CHAPTER 4 #2
“No thanks,” Scarlett said as she reached for a banana from the fruit bowl. “I hope I didn’t wake you coming in last night. I was at the stadium late meeting with the women’s team and trying to make a list of who I needed to speak to first on the men’s team.”
“I bet it’s Wilkens,” Maxie said before taking a sip of tea. “He’s always in the news for getting into fights.”
“He’s definitely at the top of my list.”
“Oh! I got you something,” Maxie said, standing from the table.
She danced around the kitchen and reached up toward the top of the refrigerator, where an aloe vera plant sat in a hot-pink pot.
Grabbing it, she brought it over and handed it to Scarlett.
“I figured your office might be a little empty.”
Scarlett smiled, taking the plant. “It is. Thank you so much.”
“It was nothing. I have a ton in the back garden,” Maxie said with a wink. “Listen, a few friends and I are having dinner this Saturday. If you can make it, you should come. It’s a good group, and you can meet Devon.”
“That’s tempting, and I’d really love to, but the men’s team has their first match this Friday, and I’m not sure what the protocol is for the day after a game yet.”
Maxie bobbed her head. “No worries. But try to come. We’re going to La Strega in the center city.”
“La Strega. Got it.” Scarlett lifted her purse off one of the hangers on the wall. “I’ll see you later.”
“Bye.”
Scarlett left the house and made her way to the station to take the green line to the stadium.
While the ride from Hulme to Old Trafford was only about twenty minutes, it gave her plenty of time to think about how close she had come to seeing Mr. Wrong Number’s face.
A part of her wanted to wither away at the idea, not because she was worried about what he might look like, but because in that moment, Mr. Wrong Number was real.
Not a fantasy, or invisible, or fake, even.
He wasn’t a figment of her imagination, but a real person, and while she knew that, it was nice that she could be unabashedly honest with someone, particularly about her worries about her job or questions about life abroad.
She wanted to text Mr. Wrong Number to explain all this, but every time she pulled out her phone to do so, she lost the courage and shoved it back into her pocket.
Thankfully, Old Trafford Sports Complex Park was only a couple of blocks away from the train station.
Spotting the Turks and Toffee café, Scarlett hurried inside and ordered a coffee and a croissant, although she’d had given anything for an everything bagel with cream cheese at the moment.
Still, she ate as she walked, ignoring several bemused scowls as she made her way to the football stadium with her hot-pink potted plant in her arm, a coffee in one hand, and a half-eaten pastry in the other.
Upon her trying to enter the building, her bag slipped off her shoulder and got stuck as the heavy glass door began to close behind her.
Twisting at the last second, she wrenched back, only to collide with a solid body.
Two large hands settled over her shoulders, and once she found her footing, she turned around to see Theo Ross, dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and an olive-green tie.
He was scowling at her beneath his glasses, and she had to actively close her mouth to stop herself from gawking.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, oddly transfixed by his gray eyes. “I’m always bumping in to you.”
Were they glowing somehow? Scarlett couldn’t understand it, yet it made perfect sense. She was always attracted to men who weren’t good for her. Well, not this time. Theo was not interested, as was evident by his scowl.
But the longer she looked at him, the more she took in everything about him.
His brows were somewhat darker than his hair.
She sent up a silent thanks to whoever was watching over that she had her hands full, because she was abruptly overcome with a desire to touch his beard again.
God, he really was attractive in a mean sort of way, and she could have sworn he let out a growl after a moment or two of their staring at each other.
“Two for two now,” he said. She squared her shoulders, ready to argue. “Are you all right?”
Well, that hadn’t been what she was expecting. It caught her off guard.
“Er, yes, thank you.” She held up her hands, still holding her breakfast. “I was rushing.”
“Yes. You seem a little flustered.”
Scarlett was sure he didn’t mean that as a compliment, but there was a heat in his eyes that made her mouth unexpectedly dry.
Taking a bracing sip of coffee, she tried to control herself.
She had a ton of pent-up sexual energy and would likely find anyone attractive after her back-and-forth with Mr. Wrong Number that morning.
Still, nothing was helping her formulate words. She stood there like an idiot as the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost completely hidden by the scruff of his beard.
She blinked, mind blank. What the hell was the matter with her?
Theo tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t, he did.
“Gary said you wanted to talk to the players. Individually.”
Scarlett nodded, the spell broken. “Yes! I do,” she said loudly, as if trying to distract herself from her intrusive thoughts. “Are you finally going to let me do so today?”
He glowered. “We’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I know,” she said sweetly. “Gary gave me a rundown of everyone a few weeks ago, and I figured I could come to practice, maybe take them aside one by one to have a quick discussion about their goals for their brand, the team’s image, and stuff like that.
It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes per player. ”
Theo made a face. “I don’t usually allow people into practice.”
Scarlett held up her hand, still gripping the last bit of croissant. “I promise, I won’t be a distraction.”
He made a noise halfway between a scoff and a grunt. “Well, that’s already not true,” he said. Scarlett blinked as a heat crept up along the sensitive part of her skin beneath her ears when Theo sighed. “Fine. Come to practice. It starts at nine.”
“O-okay,” she said as he walked past her, exiting the stadium.
