Scored (3 page)

I buckled my legs—they felt like noodles—and tried to fight the blistering flush that was searing its way up my chest, neck and onto my cheeks. I could just ignore the sound. Hold my head high and hope that he hadn’t really heard it— either that or pray this was a bad dream.

Please let me wake up!

But it wasn’t a dream. This was real. Lewis Tate was standing right next to me listening to my vibrator having a solo moment.

I had to face the music with as much dignity as possible.

“It’s er, my…”
Think brain, think.
“My electric toothbrush, it has a faulty connection. Goes off on its own all the time. Drives me crazy.” I shrugged, hoping to project nonchalance.

His gaze settled on my hot face again. The right side of his mouth twitched, just a little. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” I pursed my lips, indignantly, to show I wouldn’t lie about such a thing and if he was thinking of something else he had a dirty mind.

“Well you should get it seen to.”

“I will.”

“Otherwise,” he said, folding his arms, his knuckles bulging his wide biceps outwards, “when you want to use it the batteries will be dead and you will be…”

The elevator was pinging up the floors, surely it had reached six. If it hadn’t I was just going to accept my fate and die of embarrassment. “And I will be what?” Fuck, my voice had come out as a squeak.

He rolled his lips in on themselves and cocked his head. The buzz continued, oblivious to the acute state of discomfort it was causing.

Black Hole, I could really do with you right now.

“Because,” he said, tugging the right side of his mouth up into a definite half smile, “if the batteries wear out you’ll be left feeling very frustrated.”

How could this be happening to me? Was it some kind of sick, karmic joke to let Lewis Tate know that my only release was a vibrator? Next thing he’d know I fondly called it Big Ben—not that I was feeling fond of it right now.

Finally the screen flashed six and the elevator doors slid open with a faint whoosh.

“I will, get it seen to, that is,” I said, tilting my chin and willing my legs to work for at least another five seconds.

I stepped out, pulling my traitorous luggage with me. As it clanked over the brass bar onto the corridor carpet, the buzzing stopped.

Bloody typical.

“Good night, Nicky,” Lewis called.

I could almost hear the amusement in his voice. Well fuck him. Just because he had a super-model at his beck and call, some of us weren’t so lucky and had to rely on mechanical means of satisfaction.

Not replying to his goodnight, I stalked down the long stretch of corridor, holding my head up and forcing my shoulders down.

It wasn’t until I heard the elevator doors ping shut that I fell against the wall, dropped my head in my hands and let humiliation devour me. Crunch me up and roll me around in its jaws.

What the hell had I done to deserve that?

My sleep was plagued by dreams of losing my teeth and hair, running through a shopping center naked and then finally I was on a stage, about to sing to thousands but when I opened my mouth I had no voice, not even a croak.

When I awoke, if anything my embarrassment over the whole elevator incident had compounded. Turned itself into a ball of shame that weighed heavy in my stomach like a big old lump of lead.

I stared at Big Ben, sitting in my suitcase, all quiet and innocent as if he’d done nothing wrong. Damn him! And because it was all his fault, I couldn’t even bring myself to have a quick orgasm, grab a bit of relief from the devouring mortification that was still clawing at me. Double damn him!

Unable to face breakfast, I grabbed a taxi and left the Hilton early to catch my flight to Donetsk.

There were a horde of sports reporters on the plane, but no one spoke to me. I felt somewhat of a leper; it was like they knew I’d rubbed Fellows up the wrong way and didn’t want to associate in case I stopped them getting the scoop they wanted.

But it didn’t matter, I just kept my head in a book and myself to myself, happy to get to the destination without too much hassle. Hassle today was something I could do without.

Except that wasn’t the case. When I arrived at the hotel the English press were staying at it seemed reception had double booked, and who’d been given the elbow? Me!

“I can’t believe it,” I fumed down the phone to Reg. “It’s like everyone has ganged up against me, just because I’m a girl. They want to make it as hard and as awkward as they can for me. Bloody bastards.” Sleep deprivation had made me over emotional and reduced my vocabulary, but I couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey, Nicky, calm down, will you.”

“But it’s so damn obvious. Everyone’s room is available except for mine. What is it, some kind of conspiracy against the lone woman? Are they all in cahoots with Fellows?”

“Now you’re just being paranoid.” His voice was stern.

 I dropped into a saggy lobby chair and poked at the threadbare arm. It really wasn’t the most salubrious of hotels, but it was better than sleeping on the streets of Donetsk, which seemed my only option right now. “So what am I going to do?” I asked, wishing I wasn’t being such a whiner to my boss. Damn it, maybe he should have sent Jeremy instead of me after all.

“Listen, sit tight and give me ten minutes. I’ll sort it.”

I sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

The line went dead.

