The Glass Knot-mmf (27 page)

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A sexy
soccer novel available for Kindle.

Scored

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.

Chapter
One

“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?

It
seemed I had.

The
two reporters, who had until now been shouldering me, pushing into me as though
I wasn’t there, moved away. It was as if I were suddenly contagious. They
didn’t want to be associated with the hysterical woman with the wild hair
wielding an iPhone like it was lethal weapon.

Well,
fuck them. If they’d been the only member of the official press team not to get
their moment they’d be huffing and puffing too—but later, when it was too
late, over a whiskey in the bar. Well that wasn’t me. I was a
strike-while-the-iron-was-hot type of girl.

Lewis
was still staring at me. His attention dropped down my body, from my rapidly
heating cheeks, to my red top, dark denim jeans and scarlet stilettoes. He then
shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black joggers and cocked his
head.

I
pursed my lips and squared my shoulders. Refused to be stared down.

“Hang
on, Fellows,” Lewis said in his deep, rumbling tone. “You missed someone.”

Fellows
turned and looked at me. His nose twitched as he shoved in a stick of gum and
began chewing like a mastiff dog; open-mouthed and noisy.

The
withering look he shot my way could only mean one thing—the misogynistic
bastard had missed me out on purpose.

It
was well known he was superstitious about women around the team during big
matches. He thought we were bad luck, like a bunch of witches or something.
Hence his obsession with the abstinence rule.

Well,
it was too bad. My flight was booked and Reg had sorted out my accommodation
too. I was going to the Ukraine along with every other qualified and
experienced sports journalist in this room.

Fellows
glanced at his watch. “We really have to get going,” he said, still chewing
rapidly and now making icky snapping noises with the gum as it rolled in his
mouth.

Without
breaking eye contact, Lewis nibbled on his bottom lip and continued to stare at
me.

My
heart was beating so hard I could hear my pulse whooshing in my ears. My legs
had turned jelly-like so I buckled my knees to keep from swaying. The man was
devastatingly beautiful, but no amount of photography or admiring from a
distance had prepared me for what it would feel like to be scrutinized by him.
It was

as
though every fiber in my being was laid out bare. His eyes seemed to go right
through my clothes, right through me.

“What’s
your name?” he asked, his voice loud in the eerily hushed room. “Nicky Thomas,
Kick Magazine.”

“Nice
to meet you, Nicky. So sorry about you getting overlooked, if you would
like—”

“We
really haven’t time for any more questions,” Fellows interrupted.

Lewis
pulled in a deep breath, and the material of his red and white top strained as
his chest expanded. “I don’t think one more will make any difference.” He
paused. “Fire away, Nicky.”

One
corner of his mouth kind of twitched. I couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or
the start of a rare smile.

I
didn’t ponder that puzzle. This was my moment. “Thank you,” I said then
harnessed my most professional tone. “Because of the adjustments in defense are
you still going with a four-four-two formation or do you think a
four-three-three would be more sensible? Up the armor, so to speak.”

Lewis
nodded slowly, as though mulling over his answer. “Mmm, yeah, we did think of
switching, but as Bryers already mentioned, Taylor is playing well and should
cope just fine. Not only that, we’ve trained in four-four-two so switching at
this stage might not be sensible. Having said that, nothing is set in stone and
the decision is flexible. We’ll see how the team holds, not just defense but
also up front.” He paused. “Does that answer your question?”