Red Card (4 page)

She was right, and I was almost glad she'd come out of her hibernation when she had. "Great, I'd love to. Let me just um...find my sneakers in this mess."

Twenty minutes later and we were jogging along the most beautiful park paths I'd ever seen. Plopped down right in the middle of the city was a lush amazon of green grasses, man-made lakes and beautiful sculpture gardens. We passed Speaker's Corner, where men and women stood on their soapboxes preaching about this or that. We ran to Serpentine Lake, where the most beautiful restaurant sat on the edges of the water and walkers wrapped in down jackets grabbed coffee from the cute cart in the park.

I marveled at it all, both excited and sad. I knew I was still young, but I'd wasted so many years of my life not wondering about what else was out there in the world. Turning a blind eye to all of the majestic experiences I could have. I made a promise to myself, feet pounding on the pavement across from Royal Albert Hall, that I would take every chance given to me this trip.

My cellphone began to buzz, interrupting the steady stream of Carrie Underwood coming through my headphones.

"Hello?" I questioned, stepping out of my run and coming to rest on one of the benches behind a row of tulips.

"Yes, Leah Watson?"

"This is she?" The voice was British, and I hadn't even given anyone my number here yet after having my international privileges turned on.

"Yes. This is Anna at 73Bulbs. The senior manager. I believe we met last night when I sent you to the wardrobe closet."

My nerves went into haywire, pumping my blood even faster than the three miles I'd just run. Remember her? I'd had flashbacks of her screaming, angry red face in my vision for the last 12 hours. She interrupted my thoughts when I didn't respond.

"Right, anyway. You must have done something right, because Killian Ramsey has requested you be his new personal assistant through the agency. You'll have to be at his game tomorrow, noon sharp. He can give you his schedule and needs after that."

And then my veins filled with ice cold dread. What? "Wait, what? I thought I'd be working with different clients-"

"The game tomorrow isn't at home, it's away at Mansfield. Don't be late."

"I'm not sure how to get there. And I'd really like to discuss this position, I-"

It wasn't until I began my begged plea that I realized she had already hung up.

Crap. What was Killian Ramsey trying to get at anyway? He'd already blown the wind out of my sails last night, brought me down a peg and made me doubt myself and my vow to stay the hell away from athletes, and men in general. Now he wanted to trap me into being his personal assistant? Where I'd be isolated from any of the amazing opportunities I'd been looking forward to at 73Bulbs.

I could feel the blood begin to boil under the surface of my skin. I wasn't usually filled with rage. I was quiet, content, middle America girl who was happy with a good book, a walk in the sunset and occasionally a great football game. Although it was hard to tolerate those these days.

But in the last two days, Killian Ramsey had gotten me to this point. Twice. And the hot fury under my flesh was about ready to explode.

B
eads of sweat
sprouted at the base of my neck, rolling down the grooves and tendons of my back, planting themselves just above the waistband of my club shorts. Even though it was the middle of January in North London, I felt like I'd die if I couldn't strip off these warm ups soon.

Wiley rapped into my ear through the wireless headphones every major athlete seemed to have these days. My pulse and pounding blood whirred into the canal, creating a tunnel vision-like state.

And even with all of the noise and adrenaline slamming my senses, I could hear them. The crowd. The fans.

Chanting for my downfall.

The Mansfield Stadium tunnel was dark and cold, sending a chill through the bones of anyone not energized to the core at the impending match. It was like being in the eye of a tornado. You could hear the bone-crushing noise, you could feel the raw vitality of the landscape around you, but you couldn't see it. You were suspended in this vortex of silence for just a minute too long, waiting to be let out of your cage and destroy.

Outwit, outplay, outlast.

I'd gotten the motto I now chanted to myself from some American reality show, but nothing else rang truer. I was going to wipe the floor with these wankers.

Because victory was so much sweeter when you were not only stripping your rival club of a win, but also of their dignity, especially on their home turf.

So let them chant. Let them curse me and my mates, spit at us, wish for broken bones. I'd smile like a bastard and send a silent "fuck you" into their midst before ripping their goalie to shreds.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Olivier Claude, our starting goalie, clapped me on the back as I tore the headphones off my skull.

"What?" I was a surly tosser at most times, but especially before a match. The anger is what fueled me, what pushed me to a 30 goal season last year.

"We gonna gut these bastards?" He just plastered a goofy smile on his classic Frenchman face, ignoring my rubbish attitude.

Olivier had been with Windingham almost as long as I had. He'd been around before the Eve years, after them, and for everything in between. He was probably the closest person I could consider a mate, and I still didn't understand why he put up with me.

"We're going to slaughter them." I scowled as Brennon Mathis and his team came to line up next to us in the tunnel.

I never understood the Premier League's rule about this. In American sports, teams emerged from different tunnels, bullpens or benches. But in Britain, in this league? Opponents were expected to psyche themselves up with the enemy standing two feet away.

