Chapter 9
Marlon
JUNE
The coaches look at me with varying degrees of pity in their eyes. “It’s not about your performance,” the head coach reiterates. “Others were just a better fit for the team overall.”
“Yes, sir.” They’ve told me variations of this statement several times during this conversation, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.
I was called up to the national team—I got to participate in the training camp ahead of the EUROs.
A dream come true, wearing the Three Lions shirt, playing for England.
We all knew, going in, that a couple of people had to be cut from the roster; the coaching team invited more people than they’re allowed to bring to the tournament.
I worried, over and over again, that I might be one of them. It’s what I do naturally. But I played well and I got along well with everyone and my anxiety lessened. I carefully let my guard down.
Too soon.
“Thank you for this opportunity.” What else am I supposed to say? I want to beg. Plead with them to give me another chance when I know there won’t be another. Not for this tournament, anyway. They will go to Sweden without me.
“Thank you for all you’ve given us, Marlon.” The defensive coach smiles at me. “We appreciate it. And you’re a dominant player in the making, I’m sure we’ll see much more of you in the future.”
I think he means it as a consolation, but all I hear is that I’m not good enough right now. I’m not there yet. Maybe those two goals against that I caused in the Champions League are still on their minds. Maybe I didn’t play as well as I did when they put me in.
Maybe even when I give it all I have, I’m just not good enough.
It’s a sobering thought; one that has me questioning everything.
Freddie won’t have to have this conversation with them. We haven’t talked about it, but I know it. Everybody knows. He’s scored at least two goals in each of the friendly matches we’ve played and the press is all over him. The tournament hasn’t even started and they’re already celebrating him.
I’m so happy for him. I really am. He so deserves this and it couldn’t have happened to a better person.
It’s just…where does that leave me? It’s a selfish thought and I fight it down until I leave the coaches’ makeshift office in our hotel and find an empty bathroom. Finally alone, I slump against the wall and bury my face in my hands. Why am I never good enough?
Freddie doesn’t want me. The national team doesn’t want me. Soon enough, Westfield won’t want me anymore, my reputation stained, my performance lacking.
Part of me knows these are irrational thoughts. Of course Freddie doesn’t want me; what on earth would he want me for? Westfield management has been very happy with me, despite a couple of hiccups, they’ve told me so.
I need to get a grip on myself.
But that’s difficult when I’ve just been rejected. Again.
I want to be chosen. A priority. Just this once. Whether or not it’s a good idea. I want someone to take a chance on me.
Not someone.
Freddie.
I blink, annoyed, as hot tears burn behind my eyelids. I am twenty-one years old, a national champion, I have two international caps for England, and I am not going to cry over a boy. No matter how light he makes me feel inside and how I’m more like myself than any other time when I’m near him.
Knowing what it’s like when we’re together and not being able to have it stings. No. It sucks. It fucking sucks, and I’ve been annoyed and on edge ever since we won the league.
The first real achievement of my career will forever be tainted by the memory of Freddie quietly, sweetly shutting me down, and I will have to live with that.
I swallow, then press my palms against the cold tiles of the wall behind me. The smooth, cool material gives me something to focus on that’s not my aching heart or my broken pride, and I stand there and breathe until it gets better.
In professional sports, you don’t give up. Especially with a club like Westfield. You can’t afford to. Sure, you may stumble, even fall. But you don’t stay down. You get up again and you keep pushing. Keep searching for a way to turn it around. To get a win even from games that already seem lost.
And that’s exactly what I will do. I will keep going and turn this into a win.
I’ll have the summer off. Time to relax my body and mind, which have done so much for me this past season.
The press won’t care about me while interesting things are happening abroad, so I can go out and meet more men. There has to be one out there who can capture my heart.
Clara will be off to Greece for two weeks and I’ll have the apartment to myself.
Plenty of things to look forward to.
I’ll make the most of this summer. And when the season starts again, I will be over Freddie and over my hurt about not being chosen for this team. I’ll show them all. I’ll do what I can to come out of this ahead. And I will have so much fun doing it.
Now I just need to believe it.
My date of the day collapses on top of me, heavy and boneless after his orgasm. He’s a fantastic fuck, just the right side of dominant and with stamina to match my own. Thankfully, he now rolls off me and drops on the white hotel sheets, panting. I wipe sweat off my forehead, a foot away from him.
He has a name. Obviously he does. I just can’t remember it right now. It’s only been an hour or so since we met, but he’s fucked part of my brains out, apparently.
For a minute or two, there’s silence, both of us trying to catch our breath.
I turn my head and look over at him, using the opportunity while he’s still got his eyes closed.
He looks like a model, silky black hair and a soft tan and a smile that’s just a tiny bit crooked.
Objectively, a beautiful man. One I’m lucky to be messing around with.
But he’s not Freddie.
God, Marlon, shut up. Freddie is in Sweden with the national team and has no business being on my mind. Frustrated, I rub my forearm over my closed eyes. I’ve been bitter and resentful since being sent home from training camp and Freddie getting to live my dream while I’m here does not help.