I leaned forward and dropped my face against my palms, rubbed at my tired eyes. How Reg was going to find me another hotel room, I had no idea. The whole city was bound to be over-booked. There were more people in Donetsk then ever before in history, and all with only two places they wanted to go—the football stadium and a hotel.

“Hey, are you all right?”

I glanced up, my vision blurred from having just kneaded my eyeballs. A tall, slim guy with messy long dark hair grinned down at me. He wore a navy fleece with a small England flag on the right side of his chest.

“Er, yeah, fine,” I said, managing the weakest of smiles.

“Phil Adams, Sportsline,” he said, sitting on the chair opposite. He was too tall for the low seat and his knees rose comically high.

He came into focus properly and I recognized him from the press conference the day before. “Nice to meet you, Phil. I’m Nicky Thomas from Kick Magazine.”

He grinned. “I know. I heard you ask your question yesterday.”

Oh, God. I’d forgotten about the other moment of toe-curling embarrassment. Calling Lewis Tate sexist had been almost as bad as him listening to Big Ben.

I tensed my jaw. “Yes, well, everyone was entitled to their ask.”

Phil held his palms up, as if in surrender. “Absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. It was wrong that you were left out.”

I rested my mobile on the arm of the chair. “It was.”

“And I was so glad you asked about formation. I used Tate’s response in my own write-up.”

A flicker of a genuine smile tugged at my lips. “Good, glad it was of use.”

“It was.”

Phil was a cute guy. Late twenties, early thirties perhaps. Long and lean, the athletic sort as opposed to a pumping-iron bloke. His face was also long, a little pale, but it suited him with his shadow of stubble around his jawline and his strong, straight nose.

He pushed his hair from his face and I noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. “So,” he said. “You checked in yet?”

I groaned. “No room at the inn for me.”

“What do you mean?” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his craggy brows.

I shrugged.

“But I thought the whole press team was staying here,” he said.

“Me too.”

“Did you have a room booked?”

“Yes, but they’ve messed up. Apparently, someone else has already installed themselves in my room. Right now, they’re in my bed or in my bath. Their clothes all lined up in my closet and the door is well and truly locked.”

“Oh, bummer,” he said, rubbing his hands together and frowning. “What are you going to do?”

I nodded at my mobile. “My boss is trying to sort out somewhere else for me to stay.”

“You’ll be lucky,” Phil said. He suddenly grinned cockily. “But you could always share with me.”

Cheeky sod.

“Really?” I said, suppressing a matching smile.

His grin broadened. “Yeah, really. Promise I’ll be a good boy.”

I laughed. “How come I don’t believe you?”

He feigned an expression of hurt. “Well perhaps you should get to know me. How about we go and get a drink while you wait for your boss to sort out a room?”

I glanced at the hotel bar to my left. It was dusty, miserable and empty.

“Not there,” Phil said. “I spotted a cafe just down the road. Lets go and people-watch. You never know, we might even see some players hanging out.”

His invitation made my heart lighter. I wasn’t such a leper after all. And although I didn’t have anywhere to stay, I did have someone to hang out with for a little while. “Okay, that sounds like a plan.”

I stood and reached for my holdall, tugged it across the foyer and was thankful I’d remembered to remove Big Ben’s batteries.

The place Phil had suggested reminded me of a Parisian coffee shop. Tables and chairs on the street, large plants in red tubs and a mammoth scallop-edged canopy to deflect the sun’s glare. Opposite was a stunning modern cathedral with a large, square bell tower and three golden-domed steeples.

Tiny cups of espresso arrived, so small it was a struggle to get my finger into the handle and impossible for Phil to. But the caffeine was a welcome hit as was the gentle breeze that brought with it the scent of flowers from beautifully tended hanging baskets.

But I wasn’t able to relax fully, and as I munched on an amaretto biscuit I checked again that my mobile still had a signal.

It did.

“Don’t fret,” Phil said. “You won’t be on the streets; we’ll sort out something for you.”

I sighed and rested back. “Yeah, I know. Its just everything seems to be going wrong and I was hoping to impress Reg. Prove that he made the right decision sending me to cover the tournament and not one of the guys. Instead, I’ve just proved that I’m emotionally derailed as soon as plans don’t run smoothly.”

“Not true. Anyone would be pissed off to arrive at a hotel and find their room double-booked.”

“I suppose so.” It wasn’t just the room, though. I was still getting frequent nausea-inducing flashbacks about the elevator. Big Ben’s low drone haunted me whenever I thought about it. Not to mention the memory of Lewis Tate’s amused gaze riding over me and blistering my flesh. But I wasn’t about to contribute to the mortification by telling Phil any of that. No way.

My phone skittered on the glass-topped table, flashing wildly and singing Lady Gaga’s
I’m on the Edge
. I lunged for it.

“Reg?”

“Woohoo, Nicky!” He sounded worryingly excitable.