thank you all for coming today,” Fellows said, leaning forward to speak into the static microphone on the desk in front of him. “This, as you know, is the last press conference in the UK. Tomorrow we head to Donetsk and the day after begin our journey that will end in us lifting the European Cup. So if we could have questions in an orderly manner then everyone will get a chance to ask what they need to.” He looked at the tall reporter to my right and nodded. “Ted, you wanna start?”
Ted puffed with importance then immediately tried to look nonchalant about the fact Gavin Fellows knew his name. “Yeah, thanks. Lewis, what kind of mood are the team in after the nil-nil result in the friendly against Spain last month? Surely they are feeling nervous about taking on France after that?”
Lewis Tate folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. “The mood is positive, as always. That score was perfectly respectable. A decision didn’t go our way but if it had then it would have been a defeat for Spain.”
I watched his lips as he spoke. He had a soft, wide mouth that although sensuous wasn’t prone to smiling. Press photographs always seemed to catch him serious, brooding, as if thinking about tactics and strategies even when walking into a restaurant or hanging out on a beach. Tonight he looked like he could do with a bit of lightening up. I suspected his ultra glamorous girlfriend, Naomi George, would take care of that later in their hotel room. Goodness only knew what she could do with a hot body like his to make him feel better.
I suppressed a shiver of appreciation. It was no secret that beneath his football shirt there were the sculpted muscles and sinewy tendons worthy of a Grecian God. He wasn’t just the player to put money on in terms of skills, he was also the guy all the top designers wanted to wear their clothes, feature in their adverts and endorse their products
“Next, er, you.” Fellows pointed over my head to the reporter on my opposite side.
I jigged in frustration and thrust my iPhone further forward, hoping to be picked next.
“Ryan Dell, Mirror. Can I just ask what the policy is on wives and girlfriends? Are they traveling to the Ukraine with the team, and if so, what are you going to do to keep the players, er, fresh for the morning?”
Gavin gave a humorless huff. “Wives and girlfriends are not staying here at the Hilton tonight, and as per policy, they will not be traveling with us. The England team is going to the Ukraine to work, not holiday, and I’m insisting on no distractions of any kind, on or off the pitch.”
Ah, of course, no wonder Lewis looked more pissed off than usual. He wouldn’t be getting any for weeks. Starting tonight.
“You,” Fellows said, moving his attention to the back of the room.
“Phil Adams, Sportsline. Neil, how do you think the defense is looking now that Harley is injured?”
Neil Bryers shrugged. “At the end of the day, injuries happen. It’s a shame for Harley but I have every confidence in Taylor. He’s young, fast, playing great, and his experience is growing all the time.”
Fellows picked another reporter who asked a question about substitutes. Then another who wanted to know where the players were staying during the tournament. The Donbass Palace Hotel. Another was sarcastic about Ted Hatton, the goalie, and how he’d let in three penalties for his club, Arsenal, the weekend before. Lewis responded with a short remark about moving on and I spotted a muscle flexing and un-flexing in his cheek. The question had irritated him.
Each time Fellows searched for another reporter to pose the next question, I offered forward my iPhone, jigged up and down then felt my guts twist in frustration when he asked someone else.
After fifteen minutes Fellows stood, straightened his jacket and scanned the room. “Right, thank you gentlemen for coming. We’ll see you in Donetsk.”
I bristled with indignation. What the hell was I? Invisible?
Lewis also stood, as did Bryers. They turned toward the door.
The noise level rose around me, conversations, a few final called-out questions.
Damn, my boss, Reg, would have me hung, drawn and quartered if I didn’t get the scoop about formation.
“Hey,” I shouted, elbowing my way further forward and breaking free of the crowd. “What about me? I haven’t asked
my
question.”
Lewis, Bryers and Fellows carried on walking. Fellows put his hand on the door handle and pushed it down.
“Hey, for crying out loud,” I bellowed. “I might be a
female
sports reporter but I still have as much right as all these guys to ask my question. What are you, a bunch of pig-headed sexists?” As I shouted out the last few words I was aware of the room becoming quiet.
No, more than quiet. Utterly silent.
Lewis stopped, turned and settled his piercing gaze directly on me. His brows hung low and his lips tightened.
My throat felt tight and my mouth dry. Had I really just called the captain of the England football team a sexist pig?