Chapter 28
As soon as the Parkers walk out of the Westminster Suite of the Shangri-La Hotel, I tear into my handbag for my mobile.
I’ve been dying to know how Tanner’s match went, but it was important to give due respect to the Parker family who travelled here all the way from America.
We had a lovely afternoon of high tea thirty-eight levels up in Europe’s tallest building, The Shard.
The suite is decadently kitted out in soft creams and under-stated Asian interior design.
But let’s face it, you don’t notice much of the room when you have floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views of the River Thames and Tower Bridge.
The Parkers were blown away. Their daughter, twelve-year-old, Nevaeh, was one of Dr. Miller’s first spina bifida success stories from a clinical trial she did at her former hospital in Indiana.
Spina bifida is when the spine doesn’t close properly in-utero and can cause severe nerve damage over time. Nevaeh’s lesion was located at the top of her spinal cord, so the prognosis for foetuses like her is not good. Most are unable to even breathe on their own.
The Parker’s OB advised them to abort, as do many doctors, but then they found out about the clinical trial. Dr. Miller operated on Nevaeh when she was a twenty-five-week foetus. Now she’s a healthy, vibrant girl who recently became captain of her debate team. It’s the stuff miracles are made of.
Miracle or not, it doesn’t take away from the fact that I need to know how Tanner did today.
He may not be saving the lives of tiny patients, but people depend on him.
His teammates look up to him; his fans root for him.
Football breathes life into an often times dreary world.
Watching him give it his all and commit to the match one hundred percent is miraculous in and of itself.
And when I left his flat this morning, I saw a graveness in his eyes that frightened me. I don’t know if it was because of the game or because of something with us, but I’ve been worried about him all day.
I scroll through my mobile and pull up football highlights for the day. When a headline catches my eye, I nearly squeal with joy.
“A carnival performance,” is what the media will be calling the Bethnal Green F.C. win today. Bethnal inflicted humiliation on their opponents with a seven to one powerhouse victory when the ninety minutes was up.
“Yes!” I shriek and throw my hands up into the air before I continue reading.
A massive comeback for striker Tanner Harris, who captured his third career hat-trick after a month-long suspension.
There are a million different ways a ball can enter the net, and Tanner showed us some of the best. But his reign didn’t stop there.
He proved beautiful leadership on the pitch with two stunning passes to fellow striker and South African transport, Roan DeWalt, resulting in two more balls between the posts.
I sigh with relief as I read more gushing specifics about every one of Tanner’s impressive goals. Needing to connect with him, I pull up my text box to send him a message. Suddenly, his face lights up on my screen with a call.
I’m smiling ear to ear when I answer. “You fucking hotshot, you did it.”
His deep laugh warms my nether regions. “We did. It was a match I’ll never forget. God, I wish you could have been here.”
“Me, too,” I groan. “You’re going to demand a blowie tonight as retribution, aren’t you?”
He coughs out a surprised laugh. “I certainly would never say no. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but that’s because they’ve never had Belle Ryan’s mouth wrapped around their cock.”
I giggle and shake my head. “You better not have people around you.”
“Oh, I’m in the changing room talking into the megaphone. It’s fine. The guys are really happy for me.”
“Tanner, you knob!” I can’t hide my laugh. I don’t want to hide my laugh. Need creeps between my thighs. A great afternoon for me; an incredible win for him. I’m all by myself in a lush room. He needs to be here. “When are you getting here?”
“The team is going out for a pint to celebrate and then I’ll head back to the flat to change. I can be there by a quarter to eight to pick you up from the room if you’d like.”
I exhale. “That works I suppose.”
“Did you have something else in mind?” he asks.
“We both had good days. I wanted to…celebrate.” My tone leaves nothing to the imagination.
A low growl vibrates through the line. “Woman, I’m going to celebrate with you so much tonight you’re going to need me to carry you home tomorrow.”
“Promises, promises.” I smile when he huffs out a laugh. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
We hang up and I hop in the shower, willing my hand not to touch myself like I so desperately want it to.
