His to Win (The Alpha Soccer Saga #1) (2 page)

“It’s not that I’m such a ‘big deal.’ It’s that football—sorry, soccer—is just about the most momentous thing in the UK. Actually, there’s a famous quote from a guy named Bill Shankly; he was a manager at a big club called Liverpool. He said, ‘Football isn’t a matter of life or death; it’s much more important than that.’ I’m probably paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it. So if you’re a footballer who’s played in a few important matches, or for a top side, and you’re moving to a different team, your future is subject to all sorts of rumor, conjecture, and guesswork. Part of it’s my fault. In an interview last year, I mentioned that I might like to end my career in a far-flung place. Japan or Australia, maybe. Even India. Depending on which fish wrap you read, I’m bound for Qatar, Greece, or even back home to play in MLS.”

“Where’s home?” Ellie asked, her head spinning at the revelation of Patrick’s evident notoriety, her dad’s voice in the back of her head warning her that this Patrick, like every boy and man she’d ever been interested in, was not to be trusted, was after only one thing. Which, given her bedroom’s dry spell and Patrick’s crushing good looks, wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing. Although the whole thing did seem a bit much, and given that her expertise regarding soccer began and ended with the name Pelé, she’d need a private moment and a good Wi-Fi connection to verify his story.

“That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? Home . . . home, let’s see. If you’re talking home, as in where my roots are, where I grew up, it’s South Carolina. A place called Moncks Corner. It’s near to Charleston. But home for the past few years has been my flat in London, although really I live out of a suitcase more often than not. If I’m able to work out a deal in Glasgow, I’ll rent an apartment there for a year or two, as long as my knees let me play. What about you, Ellie? Where’s home for you and . . . Maisie, was it?”

The plane finally ascended into the Georgia sky, bound for London, as Ellie told her story. “I grew up in Ohio, near Columbus. I went to Ohio State, majored in English and minored in journalism. I live near Atlanta now; I moved down here after college. I have family here, and I found my job has an office in Buckhead, so it was a win-win. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you or don’t know about soccer; honestly my dad is a high school football coach, and it was all Buckeyes and Browns in my house. There was no other sport besides football. Although once I outgrew the little cheerleader uniform I wore to games in grade school, I had also outgrown football.”

Patrick’s imagination went to Ellie’s curves filling a cheerleader’s outfit, and he caught himself glancing again at her neck and down lower, wishing her ample breasts weren’t so covered by her business attire.

“Ellie, the fact that you’re not a soccer person is nothing for which you need apologize. It’s in my top five, hmm, let’s make it top ten, favorite things about you thus far. Talking football day and night is such a colossal bore. I’m quite happy to talk about anything but.”

This guy has a list of ten things he likes about me?
Ellie thought, in complete wonderment. Since college, with an atmosphere conducive to partying and hooking up, she’d been on dates—but exclusively with guys who were attractive only because they were single, male, and breathing. Guys she’d met at the dog park, Barnes & Noble, the coffee shop. Second dates were rare, and a third hadn’t happened in her “adult” life. At twenty-six, she was by no means an old maid, but watching pages on the calendar turn and seeing herself in the mirror getting further and further from what she considered her physical peak (her junior year at OSU) was disheartening. One of these days, she’d wind up settling down with some chubby accountant or salesman, have uninspired sex, pump out 2.5 kids, and live happily never after. Patrick was obviously unattainable, but when weren’t pro athletes known to sleep around? And would it really be such a terrible thing to wind up in his “London flat” for a night or two, letting Patrick’s perfect body have its way with her? He was clearly being at the very least charming, at best downright flirtatious. If nothing else, it could turn into a story to share with her grandchildren one day. Her brush with fame. Leaving out any sordid details, of course.

Her typical social nervousness with men was melting away, as it never did without the aid of alcohol. Patrick had a way of holding her in the palm of his hand, making her comfortable, carrying the conversation when all she wanted was to skinny-dip in the ice-blue pools of his eyes.

“I promise not to talk about your job if you can somehow keep yourself from wanting to discuss my thrilling career,” Ellie replied with a playful pout.

“Deal.” Patrick smiled, extending his hand awkwardly in the tight space between them, and they shook, Ellie’s left hand in Patrick’s right, a firm grip she never wanted to let go.