I sized up Brennon, their striker, and immediately knew I had any edge on him. I’d beat him before, but for my own ego I liked to assure myself of it each time I saw any player who competed against me in the same position. He was stocky for the job we both did on the field, but I also knew he was surprisingly fast, blowing by you in the seconds it took to adjust your eyes. Our center back would have to watch that.

The announcer drolls above my head and the doors to the pitch open, revealing the gorgeous green earth that has come to be my sanctuary. This viridescent field is where I come to worship, to leave my blood, sweat and tears. It’s where I've earned my victories and mourned my losses. I'd spent my childhood grounding my cleats into the pitch, and I've spent my adult years working these muscles and bones, growing older and more weary by the second, towards greatness. My life may seem like virtual hell at times, and I may be the loneliest soul in all of Great Britain, but when I walk onto the plush surface, grown exactly right for London's most revered kings of sport, I am at peace.

The crowd’s roars and insults die down, my entire focus going to the pounding jolts that course through my leg muscles as I start my ritual laps around the field. On my second time around, I peer up into the stands where Jimmy sits, a couple of rows back from the visitor's bench.

And right next to him is the woman I haven't been able to get out of my mind for three days.

Leah is dressed in a long lavender coat that ties at the waist, black slacks falling down her slim legs to modest black heels. She's tied all of that champagne hair into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, making her appear professional but also forbidden. Untouchable. It makes me want to grab the nest of hair and pull as my cock slams between her lips.

I shouldn't be surprised that she came, but I kind of am. When I'd arranged for her to work exclusively with me through 73Bulbs, her boss had been ecstatic. I'd always given them trouble, and now it seemed like, at least to them, that I was finally taking to promoting my public image. Fat chance.

No, I wanted Leah around. Before Eve, and even after her, I’d flirted, charmed women into my bed, had brilliant sex, and even let it happen a couple of times with the same bird. But with Leah? From the moment I'd seen her, I'd wanted to know her. Feel her. I wanted that waifish body underneath mine and wanted to know the sounds she made when she came undone. I wanted to explore her brain and hear about what her part of the world thought about.

But most of all, I wanted to discover just why I wanted to know all of those things so badly. Why now, with this American girl far too young for me? Why was I drawn to her, a virtual stranger save for a hot moment on a side street in Leicester Square?

Rolling my neck and pulling the warm-up jacket over my head, I turned my gaze back to her. And cocked a grin.

She was glowering at me, her full, pale pink lips turned down with such animation that I knew the muscles in her face must hurt.

Of course I'd expected her to be annoyed with my reassigning her. After she'd pulled me back onto the red carpet, she'd barely hid her disdain for me as I played the perfect little egotistical athlete. 

Jimmy caught her attention, amusing her with one of his typical jokes or comments, because I saw her laugh. And it was bloody breathtaking. It was the first real smile I’d seen out of her. The uninhibited kind that swarmed over her entire body and left the aura around her buzzing with an energy that was bright yellow. Almost as if there was a halo around her entire body.

The referee’s whistle blew, jerking my attention to the middle of the field where Mathis stood, waiting to shake my hand as I was Windingham’s captain. I stoically met him at center pitch, using my poker face to secretly try to get in his head.

The whistle blew and we were at it. Passing, sliding, side tackling. Getting in formation, calling out plays and listening for Olivier, as the keeper, to rifle out instructions, observing the entire field from his throne at the back of the net.

I inhaled through my nose and breathed through my mouth, using all of the techniques that had gotten me through nearly 15 years in the league. I was one of the oldest guys on the pitch, and still I could outlaw these toddlers, running nearly 10 kilometers every match. I could see the fear in their eyes as they tried to defend me. Killian Ramsey, a living legend in the football world.

By the 38th minute mark we were up 2-1, I having scored the first goal in the first five minutes. But they were gaining on us, and we’d be lucky to get through the half without them scoring again.

And then, as if my football genius brain had predicted and conjured it, Mathis whooshes past our defenders, who in turn back up into Claude, effectively knocking him over and rendering our goal completely defenseless. Which is why, when the asshat midfielder (that I've been trying to get through to but won't take my advice) decides to try and become a goalie, he accidentally sends the ball flying into the net the wrong way. A fucking own goal. Bloody hell.

I wipe my hand over my face, cursing and muttering under my breath before sending a death glare towards our bloody midfielder. Reese McAteer. Fucking Irish punk. I'd tried all season to give him tips in practice, calm him down. I usually didn't take to newbies, or pay them much attention.

But...he reminded me of myself at that age. 22. Cocky as all get out. Bloody brilliant on the pitch but a waste in the real world. Pissed half the nights of the week, with different women sneaking him into bathroom stalls or alleyways. He had a bright future ahead of him, if he didn't royally fuck it up.

So I was a softie for the kid. But his lack of thinking and strategy made him reckless. That was his third own goal of the year, and we were barely halfway through the season. He had all of the raw talent of an atom bomb, the particles and the science, but he neglected to focus on the wiring. He refused to train harder, perfect his craft.