Tanner Harris deserves all the wrath of this sexual tension.
Charcoal slim suit, deep purple tie, brown leather boots, and belt. I’m looking fine and feeling on top of the world.
I ride the lift up to the thirty-eighth level, utilising the mirrored walls to flatten my blonde mane that I actually styled tonight.
Well, styled in the sense that I blow-dried it and ran a brush through it more than a few strokes.
That’s about the extent of my mane taming.
I smooth down my freshly trimmed beard and my mouth curves into a half-smirk.
Tonight’s going to be a great fucking night.
It feels like a celebration for so many things.
It’s mine and Belle’s last fake date, even though we dropped the fake label; we’re celebrating Belle’s achievements at her new job; we’re helping a great cause; and lastly, the huge Bethnal Green win that included me back on the pitch.
So many great things have happened. I hope that tonight is just the start of more to come.
I rap on her room door and am looking down to adjust my cufflinks when it opens up.
Belle’s voice croaks, “I’m nearly finished. Just struggling with this stupid earring…”
My eyes start a slow crawl up her body as her voice trails off into some faraway land where sound disappears to when you’re busy trying not to blow it in your trousers like a pubescent teenager.
Her curves—her perfect, beautiful, ripe-like-a-peach curves—are swathed in a floor-length champagne sequined gown. She glitters with every breath she takes and is the epitome of elegance.
She’s too good for me.
“What?” Belle asks, catching me gawking and smoothing down her dress self-consciously.
“You look like a bride.” The words fall out of my mouth.
She smirks. “I think brides wear white.”
I shake my head, mesmerised. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her dramatic, smoky eyes meet mine, accepting my crass phrasing as truth because that’s me and she knows it.
Her dark hair is curled into soft tendrils down one side of her neck, making me want to reach out and run my fingers through it.
I coincidentally know that that thought makes my vagina show a bit, so the fact that I’m standing here half-mast reassures me that I’m still a proper bloke.
She props a hand on her hip and her gaze drops down my body.
“You clean up rather nicely yourself, Striker.” She winks up at me through her thick lashes with a disbelieving shake of the head.
“But I would have loved to have seen how you looked on that pitch today. God!” She squeals and tightens her fists in excited frustration as she falls into my arms. I swear the world stops moving as she adds, “I’m gutted I couldn’t be there. I’m so proud of you.”
I snake my hands around her waist and pull her to me, overwhelmed by her adoration. I’ve never had someone like her to share football with. Sure, I’ve shared it with my family, but this feels different. This feels…extraordinary.
I connect our lips in a needful kiss, desperate to feel her words against my skin. To test the weight of them and commit them to memory. She tastes so good. Like a victory and a consolation prize all at once. I’d lose a thousand matches if it meant I got to continue kissing her like this.
I pull away, breathing harder than I’d like, my eyes wide and grave as they lock on hers. Her brow furrows with a silent question and I can’t find my voice to answer it. To answer her. To tell her what I need to tell her. I swallow hard. “Fancy a shag?”
She laughs and it feels so right. Licking her dark lips, she turns to grab her clutch on the side table. As she brushes past me, she replies, “Patience, beast. Good things come to those who wait.”
I follow while murmuring under my breath, “I’ve never been good at patience.”
We arrive at the ballroom located on the fourth level of the Shangri-La Hotel.
It’s got a midnight starry sky sort of theme about it.
Navy tablecloths, silver, glittery centrepieces, and sparkling accents decorate the room.
Belle has to stop and say hello to several people as we make our way to our table.
It’s a lot of white-haired, laboratory-looking blokes whose tuxes look like they were bought in the 90s and they’ve since outgrown them.
Belle doesn’t seem the least bit nervous.
She’s calm, cool, collected, and completely brilliant.
I do my best to not behave like the stupid footballer I’m sure the entire world assumes I am. There are several guests who congratulate me on my game. Many are probably not Bethnal fans but did their research before tonight since they knew so many of us would be in attendance.