Eight hours later, Ellie Peavey floated from her seat toward Terminal 4 at Heathrow, her voice growing hoarse. She’d planned to read her way across the Atlantic, had her Kindle loaded, but the conversation never lagged, and Patrick seemed as content as she was to share the time and small space together. As they approached the end of the jet bridge, he leaned down and said something she hadn’t expected to ever hear spoken to her by anyone.

“I know how pretentious this is going to sound, and I apologize, but when we enter the terminal, people will be taking pictures of me and asking for my autograph. If we walk out together, there’s a good chance you’ll be showing up in the rags tomorrow as my ‘mystery Yank love interest.’ I don’t mind the tabloids—I’m used to them—but you deserve fair warning and the chance to escape, so here it is. Either way, we’ll be on the same flight to Glasgow; I’ll arrange for us to be seated together. ” He grinned at her, a smile that made her knees weak and her heart feel like bursting from her chest.

Like anybody on Earth would look at us and think we were a couple,
Ellie thought to herself, but she appreciated Patrick’s candor and deferred to his experience in such matters.

“I’ll let you go out first; I’d hate to cause an international scandal,” Ellie joked, half expecting the mirage of the day to dissolve into Patrick briskly walking away, meeting what must be his breathtaking wife and perfect kids at baggage claim.

“All right, love, I’ll see you at our gate in ninety minutes—don’t be late!”

The butterflies that had been turning somersaults in Ellie’s stomach since first meeting Patrick became full-blown pterodactyls. Had he really just called her “love”? Her reverie was broken by the commotion just around the corner as the first child in a Chelsea Football Club jersey noticed Patrick Sievert emerge with the rest of the passengers into the busy terminal. A dozen mobile phones began snapping pictures as the six-foot-three American and erstwhile Chelsea defender tried to slouch and remain inconspicuous. It took the first two children scant seconds to approach him, asking for autographs. The crowd buzzed—some hoping for pictures to share with their social media contacts; others, supporters of rival teams, tossing heckling insults in Patrick’s direction.

As Ellie took a step out of the path of her fellow disembarking passengers opposite the direction Patrick had taken, she marveled at the spectacle. A portly, red-faced lout to her left was clearly irritated by Patrick’s presence and kept calling him a “tosser” and a “wanker” in a louder and louder voice, obviously attempting to provoke a reaction. Patrick diligently signed shirts and took pictures, at one point making eye contact with Ellie and shrugging his broad shoulders with a sheepish grin. She rolled her eyes playfully and felt her phone buzzing away in her bag, remembering she was supposed to check in with friends and family at home to let them know she’d arrived safely.

The news of her demise, or lack thereof, could wait, she decided. What was most important was sharing the news of her impending wedded bliss!
Ha!
She watched as Patrick was ushered away through a nondescript door by airport personnel, probably to calm the furor his unannounced appearance caused, before finding a chair where she could text her best friend, Meg.

Google image search Patrick Sievert
, Ellie sent, via text, to Meg.

Welcome back to the world of cell service to you as well, Els
, replied Meg.

Ellie’s phone rang moments later, the excited voice of Meg at the other end. “Who is
THAT
?”

“Oh, just the guy I spent the entire flight talking to. And who ended our conversation by calling me ‘love.’ And who I’m going to fly to Glasgow with. And probably marry. I wonder if they have a lottery in England. I should probably buy a ticket,” Ellie responded breathlessly.

“OK, first of all, I hate you. You’re my best friend, but I hate you. And I feel sorry for whoever the poor person is who gets to clean up the puddle you left on your seat on the plane.”

“Meg! Gross! Stop it! Anyway, I wiped it up myself when we got up to leave. Ninja-style. Ha!”

“Girl, you are crazy. Did you seriously meet this guy? He’s fucking gorgeous. They have candids on here of him on the beach in, let me see, Trinidad, I guess. He’s like a Greek god. OMG. I want to hear everything. Every. Thing.” Being that Meg was usually the one with the salacious tales, Ellie had to admit that it was nice to have something to talk about for once. Even if it was probably nothing in the grand scheme of things.

