Scored Page 15

“Yeah, not like us.” I filled my hand up with shampoo. “Turn around.”

  He did and I reached up and lathered his hair until it was thick with bubbles. Carefully, I let all the strands run through my fingers before rinsing the froth away and smoothing it down his neck.

  “Thank you,” he said, turning and tugging me close. “No one has ever cared for me like that before after a hard training session.”

  The next two days passed in a whirr of sex and delicious food, sex and bathing, sex and sleeping. I was immersed in my own erotic fairytale.

  But, of course, it had to end and now I was alone in the Presidential Suite. England had won their match against the Ukraine and the squad had left straight for Kiev to get themselves ready for the quarterfinals. Lewis had, however, booked the suite for an extra night, for me, so I could sleep here after the press conference. I wasn’t in hiding any longer. I was just a regular guest staying in the best room in the building.

  Phil was collecting me the next day for the return trip to Kiev. Although the journey was a pain it was thrilling to be through to the knockout stages of the tournament.

  The suite was strange without Lewis. So many memories had been made in just a few short hours. Sexy, fun, indulgent memories that would stay with me for as long as I lived. I took a last look around. Smiled fondly at the chaise and wondered if I could squeeze one into my flat somewhere. Glanced at the four-poster and the wooden pillars that had held me secure as Lewis had taken me to Heaven and back. I picked my purse up from the dining room table. Looked at the polished wood and remembered how it had steamed up when we’d fucked on it in the middle of dinner the night before.

  My body tingled and a shot of pleasure buzzed through my pussy. I tried to beat it down. The competition had hotted up and chances of Lewis and I actually getting together were slim to none over the next few weeks. Still, at least we would see each other at the press conference in four day’s time and he said he’d call me each evening if he could.

  I grabbed my case and wheeled it toward the hallway. Phil would be in the lobby in ten minutes. I ought to get going.

  Bang. Bang.

  I froze. Someone was at the door.

  I walked to it in silence. Peered through the spy hole.

  A big brown eye stared straight back at me.

  “Nicky. Is that you? Open up?”

  Shit. It was Phil.

  “Nicky. I just saw your eye. Let me in.”

  I slipped the chain and pulled it open.

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “I was early and thought I’d come and carry your case. The girl at reception said you were in the Presidential Suite. What the fuck? You just won the lottery or something?” He stepped in and looked around, eyes wide, mouth a perfect ‘O’. “Blimey, shaft me sideways, this is amazing.”

  “Yes, it is nice.” Damn I knew it had been a mistake for Lewis to give reception my full name. But he’d insisted in case of an emergency.

  “How come you’re in this posh pad?” He touched a gold-gilded frame and peered into the huge living area.

  “Oh, you know, just one of those things.”

  “No, I don’t bloody know. How come I’ve been in some flea-invested dump when you’ve been living like the queen?”

  “Well it was only for one night. My bathroom, er, flooded. The hotel was very apologetic and moved me into their last available room, which just happened to be this one.”

  “Wow, talk about lucky.” He was in the bedroom now, nosing about. “You should have called me, I would have come over. We could have partied like rock stars, baby.” He laughed and grabbed an apple out the fruit bowl. Bit into it.

  “Yes, I suppose I should have. But it was late. After the match and the PR stuff, I was beat. I just crashed.”

  Phil chewed his apple and studied me, as though assessing the truth in my words. It had been late and I was tired. That much was true. Plus, I’d needed to miss Lewis in private. Him not being with me was too raw to try and cover up.

  “We had best get going,” I said. “If we want to get to Kiev before dark.”

  “Yes, we should. I’ve booked the same hotel as you. The Slavutitch. Thought it would be easier that way.”

  “Yes, good idea.” I edged out of the room.

  He scooped my case from my hand and headed into the corridor. I let my gaze rest on paradise one last time then headed after him.