I wish I didn’t care.
“Was I that bad?” My lover’s voice is teasing and full of confidence. He knows he wasn’t bad. We both know it, and so I only snort.
“Fishing for compliments?”
He rolls over so he’s on his stomach and can study me. Reaching out a finger, he smoothes sweaty damp hair out of my forehead. “No,” he says quietly. “Just wondering if you’re lovesick or what else might be on your mind.”
My heart stumbles and my pulse immediately picks up speed again. “What?” Why on earth would he think I was lovesick? We barely talked before we got to fucking, he knows nothing about me.
“Because that was a very dejected groan and I can’t help but think Freddie has something to do with it.”
I flinch and whip my gaze towards him. “What did you just say?” My brain goes a mile a minute, trying to figure out what to panic about first. Him knowing about Freddie? Him potentially knowing who I am? Me potentially having blown my cover?
He shrugs and smiles. “Freddie,” he repeats with a slight edge to his voice. “It’s what you kept calling me when you were … fully into it.”
Fuck.
Oh my fucking god, he can’t be serious. I can’t be this stupid. This obsessed with someone who’s made it very clear that nothing will ever become of us.
I’ve slept with other men. I’ve never shouted for Freddie. Right? Panic sets in. Have I always been this pathetic and the others never mentioned it? Is everything I’ve tried to tell myself a lie?
The guy keeps looking at me, but I have no idea what to say.
He laughs one, almost a bark. “Are you having a panic attack right now?”
“I—no?” It comes out squeaky and like a question and I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole, right now. What the bloody bollocks is my life?
“You know, I’ve had my fair share of men, and this is a first for me.” He is not helping.
“Sorry! Sorry.” I press my thumbs into my eyes so hard it hurts. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. I don’t want to be so embarrassed and I don’t want to have this conversation, and most of all I don’t want Freddie so firmly lodged in my heart and mind.
“Hey.” He pushes himself up on his elbows and inches closer to me. “Is he someone you’d like to forget?” A hint of a grin tugs his lips upwards and a strand of black hair falls into his face. He is unbelievably beautiful.
“Yes,” I croak and look away again. But I can’t. I can’t escape him.
The guy lowers his head and nudges at my upper arm with his nose. “Hey,” he says again. “Bet you I can fuck him out of your system.”
Now I’m the one to laugh. “I wish.”
“I’m competitive,” he says and the grin grows wider. “Love a challenge.”
“Ha. Yeah, me too.” I have set a firm boundary for myself and my hookups; no cuddling, no kissing.
Right now, I wish I could break it and snuggle close to him.
Have his muscular arms wrap around me. “But it’s difficult.
He—” It’s difficult to put into words what Freddie is to me, how he touches me, looks at me, makes me feel.
Finally, I settle on: “We work together.” It’s the truth, even if it leaves out so much.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Ugh.” Then he presses his nose into my arm pit and inhales. “How many orgasms, do you reckon? Until it’s my name you scream?”
He’s so nice about the whole thing. He has every right to be offended and storm out of here, leave me and my patheticness and the tragic beige of this hotel room behind.
Instead, he’s the opposite. I need to get my head out of my own arse and at least try to match his energy.
So I pull my mouth into a bashful smile and blink at him.
“That might be difficult,” I say and force my voice into a flirty tone I don’t quite feel.
Fake it til you make it. “I don’t remember your name. ”
The guy laughs quietly. “Paolo,” he says, then he shifts so he’s half covering my body. “Martin, right?”
Is he trying to make me feel better, or has he genuinely forgotten, too? Either way, it makes me feel more at ease. “Marlon.”
“Marlon.” He repeats the name and there’s the tiniest hint of an accent as he rolls the r. “Okay. Your no kissing rule—it’s only for your mouth?”
“Why?” I ask, pushing up onto my elbows as well. “What did you have in mind?”
Paolo’s dark eyes sparkle. “It’s a yes or no question. If you trust me, tell me, and I’ll work on that challenge.”
I don’t deserve him. I’m also not sure I have another round in me right now, but I suppose trying can’t hurt.
Worst case, he’ll finally be as offended as he should be and I won’t see him again.
Which, I guess, will be the case anyway.
I think of the first kiss with Freddie, how soft and tentative it was and how he—no.
God. No. “Kissing is fine from the neck down,” I say and bite my lower lip as I look up at Paolo.
“Mmmh.” He immediately lowers his mouth and licks my clavicle. “Got it. If I blow you, will you let me fuck you again?”
Arousal flutters through me. He’s a gorgeous man who’s shown great emotional maturity and who is clearly into me. It does something to me. “Yeah.” It comes out a little breathless. “Please.”
“Good.” We share a brief smile, then Paolo shifts and lowers his head to lick my nipple.
I arch into his touch and close my eyes. This can be good if I let it. All I need to is to stop thinking. Stop imagining it’s Freddie I’m with. It should be the easiest thing in the world.