“I was on the plane, looking at work stuff on my laptop, and the flight attendant asked if I’d mind changing seats. Next thing I know, I’m face-to-face with Mr. Perfect. And he’s, like, a total gentleman, and totally down-to-earth, and we just started talking, you know, like old friends. It felt like a movie. One directed by Rob Reiner. After a while, I thought I must be getting Punk’d. No guy who looks like that could be so interested in me. A guy from the comic book store taking a break from World of Warcraft in Mom’s basement, sure, but a professional athlete who looks like a younger version of Don Draper? And his
eyes
, Meg. You wouldn’t believe his eyes. Glaciers in Iceland or Norway or wherever they have glaciers are jealous of how blue Patrick’s eyes are.” Ellie sighed just thinking about them. She could practically hear Meg’s eyes rolling.

“Here I was, all excited to go to Applebee’s with Trent tonight, and Ms. Ellie Peavey, evidently the new Queen of Conyers, is hooking up with the American David Beckham. Fuck my life.” Meg and Ellie’s laughter echoed through their phones.

“Hate to be rude, but even the Queen of Conyers has to go to the bathroom. Or, wait, I have to ‘go to the loo’ as Patrick would say.” Ellie giggled at her own silly joke.

“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. OK, I’m throwing up now, Els. Go find the loo and have fun with your stud. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you bitch!” taunted Meg.

“Patrick is a gentleman and I am a lady, Meg. If you must know, we’re planning to spend the flight to Glasgow discussing art and literature, then spend the evening drinking wine in a castle.” Ellie burst out laughing as they said their good-byes and she wandered off to find the bathroom.

Heathrow security noticed the commotion at international arrivals and hastily assessed the situation. Celebrities always caused a stir - even aging, unemployed footballers. Patrick Sievert was escorted into a corridor away from the public, a hallway with which he was familiar.

“Thanks for the rescue, mate.” Patrick  credited the portly security guard who had helped him escape the crowd.

“No problem. I support Hammers. Any chance . . .” The guard looked hopefully at Patrick.

“Heh, sorry, no, no chance. I’m not leaving Chelsea for another team in the Prem.” Patrick’s plans weren’t finalized, but he’d made up his mind that his time playing in the English Premier League was over. New challenges abounded all over the globe.

“No worries. Worth a try, isn’t it?” the disappointed security guard replied.

“You’ve got a good side over at Upton Park. The last thing your lot needs is a slow, over-the-hill defender like me,” Patrick joked, reaching the end of the corridor taking him to the private lounge near international departures, where he couldn’t wait to resume his conversation with the younger American girl who’d so effortlessly burrowed her way into his heart on the flight over.

He couldn’t quite figure what it was that made Ellie so alluring. Did she remind him of home? There was something so kind, so honest about her. Not like so many of the slags he’d watched teammates bring round the team hotels and out to dinners and pubs with friends. They all seemed fake to him, desperate schemers, the lot of them. Just a little more makeup, a slightly tighter top, a skirt shortened to the point of obscenity, and maybe they could lure a millionaire. The whole approach disgusted him, although it wasn’t what had kept him single throughout his professional career.

Patrick arrived at Furman University as a unique athlete, planning to play both soccer and basketball. Basketball had long been his meal ticket; he’d been widely recruited by schools up and down the East Coast. Furman was one of the few places that offered him a chance to play soccer as well, and he jumped at it. Soccer had been an afterthought; he’d really played only during the high school season, eschewing summer select teams in favor of AAU hoops.

By the time his junior season arrived, however, he had become such a defensive force that he was getting some honorable mention All-American notice, and he decided to forego being a part-time starter on the basketball team to become a full-time soccer player. The single-minded focus paid dividends, and soon he began to be called in to train with the U-23 national team and drew the notice of Major League Soccer, the top American professional league.

A conversation with a national team assistant set his career path in motion. His physical style and strength could succeed in England, the coach assured him, and he had contacts to get him some trials in the UK. Becoming a pro would require complete dedication, though, meaning that at least for the short-term, his popularity with the ladies would have to take a backseat to proper diet and training.

Upon arrival in Birmingham to practice with lower-league team Kidderminster Harriers, Patrick made a vow to himself that women would wait until he was finished playing. He had a chance to eventually earn serious money, making him attractive to scammers and gold diggers. On the off chance he met somebody he truly cared about, what sort of relationship could he have, given his irregular schedule and constant travel? In fairness to both himself and any potential love interests, Patrick took a personal vow of celibacy. At twenty-two.