Scored (16 page)

“Wasn’t he from Donetsk then?”

“I don’t know do I?” I couldn’t contain the irritation in my voice. Phil was pushing me to the edge of my patience. Why was it his concern who I spoke to? Who I gave my phone to? “I was just helping him out and then getting on with my day, wasn’t I? How would I know his life history?”

“Okay, okay. Sorry, I was just curious.” He dropped his shades down and pushed his hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“Well just forget it, will you.”

“I will. We have five hours together and clearly it’s not a good topic of conversation.”

I sighed and offered him the bag of sweets. He took a green one and tossed it into his mouth.

“So what do you think of Sweden’s chances tomorrow?” I asked.

He tutted. “Their defense is super-strong. Tate and Clare are going to have a job getting past them.”

“I know, and Hatton is going to have to keep his wits about him. Their youngest player, Goran, is dangerous every time he gets his foot on the ball.”

“You reckon?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Didn’t you see him get through that wall of defenders when they played Ukraine?”

The rest of the journey went by quickly. Phil didn’t bring up the subject of the homeless man again and our banter about football was lighthearted. In fact, I enjoyed his company. Someone as enthusiastic as me about the game and willing to chat non-stop about it was a rare treat.

We arrived in Kiev on time. Phil asked if I wanted to join him for dinner, but I declined, claiming weariness and the need to touch base with Reg. A flash of disappointment crossed his face and for a moment I felt bad. But I really was tired. I’d had a terrible night’s sleep and an early start. The thought of bed was growing more appealing by the minute.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, taking my bag from him.

He slammed down the boot. “Are you going to be okay here?” He looked up at the Slavutitch Hotel. “Its not quite the five-star luxury you’ve become accustomed to.”

“I’m sure it will be perfectly fine.”

He stepped a little closer to me.

I backed up. “Thanks for the lift, Phil. I really appreciate it.”

He dug his hands in his jeans pockets and shrugged. “I’m driving back the day after tomorrow. There’s a seat in my car with your name on it and there’ll be a fresh supply of sweets.”

I laughed. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll catch you at the game.” I turned away, wondering if I should travel back with him. I was beginning to get the impression Phil liked me more than a colleague and there were hidden depths to his flirty comments.

Thing was, in another time and place, I would have considered dating Phil. He was cute, good fun and we had similar interests. Trouble was, how would anyone ever compare to Lewis? He had ruined me for everyone else.

The match against Sweden kicked off at eight forty-five. Much to the delight of a packed stadium, by half time the score was two all. Both teams had played hard and fast and as though their lives had depended upon it.

I sat in the press box with the usual suspects, making notes and enjoying the action.

Lewis was playing on top form. He was always in the right place at the right time and when he scored England’s third goal minutes into the second half the fans went wild.

He ran to the fence, fists clenched and punched the air in triumph. Within seconds Clare and Bryers were hugging him. Taylor leaped on top of them all and then more players surrounded the gaggle, patting him on the back and ruffling his hair.

My heart swelled with pride. The goal had been classic Lewis Tate—fast, accurate and totally brilliant.

“Fucking amazing,” Ted said, shaking his head. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“He’s so great,” I said and then bit my lip to prevent myself from gushing.

“Thank God he’s on our team,” Phil said, sitting back down. Like every other Englishman in the press box, he’d leaped up yelling when the ball had hit the back of the net.

“Yeah, we’d be lost without him.” James said. “He’s a legend.”

Phil handed me a bottle of beer and we got down to the serious business of watching the rest of the game.

Sweden got a lucky break in the eighty-first minute and equalized. My jubilation evaporated. Unless England pulled another goal out of the bag in the next nine minutes it would go to extra time. Extra time always put my nerves on edge. The players were tired, mistakes happened. Of course, it could go either way, but still. I liked England to be winning in the ninetieth minute.

Luckily they were. Lewis took a corner and it was neatly headed in by Clare seconds before the final whistle. The Swedish goalie had barely even moved, the pass and the goal so quick and neat.

Down at the players’ lounge, I was jostled and pushed by the swell of excited reporters. There were seats but no one was sitting. Everyone was hoping for a quote for their reports. Sitting and potentially missing something wasn’t an option.

Lewis came in, along with Clare and Fellows. He hadn’t showered and his hair was damp and flattened to his head. His cheeks were rosy and there was a smear of mud across his shoulder and down his arm. I couldn’t see any more of him because of the pile of men standing shoulder to shoulder in front of me.

“Thank you all for coming,” Fellows said, his voice booming around the room.

The crowd fell silent.

“I’m just going to give an official statement as the players have all played extremely hard and its time to call it a day.”

