His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1) (16 page)

Ellie gave her dad a crash course on football (it annoyed him that she insisted on calling a short pants, sissy sport “football,” but he tried to play along for her sake) and Glasgow during their flight, but the barbs he sent her way were endless.

“Leave it to you to finally show some interest in sports and it has to be
soccer
,” Al teased his daughter.

“Patrick played basketball and soccer in college, Dad. And believe it or not, in most of the world football—
real
football—is a much bigger deal than the American version. Besides, Patrick is too smart and too handsome to have ever put on a football helmet,” Ellie replied.

“And he grew up in South Carolina of all places? And he didn’t play football? Football is practically a religion down there. And he grew up not too far from one of the best coaches to ever blow a whistle, John McKissick. Damn shame, Amanda . . . all that wasted athletic talent.”

John McKissick was a legendary high school coach in Summerville, South Carolina, a town near where Patrick grew up in Moncks Corner. Al Peavey had gotten to know McKissick through mutual friends and they had crossed paths at various coaching clinics.

Ellie’s father was the only person in the universe who insisted on calling her by her given name, Amanda, rather than her preferred moniker, Ellie. She’d long ago given up correcting him. It was something that would score points for Patrick as Al Peavey liked to use full names rather than shortened versions. He alone referred to his sons as Andrew and Alexander as opposed to Andy and Alex. Aric was just Aric. The fact that Al was short for Albert never seemed to occur to him and to most people he had become simply “Coach P” anyway. When Ellie first discussed Patrick with her folks, Al had been immediately impressed by his “strong Christian name.”

Landing at Heathrow thrilled Ellie, knowing she was once again sharing an island with Patrick rather than having the vast Atlantic Ocean separating the two of them. The father-daughter pair enjoyed a light meal at the airport waiting for their connection, wanting to save their appetites for dinner. Patrick was busy with preparing for the match Saturday afternoon and apologized to Ellie that he likely wouldn’t be able to see her on Friday; however he’d love to have dinner with her and her dad Thursday evening when they arrived. Al was determined to try haggis and Patrick assured Ellie that he’d pick an appropriate spot for that to happen.

A car picked up the travelers and whisked them away to their two-bedroom suite at the Grand Central once they’d arrived in Glasgow. Being surrounded by the sounds and sights of Scotland’s largest city gave Ellie a jolt, and upon arriving at the hotel she fairly skipped across the elegant lobby.

Ellie worried that such a hotel might make her Midwest-raised, meat-and-potatoes father feel out of place, but he was suitably impressed. “A man could get used to this, Amanda. Hell, even when we went to Miami to watch Leonard play we didn’t stay in a place this nice. It’s a castle!”

Leonard Bostic was the most accomplished player to have suited up for one of Al Peavey’s teams, playing college football at Oklahoma and eventually for the Miami Dolphins. He’d flown Ellie’s parents, Al and Pamela, to Miami to watch a Monday Night Football game during his second year in the NFL. Al had never stopped bragging and reminiscing about the first-class treatment he and his wife received, including sideline passes for the game. It was the trip against which all others were measured in the Peavey household and Ellie looked forward to at least equaling it, although Patrick couldn’t get them onto the field at Celtic Park during the match.

Shortly after they dressed in their semiformal wear for the evening and Al called home to let Pamela know they’d arrived safely, Ellie’s phone buzzed, announcing that Patrick was waiting in the lobby downstairs.

The elevator ride down seemed to take ages as Ellie clenched and relaxed her hands in an attempt to dispel nervous energy. She was dying to see Patrick, but at the same time filled with apprehension at the thought of him meeting her sometimes irascible father.

Patrick for his part had been pacing the lobby for ten full minutes before inviting the Peaveys down to join him. Ellie had warned him that her father wasn’t generally quick to warm up to new people, especially those outside his football bubble. The best tip she gave him was to make sure he gave Al a firm handshake, that it would actually be better to break his hand than give a “dead fish” shake. Ellie spent many a night at the dinner table listening to Coach P ripping apart the fathers of his players or college recruiters who’d come to watch his teams who, upon meeting him for the first time, gave him a limp handshake. It was one his biggest pet peeves and once you’d made that mistake it was an uphill battle to earn his respect.

