Text Me Maybe (Manchester Bees Football Club #1)

CHAPTER 1

Ding!

Scarlett Simmons’s face scrunched up, her eyes shut tight, as she tried to ignore the pleasant, feminine British accent on the overhead speaker.

“Good morning, passengers. It is Sunday, August tenth. The current time is half past seven a.m. as we descend into Manchester. Please make sure all trays and chairs are in their upright position. Please remain seated until after the plane has finished taxiing to retrieving your bags from the overhead compartments. It is eighteen degrees Celsius, sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, and partly cloudy this morning. Thank you for flying British Airways, and we hope you enjoy your time in Manchester.”

Scarlett tried to bury her face in the tiny paper pillow that she had received after takeoff during her red-eye flight out of New York.

She hated to fly, ever since she had experienced a drop on a flight once returning from Puerto Rico.

Now, at twenty-eight, she had to take a Xanax to even get on the plane and another one during takeoff.

Then she would pull her hoodie up over her head and tuck herself into a ball before passing out for the duration of the flight.

A bump of turbulence caused Scarlett to grip her armrests and dig her nails into the hard plastic.

Instinctively, she reached for the small silver number 9 charm she had worn for years and began to fiddle with it like she always did when anxious.

The person next to her, a young man with headphones on, glanced at her with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

“You all right?” he asked with a thick British accent that cut up his words.

“Yeah,” Scarlett replied, though she was anything but.

She released her charm necklace and inhaled deeply, trying to remember that deep breaths meant more oxygen in the blood, and more oxygen in the blood meant she was less likely to freak out, or whatever her therapist had said.

She needed to remember why this flight had been necessary and how lucky she was to be here.

After six years working with Soccer United Marketing, a branch of the National Women’s Soccer League, she had landed her first job outside of the States with the Manchester Bees Football Club.

Granted, they had an abysmal record and were one of the worst teams in the Championship League, with a terrible public image, but that was why she had been hired.

That, and her former boss and ex-boyfriend Eric Conrad had facilitated her hiring.

Part of her wanted to believe he had actually thought that she would be a good fit, but another part of her kept replaying his words that he had said when they broke up, that she was “too much,” which had blindsided her, but she wouldn’t think about that right now.

Scarlett’s hands came up to her face, and she rubbed her eyes. Pushing all thoughts of Eric out of her head, she instead decided to focus on the job at hand.

The Manchester Bees had gone 10-34-2 two years prior and 3-43-8 in the last season.

With a dwindling fan base and a horrendous image problem, the team had been sold very cheaply two years ago to Chard Mohammad, the middle-aged multimillionaire who had a penchant for football.

He had previously owned a minor share in Wrexham but had always wanted to own a team outright.

When the Bees went up for sale, he snatched them up, and with the financial backing of his own pockets, he had some wild plans, including adding a women’s team.

Enter Scarlett.

As the Manchester Bees’ new public relations coordinator, she was going to be in charge of not only changing the Bees’ public image, but also promoting the women’s team, which would be making their debut this fall.

Glancing at her phone, Scarlett opened her mail, which was sent with an attachment list of all the work numbers of her future coworkers, and reread the email she had received from Chard Mohammad’s assistant.

Dear Miss. Simmons,

It is our great pleasure that you have accepted our terms and will be coming to our headquarters in Manchester at the end of next month. Please check the following lists of all things needed.

“Miss? You can’t have your phone out while we descend,” a freckled-faced air host with red hair said.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Scarlett said, turning the screen off.

So much for attempting to distract herself from the last ten minutes of her flight.

It didn’t matter, though. Working with the Bees was going to be an amazing career opportunity, and she even had a roommate lined up.

Scarlett’s sister, Amber, had an old pen pal from high school who lived and worked in Manchester as a real estate developer.

Her name was Maxie Reid, and when Scarlett told her family that she was moving to the U.K.

, Amber had called Maxie to see if she could help Scarlett find a place to stay.

Funny enough, Maxie was searching for a roommate and had offered Scarlett a room, which she readily accepted.

Ding!