A sea of iPhones and microphones jabbed forward. One hit me in the ear.

“Ouch,” I said, turning with a frown and rubbing my earlobe.

A fat grey guy standing behind me shrugged.

I pursed my lips and turned back to the front. Lewis was staring straight at me. Through the mass of reporters he’d spotted me. My heart skittered like a pebble across a pond. I braved a little smile. He didn’t smile back.

“You okay?” Phil asked, putting his hand on my shoulder and tugging me away from the offending microphone.

“Yeah,” I said, not taking my gaze from Lewis. “I’m fine.”

Lewis glanced between me and Phil. His mouth was set in a tight, straight line, his eyes narrow. He looked beyond beautiful all mussed up from the pitch, sweaty and dirty and with that damn steely look in his eyes. I swallowed and remembered the taste of him in my mouth, the feel of his cock in my hand and the guttural groan he’d made when he’d come.

Licking my lips and enjoying a warming sensation between my legs, I tried to concentrate on what Fellows was saying. It was vital stuff for my report. Just as well my iPhone was recording because I couldn’t concentrate, not when Lewis was still staring at me all brooding and dangerous and resembling a lion about to pounce.

“So that’s it for now. Sorry, no questions,” Fellows said. “We’ll see you back in Donetsk for the final round of the group stage.” He pointed to the door, as if ushering Clare and Lewis out.

Clare turned to go.

Lewis stayed stock still. Blocking everyone’s way.

“Good luck against the hosting team,” a reporter called out.

“We don’t need luck,” Lewis said. “Just good tactics and the desire to win.” He tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. “And I’m hungry for it, so hungry I can almost taste victory.”

“Come on,” Fellows said, squeezing Lewis’ shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Finally he tore his gaze from me and stepped away. Within a second I’d lost sight of him in the crowd and was left with a feeling of uncertainty. Had he been angry with me? No. That was crazy.

But he didn’t smile.

Of course he didn’t smile at me. That was out of the question. He hardly ever smiled—according to the press—so a big, goofy grin at the girl who’d given him a blowjob the day before would have made headlines.

“So what do you think?” Phil asked.

“Um, what?”

“To what I just said?”

He’d spoken? “Sorry, I missed it.”

He frowned. “Are you coming for a celebratory drink?”

“No, not tonight. Reg is a stickler for me getting match reports to him as soon as possible. I’d better go and write it up.”

“Oh, okay then.”

“Come on you two young lovers. Let’s go,” Ted said, slapping Phil on the back. “There’s beer to be drunk.”

“Oh, we’re not—” I started.

“Thanks for the offer,” Phil said. “But I’m going to take Nicky back to her hotel.”

“I’ll be fine, honestly.”

Phil wrapped his arms around his waist and doubled over. “Argh.”

“What?” I asked, alarmed.

“It’s that damn stomach pain again. The one I get when I worry about you.”

I shoved at his shoulder. “Stop being so silly.”

He straightened and his grin dropped. “Seriously, what kind of bloke would I be if I let you wander off in the dark in a city you don’t know?”

“Well, I was going to grab a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you.” He folded his arms and I could see I wasn’t going to win this one.

But then again it was pitch black outside and the cab driver I’d used to get to the stadium earlier had given me the creeps. He’d talked the whole time and I had no idea what he was saying. But the leery looks he kept giving me in the rear-view mirror made me think they were things that would earn him a slap around the face under normal circumstances.

“Okay, that would be great. Thanks,” I said.

Phil grinned and shrugged into his denim jacket. “See you,” he called to Ted and James.

They lifted their hands and grinned.

“Come on,” he said, pressing his palm into the small of my back. “With a bit of luck the majority of people have already left and the roads won’t be too busy.”

It took an hour to get from the stadium to the Slavutitch. The roads were hideously busy, plus we got lost twice. Finally, Phil pulled up in the parking bay at the front of my hotel and killed the engine.

“Thanks so much, Phil, I really appreciate you coming out of your way like this.”

“Its fine, no bother at all.” He smiled and the amber glow of a streetlamp sliced across his face. He had a thick growth of black stubble and his hair hung to the collar on his jacket.

“You can’t lie. I know it’s in the opposite direction of your hotel.”

“Perhaps I have an ulterior motive.” He waggled his brows.

“Oh yeah.”

His seat creaked as he shifted and took my hand in his.

“Phil?”

His grip tightened. “Nicky, I…”

“But—”

“Please, just hear me out.”

Suddenly the car was filled with flashing blue lights. A siren deafened me. I looked over Phil’s shoulder and saw a police car whizzing past us.

When it had faded into the night, I tried to tug my hand away again. Phil kept hold and leaned closer. His aftershave filtered into my nostrils.