  The Slavutitch hotel was just as I remembered. Clean and neat and perfectly adequate. It didn’t have a Presidential Suite; in fact, it didn’t have any suites at all. Phil’s room was on the floor above mine and I bid him goodnight and wearily let myself into room four hundred and eight.

  I hung up my dress and filled my bedside drawer up with my underwear. A pang hit my chest when I folded the black negligee under my pillow. Lewis wouldn’t be seeing it for a while.

  My phone buzzed and I glanced at it. My heart skittered. It was Lewis. I’d put the picture of him up as a screen flash when he called, so not only did it flash Lewis, I also got to see his smile.

  “Hi,”

  “Hi, honey. How are you?”

  “Fine, just arrived at the hotel.” I sat on the bed and rested against the pillows, happy to just listen to his voice.

  “How was last night, in the suite?”

  “Horrid. I hated it without you. It felt so big and lonely.”

  “That’s what I always think about fancy hotel suites. I’d rather just have a small room if I’m on my own. Feels nicer somehow. Of course, with you there it was different, that was perfect.”

  “It was very special. I feel sad that it’s over, even with the few scary moments when I had to hide.”

  “Hey nothing is over, it’s just on hold. I’ve got to do this thing, get my head down over the next few weeks.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t want you to do anything else. The country is counting on you to pull it together.”

  He huffed. “Plus Fellows is in a state of managerial frenzy, what with the next stage about to start. He really doesn’t help with all his panicking and winding people up.”

  “I can only begin to imagine. How is Taylor?”

  “He’s fine. His grandmother is on the mend, so crisis averted.”

  “You were really good with him.”

  “I don’t know about that. I just said what he needed to hear.”

  I smiled. “That’s the same thing as being good with him.”

  “I’ve just been doing this for a long time now. It’s my job.”

  “And you’re bloody good at it.”

  “Just like you’re good at yours. How did the last report you did go down with Reg?”

  “Fine, it will be in the next issue. Oh, and I sold an article to a travel magazine about Donetsk.”

  “Hey that’s great. Well done.”

  I laughed. “Thanks for your enthusiasm, but it’s not like I’m representing my country.”

  “Like I said, it’s just my job.” There was a pause. “I’d best go, Fellows wants us to gather round for some kind of pep talk. I’m not sure how much more I can take.” He groaned.

  “You’ll be fine. Plead a headache if he goes on too long.”

  “What, and not have you there to cure me, I don’t think so. Night, honey, I’ll try and catch you tomorrow sometime.”

  “Okay, sleep well.”

  The line went dead and I stared at his picture. He was so beautiful and I realized now that his qualities went so much deeper than looks. He was kind and understanding, passionate and determined, and also loving and giving. I’d never met a man who ticked every box the way Lewis did. It was no wonder my heart was beating only for him, and without him at my side I finally understood the expression love sick. It was the only way to describe the ache in my chest, the way my concentration slipped every few seconds and why I had no appetite.

  “They’ve got to win this,” Phil said, chewing on his thumbnail. His eyes were wide. I don’t think he’d blinked for the last five minutes.

 
“I know.” I watched Clare belt up the pitch, the ball just a few feet in front of him as he steered around Italian defenders. “They’re going to have to pull something special out of the bag.”

  A wall of players faced Clare; a tackle ensued. He lost the ball and a huge Italian with a goatie and a ponytail sped off with it. Right into the waiting path of Lewis, who ducked and twisted, flicked the ball between the Italian’s legs and claimed it. He hurtled up the wing with the ball an extension of his movements, a blur of red and white against the green.

  Suddenly an opponent lunged for him. Lewis went flying through the air. Arms and legs flailing as an Italian hurtled in the opposite direction. Their legs had tangled at speed and a violent explosion of limbs resulted. Lewis landed on his stomach, his face in the grass.

  He didn’t move.

  “Shit,” I said, leaping up. “Is he hurt?”

  “Fuck, I hope not.” Phil said, standing at my side. “We need him.”

  I need him.