Puzzled by that interaction, Scarlett continued on her way, making her way up several flights of stairs before getting to the offices.
Upon reaching the top floor, she saw Marrero carrying a beige folder, taking a sip from a paper cup.
When the manager caught sight of Scarlett, she waved and headed toward her.
“I was about to have these sent over to your office,” she said, handing the folder to Scarlett.
“What are these?”
“New kit designs for the women’s team.”
Scarlett opened the folder and found several mock-ups of black-and-gold jerseys, some with bold blocking and some with stripes. There were at least fifteen pages, each with designs varying from plain to abstract. “How many do we need?”
“Three.”
“By when?”
“By lunch would be great.”
Scarlett squinted. “By lunch? Ah, okay, not a problem, I guess. I’ll bring them to practice.”
“Practice? Not the men’s practice?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Marrero’s eyebrows rose. “It’s nothing… Only that Ross doesn’t let anyone come to practice, usually.” She glanced at the thin silver watch on her wrist. “It starts in twenty minutes. Are you sure it’s okay with Ross?”
Scarlett shrugged. “I cleared it with him a few minutes ago.”
“Huh.”
A moment of silence followed, making Scarlett wonder if she hadn’t broken some secret taboo. Practices had always been open to staff back in Washington. “Is it that big a deal?”
“Hm. No, I suppose not. But then again, Ross has always tried to keep his players focused.” Marrero lifted her chin, eyes on the folder. “By lunch, yes?”
Scarlett lifted the folder as if to say yes as she continued down the hallway toward her office.
Kicking open her door, she placed the aloe plant on her desk, then opened the folder and spread out the pages with the kit designs.
She only had a little bit of time before heading down to the pitch, and she automatically eliminated five of the fifteen suggestions, two for being too simple and three for being overly complicated.
She liked the black jerseys with the gold stripes for home games, and the gold jerseys with black lettering for the away games, but she couldn’t decide between the other eight for the alternate kit, or the jersey that would be worn in case the other team wore something too similar to them.
Gathering the two designs she liked, she put the rest back into the folder and finished her coffee, throwing it out before grabbing her notebook and heading out of the office to make her way to the field as her mind wandered once more to the incident that morning.
Mr. Wrong Number hadn’t texted her since before the accidental call, and while it didn’t matter if he ever texted her again, she couldn’t help but feel slightly dejected at the prospect of ending their budding friendship.
Or whatever it was. Of course, it had only been a few weeks, and there hadn’t been any groundbreaking, life-changing discussions between them, but Scarlett had enjoyed their periodical insignificant chats.
Not to mention where things might lead.
An anonymous sexting buddy was about all that she could manage. Something light and aloof, not too serious, and it was just distracting enough that she might appear to have a life outside of work.
By the time she reached the open pitch, Scarlett had come to terms with the fact that she likely wouldn’t hear from Mr. Wrong Number again, wondering if maybe his wife or girlfriend had discovered his little habit.
But then, that was Scarlett trying to soothe her own ego, which was evidently written all over her face.
“Are you all right, Miss Simmons?” Gary asked. He hurried over to her. “Er, practices are usually closed. You might want to”—he lifted his hand and flitted his fingers in a sort of walking motion—“get out of here before Ross sees you.”
“Ross was the one who invited me. And please, call me Scarlett.”
Gary stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head, then his upper lip twitched. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Fielding!” Theo called out from the center of the field, causing Scarlett and Gary to swivel back. “Run the warm-up.”
“Er, right,” Gary said, confused, passing Theo as he came to the sidelines.
Theo strode toward her, and heaven help her, he walked like someone going into battle.
Even from a distance, he moved with such powerful strides that she wondered what it must have been like to watch him play the game.
Scarlett’s gaze dropped momentarily as she swallowed, trying not to appear affected by this man.
It had obviously been too long since she’d slept with someone, and since she was getting all hot and bothered over a grump wearing glasses and a boring suit, she couldn’t help it.
Lifting her chin and setting her shoulders back as he reached her, Scarlett beamed brightly.
“Simmons,” he said.
“Ross,” she mimicked, enjoying the flicker of annoyance in his gray eyes. It was fun teasing him.
“How do you want it?”
Scarlett blinked. “E–excuse me?”
“The players? For your, what is it… an interview?”
“Oh,” she said loudly, shaking her head as she reached up to fiddle with her necklace. “Yes. Of course. Um, it’s not an interview so much as a chat about their current standing, goals, branding, that sort of thing.”
“Like an interview?” he asked, a slight growl in his voice as he watched her toy with her necklace.
She dropped it instantly. “Yes, I guess.”
He stared at her for a moment with a scrutinizing sort of look, before twisting his head over his shoulder.
“Billingsley,” he shouted as a young player with long hair tied up in a bun came running off the field. He faced her once more. “Try not to take too long.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, lifting her hand to her forehead in a mock salute, but there was a flash of heat in his cool gaze that caused her pulse to jump, which gave her pause.
He stared at her a moment longer, long enough to make her feel somewhat foolish, but after a moment, he was walking back toward the center of the pitch. Dropping her hand to her side, she let out a long breath right as a player with a man-bun reached her.