Scarlett glanced up at the speaker above her head.

“Please remember to keep your phones on airplane mode as we descend into Manchester Airport.”

That reminded her she needed to text Maxie and get the number of the car service she was supposed to use.

Apparently, the classic black cabs were a rip-off and the closest train station to Maxie’s place was confusing, since she technically didn’t live in Manchester, but just outside of town in Hulme.

Glancing around, Scarlett saw a pretty woman with long black hair in a wrap dress reach into her purse, take out her phone, and switch it on.

Another passenger, an older man with a shock of white hair, was also messing around on his phone.

The young man seated next to her, however, had his eyes closed as his music blared into his ears.

If they all were doing it, she could. Scarlett tapped her phone’s screen.

“I’m sorry, miss. You can’t turn on your phone until we land,” the same air host said, coming out of nowhere. “Please wait until the wheels touch the ground. Thank you. Seatbelts, please.”

“Oh, yeah, I was just…” she said, but he was already walking down the aisle.

Wasn’t that always the way of it—everyone else doing things they shouldn’t, yet it was only ever Scarlett who got caught?

The plane landed within the next ten minutes, and as soon as Scarlett felt the bump of landing, the tension she had been holding in her shoulders disappeared, and she hurriedly pulled out her phone to send a text to Maxie.

Hey, I landed. What was the car service number?

Sending the message as the plane taxied toward the unloading terminal, Scarlett stretched her legs as best she could from her seated position. Surprisingly, her phone pinged.

Yay! I’m so glad you’re here. The number is 020-7946-0161. Tell them that you’re Maxie from Gerkin Properties, and they should meet you at the baggage claim.

Why do I have to say I’m you?

Because I couldn’t send a car for someone who wasn’t a client, so I said it was for me. It’ll be fine. No one’s going to know the difference.

Scarlett smiled, hearted the message, and then texted the number.

Hello. I’m with Gerkin Properties, and I’ve arrived at Manchester Airport. Will you be holding a sign at baggage claim?

Everyone around her began to stand up once the plane had reached the terminal, helping themselves to the overhead compartments. Having a fear of losing her checked bags, Scarlett had diligently packed her two carry-ons as efficiently as she could.

Reaching overhead, she yanked on her large duffel bag strap, causing it to slam right into her chest, almost knocking her over as she bumped into the older man with white hair. She glanced at him apologetically.

“Sorry,” she said, and the man shook his head at her, seemingly displeased.

Unfortunately, she had to follow the annoyed man, who was moving at a snail’s pace for some reason, off the plane, through the jet bridge, and into the waiting area, before her phone finally buzzed again.

I’m not.

Scarlett’s steps slowed as she read the text as the person behind her bumped her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said, moving off to the side so that the people behind her could get around.

She was constantly apologizing. So much so that it was another talking point with her therapist, but Scarlett rationalized that if it made her feel better, it wasn’t a terrible habit. No one ever apologized themselves to death.

“Watch where you’re going, eh?” someone snapped at her, probably thinking she was the one who had held up the line.

She waved them off and went back to texting on her phone.

OK. Where are you?

A moment passed before the three dots showed up. And then:

In my apartment.

She frowned.

Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport?

At Manchester Airport?

Yes.

No. Can’t say I’m supposed to be there today.

Scarlett made a face.

I’m pretty sure you are.

Why would I be at the airport?

To pick me up?

I think you have the wrong number.

“Shit,” Scarlett whispered to herself as she quickly tapped Maxie’s number and waited for her to pick up.

“Impossible. I copied it from Devon’s text,” Maxie murmured. “Hold on, let me check.”

Scarlett continued to walk through the airport, heading through baggage claim, checking signs periodically to make sure she was heading in the right direction.

“Shit,” Maxie cursed in her ear. “I just double-checked the text messages, and it looks like Devon was off on the last number. I swear, he’s always insisting on typing everything out instead of copy and pasting, and look where that got us,” she muttered more to herself than to Scarlett.

“Anyway, let me call him and figure this all out.”

“Okay,” Scarlett said as Maxie hung up.