  Clasping my hands beneath my chin, I watched in horror as his teammates surrounded him and medics rushed across the pitch. My stomach knotted and nausea swept through me. The urge to rush to him, hold him, was almost overwhelming. But of course I couldn’t. No one knew I was anything to Lewis Tate. Even though we’d spoken every evening on the phone for over an hour these last few days and knew each other’s bodies intimately—how we both liked to find satisfaction, be held, woken up in the morning.

  He still wasn’t moving. My eyes filled with tears. I tried to brush them away but they burst free and ran down my cheeks. Out of control.

  Phil glanced at me. “Hey, hey, its okay.” He looked bemused by my reaction. Players got hurt all the time and I didn’t break down and cry.

  I tugged a tissue from my bag as a sob broke free. “I know, I just. This is just so important for England.”

  He pulled me into a bear hug. I was sure he was glad of the excuse to touch me, but even so I was grateful.

  “You’re such a dedicated footy fan and so wonderfully girly with it,” he said with a little a laugh and stroked my hair.

  I dabbed my eyes. “Is he up yet?”

  He looked at the pitch. “No, not yet. They’re probably just checking him over.”

  I risked another glance but couldn’t make him out there were so many people around him. “Oh, God, what if he’s broken his neck or his back or bashed his head or something awful.”

  Phil rubbed my shoulders. “He hasn’t. He’s probably just winded himself landing like that.”

  “Do you think so?” I stared up at him.

  “Yeah, he pitched onto his chest. Bound to have pushed the air from his lungs.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” I eased away and to my relief saw the medics dispersing and Lewis getting to his feet. “Oh, thank goodness, he’s up.”

  One of the England coaches had his hand on Lewis’ shoulder talking earnestly to him. When he turned and jogged off, Lewis waved to the England crowd and was treated to a roar of applause.

  “See, he’s fine,” Phil said. “I know he’s you’re favorite player, Nicky, but really.” He dug me in the ribs. “Extreme spectating on your behalf.”

  I had to bite my tongue. It would have been so nice to tell Phil that Lewis was much more than my favorite player, he was also my favorite person, my lover, the man who owned every beat of my heart. But I didn’t. Instead, I sipped on a bottle of beer and watched my obsession tackle the ball off an Italian midfielder and bomb up the wing as though nothing had happened to him a few minutes previously.

  “Go, Tate,” Phil shouted. “Look to your left. Clare is there doing nothing.”

  Sure enough, Clare was in the box with a clear line between them. Lewis passed. Clare got his foot to the ball and booted it over the goalie’s head. The back of the net burst outward.

  “Yes, goal,” I shouted, jumping up and punching the air.

  “Fucking perfect.” Phil grabbed me and pulled me into another bear hug.

  I returned it, exhilarated by the moment. It was the eighty-seventh minute. Chances of Italy equalizing were slim to none and England had their ticket to the semifinals. From there it was only one stop to victory and claiming the cup.

  “Bloody genius,” Phil said. “That’s what makes Tate such a legend. He’s so unselfish with the ball. Any other striker would have taken a shot at that. But because Clare was in a better position he gave up the glory.”

  “That’s why they’re a team,” I said, watching the clock nervously. One more minute to go. “They share the win.”

  We stood in silence, side by side.

  The final whistle blew.

  “That’s it,” Phil said, we’re off to Warsaw to face Germany.

  “You reckon it will be Germany?” I grabbed my handbag, ready to head down to the press conference.

  “Without a doubt. They’ve been playing brilliantly and they’ll push England to their limit.”

  The pressroom was chaotic and I didn’t bother pushing to the front. Being so near Lewis and not being able to speak to him, touch him or even smile at him had become a weird kind of torment that couldn’t come to an end soon enough.

  As usual Fellows strutted through the door followed today by Taylor, Clare and finally Lewis, who looked hot and bothered, his hair stuck like fingers onto his temples and his cheeks flushed.

  He sought me out in the crowded room and caught my eye immediately.

  I risked the tiniest smile, which he didn’t return.