We walked back to the visitor's locker room, always darker and less upgraded than the home team's space. We did it at Windingham too, made our competitors sit in barely livable quarters while they waited. But it still sucked when you were away.

Olivier was infuriated, throwing shit left and right. "You're a bloody git, you know that?! A BLOODY GIT." He screamed and waved his finger at Reese, who was hanging his head between his knees.

"Enough! Genug!" Coach Kristoff yelled. And Hans Kristoff was not a man who yelled.

Kristoff had been the coach for Windhingham since I'd turned 20. I'd known this man for almost 10 years. I could count the number of times he'd let his emotions slip on one hand. And today was one of those.

Kristoff was a stoic man, choosing to let his cold demeanor show his true feelings to his team and those around him rather than explosive outbursts. He barely smiled, even when we won the Barclay's Cup three years ago. But I knew he'd been proud. Kristoff was like that stern father figure you never wanted to get on the bad side of. And since I'd never known my dear old dad, he was the closest thing to a father I'd ever had.

"You sorry sons of beetches better get out onto zat pitch, run until your legs fall off, and score some godzamn goals! Muzzafucka!"

I loved when Kristoff cursed. Not only because it sounded so German, but because it fired me up. If he was pissed off, then I was a fully cocked shotgun.

"Now get out zere and win zis bloody game!"

I
stayed
in the shower until the last player, coach and assistant filtered out. The water was scalding and pruning my skin, unknotting my jellied muscles and attempting to wipe away the blanket of disappointment and overwhelming gloom I felt. I'd let my team down.

After McAteer had come back out to score a goal, putting us up one, I'd let Brennon Mathis get the best of me. He'd taunted me until I gave in, side tackling him in such an illegal way, I was surprised the real London police hadn't come in to give me a yellow card.

In turn, Mathis had gotten a penalty kick. And hadn't missed.

In the 92nd minute, I'd let them tie the game up, and subsequently let my team down. In the Premier League, teams got three points for a win, one for a tie, and zero for a loss. A tie scored us one point, but on a competition table that was stacked with way more talented teams than Mansfield, we should have secured a victory.

I heard the creak of the locker room door but didn't bother to look up, instead letting the water sluce between my tired muscles.

"Oh my god! I..."

I snapped my head up and my eyes fell on a perfect blonde in lavender.

Leah.

Her face was a deep crimson, the color of dark red roses or the kind of nail polish a man wanted raking down his flesh. She was trying so hard to keep her eyes averted from my naked body, specifically below the waist, but she was failing miserably. My cock began to swell with blood under those watchful green orbs, and her tiny gasp made my balls tingle with anticipation. I was completely exposed in the open air shower, and she could see every ridge and slope of my body. It took all of my control not to pull her under the hot spray with me.

I didn't move, just kept rubbing my hands over my skin and giving her the show she couldn't peel her eyes away from. "Did you come down here to cheer me up?"

My leering voice must have awoken the morals in her, because she abruptly turned around, stomping her heeled foot like a petulant child. "So not only have you stolen me away from the job I was excited to do, but you're going to make me wait around and chase you now too?"

So she was mad about my request to 73Bulbs. I grinned to myself.

Turning off the shower and lazily grabbing a towel, I walked right up to her, almost brushing her coat with my hot, wet skin before slyly ducking around her and moving toward my locker.

I started in a teacher-like tone. "Do you honestly think you would have been able to do anything but fill coffees and answer phones there? Because that's what you would have been doing. You were only allowed on the Brutal Force carpet because Cressida wanted to beat you down and show you your place. She wanted to haze you."

Leah pursed her lips, a deeper shade of pink from whatever she'd coated them with, trying not to look at my naked abs and instead focusing on a non-existent ball of lint on her clothes.

I continued, now pulling a black long sleeve shirt over my head. "What she didn't count on was you actually succeeding. And in succeeding, making an impression on me. You're bloody lucky I plucked you out of that hell hole, because now you'll get to learn more than you ever would have hanging Cressida's coat in her oversized office closet.”

I dropped my towel, fully aware of the massive boner I was sporting but not caring if she looked her fill. I'd be using it with her if I got my way, and it turned me on even more when I saw the flash in her eyes as she tried to keep them pinned to the floor.

I could feel my hips cant towards her, wanting so badly to unwrap the layers of clothes and frigidity she shielded her body with now. But I held my desires at bay as I pulled on boxers and a pair of dark jeans.

“You’ll learn how to command a press conference, how to give thought-out, canned answers in interviews. And speaking of interviews; you’ll set them up, coordinate times and outfits and questions. You’ll put my weekly schedule together, make sure everything that concerns me is running tip top. The Killian Ramsey Machine is in your hands. So, you can kiss my cheek and thank me for giving you the opportunity of a lifetime.”