Patrick watched the lighted numbers above the lift counting down to the ground floor. He sucked in a big breath through his nose and stretched, uncomfortable in his suit, no matter how debonair he looked to the women whose heads helplessly turned as he strode through the lobby.

As the Peavey’s emerged from the elevator, Patrick and Ellie exchanged sheepish smiles. They were both unsure how to proceed in the presence of her father.

Coach P made the decision for everyone, extending a meaty hand toward Patrick. “I’m Al Peavey. You must be Patrick. Nice to meet you. Amanda has told me and her mother a lot about you. I think she thinks she’s in love, which of course is ridiculous, since you couldn’t possibly have had time to get to know each other.”

Ellie cringed, holding her breath, waiting for Patrick to flee in horror.

Instead Patrick took Al Peavey’s hand in his, shaking it with a firm, crushing grip. He looked the older man right in the eye, continuing a handshake that appeared at any moment like it might devolve into a Greco-Roman wrestling match as each man tried to out-squeeze the other.

“I’m very fond of Ellie and very much looking forward to getting to know her better, as well as you, and your entire family, sir,” Patrick replied.

“At least you aren’t wearing a dress, I was worried about that,” Al said, chuckling.

“Dad, it’s called a kilt. And Patrick isn’t Scottish,” Ellie said, while her eyes rolled nearly into the back of her head.

Although with his legs, I bet he’d look amazing in a kilt
, Ellie silently daydreamed.

When the two men were finally finished with what seemed an interminably long period of sizing each other up, Patrick and Ellie embraced in a hug (not too close) and kisses on the cheeks.

“You’re ravishing, Ellie. You must have arrived this morning and spent all day getting your hair and makeup done. You can’t possibly have just gotten off a plane,” Patrick whispered in Ellie’s ear, the closeness of his face to hers and his breath hot on her neck giving her goose bumps, a blush, a flutter in her heart, and a clench down where it mattered most.

As the trio strolled toward valet parking, Patrick explained their dinner plans. “We’re eating at a place called Arisaig. Ellie told me you were interested in trying haggis, sir, and they’ve got some of the best in the country. It’s in the courtyard at Merchant Square, very historic, it’s located on the grounds of what was the largest produce market in Glasgow, dating back to the 1750s. Great seafood and steaks. I’ve never had better chateaubriand. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

As they walked, Ellie noticed her dad surreptitiously rubbing his right hand. Patrick had evidently gotten the “firm handshake” part right.

Patrick and Ellie both admired the way the other walked—Patrick’s confident, easy stride and Ellie’s hip-swaying sashay. Truth be told, as much as they looked forward to dinner, they both would have been happier to find a bed, an empty elevator, even a broom closet, in which they could get naked and resume the scorching sex they’d both been fantasizing about the past few weeks.

Dinner was, as advertised by Patrick, fantastic. Al didn’t love his haggis, but he did his best to disguise his distaste, managing to get the appetizer down before the arrival of the recommended chateaubriand. He wasn’t a fan, but he could now brag to his buddies back home that he’d eaten a sheep’s stomach. The steak was perfect and Ellie’s father savored every bite of a dish designed for two.

The younger couple opted for venison steak (for him) and herb crusted hake (for her), and neither were disappointed with their choice.

Patrick had clearly done his research and the dinner conversation flowed smoothly. Each time a lull appeared to be looming Patrick would bring up a topic near and dear to Al Peavey’s heart—Leonard Bostic, Coach P’s state championship winning teams, and Notre Dame football.

Despite coaching at a school just a few miles from the Ohio State campus, as practicing Roman Catholics the Peavey children were baptized into the Irish Church of South Bend at an early age. Ellie never cared much whether the Notre Dame Fighting Irish won or lost, but she preferred they win as a loss meant doom and gloom in their house for the rest of the weekend while a win never failed to put smiles on Peavey faces.

A point in Patrick’s favor, besides his name and firm handshake, was his choice of teams. Celtic FC were the team supported by Scotland’s Catholics, while their nemesis the Glasgow Rangers appealed to the Protestants.

