Lean On Me (On Me #2)

Prologue

LONDON - JUST OVER SIX YEARS AGO

Lockheart

“It’s my birthday. Why do I have to go to a fucking club?”

My teammates Charlie Bennett and Antony Marcello just grin back at my grumpy self and pull me into the waiting car. I don’t want to go to a club, it’s pointless. It’s too loud, there’s too many people, and too many of them are fucking women wanting to score with a professional footballer.

“You’re an old man before your fucking time. You need to relax more.” I roll my eyes as Charlie fills a glass from a five-hundred-pound bottle of Champagne and hands it to me.

“I’m not old before my time, I just hate clubs. I’d rather be indoors, chilling. Fuck! I am old.” I take a gulp of the dry, acidic liquid and grimace as the spicy taste dances on my tastebuds. “This tastes like shit!”

I grimace as they laugh and down their glasses.

I can’t believe they paid five hundred pounds for that.

I know we’re professional athletes and are raking in a shitload of money weekly, but it doesn’t give us the excuse to piss it all away.

Not on something that tastes like crap. Now I can’t wait to get to the club so I can order a decent whiskey and get rid of the taste of cat piss from my mouth.

As the car pulls up outside, the paparazzi scramble forward to see who’s getting out.

I take a deep breath and watch as Charlie and Antony stride out and pose for a couple of pictures.

I get out and frown at the cameras, folding my arms over my chest even though I know they’ll post a story about me being a grumpy fucker.

And I don’t care. Since I started my career at Heath Hamspstead FC they’ve written shit stories about me.

Some true and some downright outrageous.

It’s an unfortunate reality of the industry, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Charlie grabs my arm as Antony wraps his around my shoulder.

They drag me past the security guard on the door and into the confines of the club.

The music is so loud it feels like the baseline is my own pulse.

The lights are lowered and there's a shit ton of people.

But instead of complaining, I square my shoulders and head straight to the VIP section.

A few people try to get my attention, but I have my sights set on the red rope, and the huge dude wearing a name tag with Micky on it guarding the sacred space behind it.

“Evening, Mr Lockheart, and Happy Birthday.” I nod my head in acknowledgement as he unclips the rope and I cross over the threshold.

Only then do I relax slightly. The rest of the team is already here, so I tip my chin to them but avoid going over.

I don’t mean to be antisocial, but I also don’t want to be here with them all.

I want to be at home where I’m comfortable. Not socially awkward.

I head to the bar even though I know the girls working the VIP section will get me whatever drink I want.

I want to detach myself from everyone for a little bit.

The barman nods his head at me as I order a Glenfiddich Grande Couronne.

He raises his brows, smiles, and goes to get me my drink. I’m done drinking piss poor drinks.

With the beautiful, amber liquid swirling in my glass, I turn back around and observe the club.

I take a sip and let it linger on my tongue, eradicating the awful taste of the champagne and filling my taste buds with joy at its velvety smooth, exquisitely sweet taste.

Leaning back against the bar, I observe my surroundings once more.

The team is engulfed by a swarm of women, and I chuckle when I find Antony talking animatedly to one of them.

The guy will be in love before I’ve finished my drink.

He ‘falls’ hard, and always falls harder when it ends.

One day he’s going to fall for the right woman and she’ll be a fucking lucky lady.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and thank god I didn’t say them out loud to any of the boys. They would’ve ripped me a new one for that.

Charlie’s in the corner talking to a pretty little thing, but I know it’ll only be talk with him.

He has his eye on someone else, a reality star called Zoe.

He’s been trying to get a date with her for months but apparently she isn’t into footballers.

Or their bad reputations. He’ll win her around, though.

Not because he’s famous, but because he’s one of the best guys I know.

He and Antony deserve to find women who they can love and will love them back.

I’d love to find one of those too, but all the girls I meet are more interested in what they can get from me rather than falling in love and building a life together.

They see me as a challenge. The strong, silent, somewhat grumpy one.

They flock to me. I’m good looking and rich and have a body to brag about, but they’re never interested in getting to know me.