  “I think you will all agree, excellent result,” Fellows boomed. “Fred, you want to get the ball rolling?”

  “Sure.” Fred was six and a half feet tall and puffed up even further as he started to ramble on about a referee decision that didn’t go England’s way.

  “At the end of the day,” Fellows interrupted, “the ref’s only human and he made a mistake. I’m sure when he sits on his sofa at home and see the re-run he will realize that. But out there on the pitch we had to live with his decision and I’m pleased to say the boys rose above it.”

  “Boys. God, he’s so patronizing,” Phil whispered in my ear.

  “Yeah, I know.” There was nothing boyish about Lewis, he was all man, and right now the way he was looking at me was making me wonder about his manly self-control. I knew he didn’t like Phil’s flirty ways, but still, he had to know he could trust me.

  “Lewis,” another reporter said, “Do you think the line up will change for the semi’s or are you going to stick with what’s working so far?”

  “That’s up to Fellows, but I would recommend we stick with the original. We have some great subs and I would have liked them to have more time on the pitch than they’ve had. But the reality is, what we’re doing is working.” He returned his attention to me. “Have you got a question?”

  Everyone turned my way. Fellows bristled, chewed his gum faster and narrowed his eyes.

  “Er, yes. When you fell. Did you hurt yourself?”

  Phil groaned.

  Lewis’ face softened a fraction but probably not enough for anyone else to notice.

  “What I mean is,” I said, finally remembering to turn my iPhone recorder on and hold it up. “Is it anything fans should worry about for the semis?”

  “No, I just got winded. Nothing permanent. Fans can rest assured.”

  “You,” said Fellows, pointing at Phil. “Next.”

  “Yes, if you come up against Germany in the semis, how are you going to handle their offensive? They seem to be preferring to keep hold of the ball rather than make headway with strikes. Their possession has been in the seventy percent margin each match.”

  Lewis nodded slowly and shifted his gaze from me to Phil. “Well pointed out. Their tactics do seem to be domination rather than achievement. But with only four goals so far they should be wondering how long that strategy is going to work for them. We don’t sit about hoping to get the ball, we’re all about taking control and getting the results.”

  Lewis moved
his attention to a reporter at the front who posed a question about the goal cameras.

  “You okay?” Phil asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Usually you ask some high brow question about strategy or formation, not are you okay after your fall?.”

  “I just thought it was something Kick fans would want to know. Their captain takes a nasty head first into the pitch, they need to be reassured that he’s going to be fit to play the next match.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” He laughed and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re priceless, you know that?”

  I glanced at Lewis.

  He was staring at me again with that Neanderthal look on his face.

  Three questions later and the players and Fellows trooped out.

  “You want to grab something to eat?” Phil asked. “With me, Ted and James. They do great lamb pittas at a restaurant two blocks from here.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Phil smiled. “Then I’ll drive us home.”

  “Home, you mean the hotel?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s starting to feel like a long time since I’ve been to my real home.”

  “I know what you mean.” Trouble was, for me home was no longer my little flat in the suburbs of London. Home was now in the arms of a man the whole country was watching. A man who had to pull it together and lead the England team to victory.

  My phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. Lewis’ picture flashed up. Quickly, I shielded it to make sure Phil couldn’t see. I hit read.

  You looked beautiful tonight. Thanks for caring about my fall. X X PS – Phil’s job is to look after you when I’m not there. Nothing else!

  I hit reply.

  I was very worried. Glad you’re okay. Need a massage? X X PS – Phil is looking after me wonderfully. Nothing else!

  A few seconds later it beeped again.

  Miss you. Will call in 2 hours. Be wearing that negligee. X X

  Two hours later, I was doing exactly as Lewis had asked, sitting on my bed, the lights dimmed, in my negligee. I’d just finished Reg’s match report and hit send when my phone rang.

  Lewis.

  “Hi,” I said, a contented smile spreading on my face.

  “Hey, honey, how are you?”