Al, for his part, kept the conversation going with soccer questions. Since high school soccer and football were played during the same season in Ohio, he’d never gotten around to watching a game. Patrick did his best to explain the basics, rules, and positions so that Al, and to a lesser extent Ellie, wouldn’t be completely lost once they entered Celtic Park, two days hence.

Dinner more than filled the three of them and they all begged off dessert.

“I’ve arranged a private tour of the Kelvingrove tomorrow morning for the two of you with one of the curators. Her uncle is one of our team doctors and I understand she’s very accommodating. I’ll touch base with you in the afternoon but with training, video sessions, team meal, and meeting with the physios, it’ll be tough to get away. The match Saturday kicks off at noon, I think you can get in as early as 10:00 a.m. so you can turn up whenever you’d like. I’ve never been to a game in Scotland as a fan so I can’t give much in the way of practical advice. Just enjoy the match. You don’t have to wear green but you absolutely cannot wear blue. That’s Killie’s color and Rangers color. The locals will be nasty to anybody wearing blue at Celtic Park. I’d love to get together after the game. If you two find a place you’d like to eat or somewhere you want to go, just let me know.”

Patrick bid Al and Ellie a wistful adieu, leaving them in the lobby of the Grand Central Hotel, a kiss on the cheek for Ellie and a firm but reasonable handshake for Al.

Returning to their suite Ellie finally had the opportunity to get her father’s opinion of her beau.

“Well? What do you think?” Ellie asked.

“I think that the people in this country ought to learn to speak English. But they do cook a damn fine steak. And they know how to build hotels here,” Al replied, waving an arm across the lobby to emphasize his point.

Rolling her eyes, Ellie answered, “Dad, they
do
speak English. And you know I wasn’t talking about food or architecture. What do you think of
Patrick
?”

“I think,” Al stated, with a chuckle, “he could have made a good linebacker.”

Ellie punched her dad in the arm, recognizing that coming from her father, this was a huge compliment. She stifled a giggle, excited about the prospects that lie ahead.

The following morning, after breakfast, Al and Ellie Peavey set out for the Kelvingrove, Glasgow’s most famous gallery and museum.

The private tour Patrick arranged was fabulous in Ellie’s opinion. They were met right at the front doors by a tall, slender woman in her mid-twenties with an Irish accent who, as Patrick had explained, was the niece of one of Celtic’s team doctors.

“Welcome to the Kelvingrove! My name’s Tess and it’s my privilege to show you around today, we can take our time and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Tess was a bit too pretty for Ellie’s liking but she was friendly and knowledgeable, and the tour was fantastic. Her fears that her father would be bored to death by the artwork were unfounded. Instead, he was moved to tears by the Kelvingrove’s most famous exhibit, Salvador Dalí’s
Christ of Saint John of the Cross.
As they approached the large oil work, over six feet tall and four feet wide, Tess explained the history of the piece. It came to Dalí in a dream and Ellie looked over at Al to see his reaction to this. He appeared awestruck. He stood before the painting, open-mouthed, bottom lip trembling.

Ellie moved next to him, taking his hand in hers. “What do you think, Dad?”

Al Peavey tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come. For a man in his sixties, who still attended church in the same parish in which he’d been an altar boy, his dogma was one of the “three Fs” upon which he’d built his family and by which he tried to live and coach: Faith, Family, and Football.

His teams for years wore practice gear and team T-shirts with “F F F” across the back, and despite persistent questions from administrators eager to eradicate God from the school system, Al was resolute. “F F F” was, and would always be, part of the program for as long as he was.

The painting hit him powerfully. Jesus suspended on a cross, sans nails, looking down from the heavens on the people of Earth, in this case a pair of fishermen. Al found a handkerchief deep in his pocket, and dabbed at his eyes before excusing himself to recompose in the bathroom.

The tour was a rousing success, even if too short for Ellie, but they’d planned an open air bus tour of the city for the afternoon.

Thanking Tess for her hospitality, they grabbed lunch and boarded a bus, which took them through the streets of Glasgow; including their first look at Celtic Park, in the heart of the Parkhead district in the East End.

As they circled the green monolith, they were treated to a giant emerald mural picturing over two dozen men wearing the famous green and white striped shirts of Celtic between the words “Paradise” above the picture and “Where legends are made” below.