It’s more to see if they’ll be the one to sell a story about how ‘the grump of football’ succumbed to them.

It’s happened once and it won’t happen again. Before I fuck any girl, an NDA has to be filled out and signed, it’s just the way I am. I don’t ever want to feel that disappointment in myself again.

Worst thing was, my mum was still here to read all about my stupidity.

One of the last stories she read about me described my fucking dick.

And the wanker who wrote it, Nic fucking Moran, didn’t even have the balls to speak to me after.

What kind of man writes such fucking drivel about people in the name of journalism?

Journalism is letting the world know when a tyrant leader is declaring war, or that another terrorist attack has happened or a deadly virus is running rife throughout the world and we all need to self isolate to save mankind.

That’s journalism, not whether a footballer has big dick energy and whether he can back it up or not.

I mean, he did state I had the goods to go with the energy, so I couldn’t sue him for defamation of character. But still, everyone had a great description of my dick.

It’s why I decided to change it up a little. And with no one seeing it without an NDA, its new look is safe from the public.

Clenching my glass tightly, I take another sip, letting the taste soothe me as I relax my eyebrows and let my surroundings come back. It’s better than living in my memories. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself to make being here bearable at all.

Antony catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up and I smirk back at him.

“Ha, I win,” a smooth, sexy American voice says, and I turn to my left to find the owner.

As my eyes reach their target, I’m struck by the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Her hair is dark but shines in the dimmed overhead lights of the bar. Her lips are full and pink, and her eyes are the same amber colour as the liquid in my glass.

“Whiskey girl.” The words fall from my lips and she smiles, slow and sexy. She pushes her hair behind her ear and I feel my heart thudding in my chest.

“I’d prefer a rum and coke but I’d settle for a whiskey if you’re buying.” She looks at me through her lashes and I blink slowly, trying to figure out where this woman came from and who the fuck she is.

“If you want a rum and coke, I’ll get you a rum and coke.” I motion to the barman and tip my head to her glass. Without a word, he sets to making her drink. “Why did you win?”

She smiles again and all I can think about is how to keep that smile a permanent feature of her face. It’s simple yet inexplicable, but seeing it makes me happy.

“I bet myself you couldn’t smile. You were standing there frowning so hard that I didn’t think it was possible. But then you smiled, so I lost and won at the same time.” The barman hands her another drink, and she brings it to her lips and tips her head in thanks.

“Did you prefer me smiling or frowning?” I take a step closer to her, my hands itching to run through her hair and prove the strands feel as silky as they look.

“I’m not sure. The frown is definitely doing things for me, but your eyes twinkle when you smile so it gives it an edge I think.

” She tips her drink to her lips and I watch as every drop passes them.

She lowers the glass, runs her tongue over the excess liquid there, and I groan at the sight.

She smiles, crosses one leg over the other, and it's only now I notice that she has on a black dress that shows off her petite frame.

She looks tiny and it makes me wonder just how tall she is.

“What’s your name? Or should I just call you Whiskey Girl from now on?” She looks at me with a frown on her face, “Your eyes are the same colour as my drink.”

She nods her head in understanding and it's my turn to take a sip. My mouth is incredibly dry at the idea of being this close to this woman. She’s making my senses act on high alert.

I can smell her, hear her, and I fucking want to taste her so badly it’s unreal.

I've never had this visceral of a reaction to a woman before. Almost like it’s lust at first sight.

But more. It’s like there’s this magnetic pull towards her and I don’t know what it is.

I just know I need to be close to her and I need to keep talking to her.

“Nicole.” She says, taking another sip.

“Nicole.” I let her name roll off my tongue and like the way it sounds. I like everything about this woman. Seems like my birthday is looking up.

“And you are?” she asks, and I raise my brow at her in surprise.

“You don’t know who I am?” If my raised brow didn’t show her my shock then the hitch in my voice certainly did.

“Am I supposed to?”

I study her for signs that she’s lying, but come up with none. Maybe she doesn’t follow football. Shit, she probably calls it soccer.