Chapter 12 Jade
It’s barely past eight in the morning when I get my twentieth phone notification of the day. Only this one is very different from all the others pulling me in different directions like I’m strapped to a medieval torture rack.
A single link from the man whose blue eyes and tattooed thighs have been running laps through my mind that would make Coach Ballard proud.
T
Jade
Is that where you go to pick up little old ladies? I know how much you like the elderly.
I never kiss and tell.
Thank God for that.
I immediately blush, wishing I could take it back. That one tiny slip was as good as an admission to the night we met, and I don’t need any reminders when my subconscious mind already has no qualms conjuring up different scenarios while I’m sleeping and vulnerable.
T
You don’t have to go, but my sister said it’s fun. It's booked under your name if you decide you want to get out of your house.
As much as I’m annoyed at him inserting himself into my life, and I am annoyed, I’m also bizarrely touched. But I can’t go. Can I? Do I want to? No. Maybe.
Jade
Will you be there?
T
Would that be a problem for you? Is there a reason you might be trying to avoid me?
Yes. He means it as a joke, but he’s right all the same.
When I don’t respond right away, another text comes through.
T
If you feel like you can’t handle being in the same room as me, I won’t go.
I pause at that, scoffing out loud. It’s like he knows that by challenging me, it’ll make me want to rise to the occasion. Absolutely ridiculous that it’s working.
Jade
Good luck on the match tonight.
T
Will you be there?
I do own the team, so it’s in my best interest to go.
I realize then I’ve been standing at my kitchen counter, coffee forgotten this whole time because I was so wrapped up in talking to him. That alone is a problem.
A notification pops up a second later. My heart jumping in my chest is an even bigger problem. I have to get a fucking grip.
T
You should wear team colours. You know…in support.
I needed to murder the butterflies in my stomach. A blowtorch should do the trick.
Jade
Shouldn’t you be heading into practice?
T
Yes, boss.
I down my coffee and shuffle into my bedroom, heading to my closet, where I rifle through every hanger and drawer, but come up empty. My habit of wearing only neutrals means I don’t own anything in my own team’s colors. Displeasure shifts through me before I shake it off.
It’s probably for the best. I don’t want to impress anyone anyway. At least that’s what I tell myself for the rest of the day.
It’s twenty minutes into the first half of the game when the walking embodiment of an alternative forest sprite shoves her way into my row and plops into the seat next to me.
Tieran’s sister is wearing a pair of chartreuse, wide leg pants with a fitted maroon crop top that stops just under her chest, showing off a tattoo peeking out at her sternum.
Half her hair is pulled up into small space buns, the rest falling just past her shoulders in waves, allowing me to see multiple piercings adorning her ears.
With the smattering of tattoos on her arms, no less than fourteen layered necklaces, and stacks of rings on her hands, she’s infuriatingly cool.
“God, the things I’d do for a stale mince pie and a crisp pint,” the pastel woodland creature says.
“Depraved things?” I ask.
“Morally questionable, for sure.” She grins wickedly.
“Murder?” I raise an eyebrow in her direction.
“At the very least, a little maiming.”
We both sit in silence before she snorts with laughter, and I crack a smile.
“Lottie.” She extends her hand, and I grasp it firmly in mine.
“Jade,” I introduce myself.
She nods solemnly looking out at the players running across the pitch. “The drunk from M as long as we keep up this momentum, we can win this match. The guys just have to stay focused.
“I’d imagine this is a hard game for Stone,” a man behind us says.
“Oi, I’d say. To have to keep his temper in check around the man who fucked his girl? Couldn’t do it myself. It would send me into a blind rage. My hands would be flying.”
I straighten at their conversation and Lottie goes still as a steel beam.
“No one’s scared of your hands, mate,” his counterpart chuckles.
“The slag’s probably even here in the stands, waiting to rub it in.”
“She’s certainly rubbing something, bouncing around from player to player like that.”
“Bit harsh, the way he found out though.”
“Fuckin’ embarrassin’ being made to look like a tit in front of the whole of England.”
Lottie snaps, whipping around in a ball of pastel fury. “Are we watching a match or having tea with our gran? Shall I go get you ladies a scone?”
I glance back, and they both look properly chastised.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“So,” she starts, chipper as a bird, “how are you liking London?” I flinch with the crowd when Cavan Darcey takes down one of Newcastle's players in an aggressive tackle. I look over at Lottie, and her eyes are alight with joy. “Ugh, it’s so hot seeing men tackle each other.”
I fear I’m dangerously close to liking this woman. “My dad’s from here. It’s been nice being close to him again.” The statement is simple—detached. It gives information without divulging much.
Lottie, just like her brother, seems to want to ask more.
But there’s a flurry of movement on the pitch that drags my attention back to the open play once more.
Alfie tosses the ball to Cavan, who charges forward a few meters before he tosses it back to Alfie.
Defense is gaining on him from the left and right before Tieran appears out of nowhere like a wraith in a maroon polyester blend as the halfback slips him the ball.
It was a beautiful play, smooth and effortless in its execution, but it isn’t over yet.
On the pitch, Tieran is a god.
Fast as a lightning strike, his muscled thighs carry him down the pitch, dodging and twisting out of Newcastle’s grip with every step.
He’s so close to the try line, the audience can taste the score in the air.
My hands grip my pants tightly, twisting and bunching the material as nerves wreck my body.
If I was a young girl, watching this match from the comfort of my fathers house, this is the part where I’d be pacing behind his brown twill couch.
Three meters.
He dodges out of the grip of a right winger.
Two meters.
He’s leaping over a player who dives for his ankles, skirting close to the sideline as he evades another player coming at him.
Tieran is alive and electric—a force. It’s hard to even fathom that he feels even a grain of sand’s worth of self-consciousness about his talent on the pitch when he can move like that.
One meter.
Oliver fucking Hughes comes out of nowhere like a rabid boar hiding in the brush waiting to stab his prey with its tusks, but the bastard doesn’t just take him down—he rams into his side, sweeping him over the side line and directly into a group of people on the wings.
They go down like pins at the end of a bowling lane, plowed down by two massive players.
I jump up out of my seat, on the verge of yelling at the referee to stop dicking around and card the asshole for the gross penalty, but then I remember who I am.
I have to keep my composure, because Lawrence Chapman is sitting only a few chairs away, probably cataloging anything he would deem inappropriate of a shareholder.
God, I hate that guy. I, genuinely and sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, hope the sock in his right shoe persistently slips down and bunches under his heel for the rest of time.
“Urm, hello!” Lottie stands on her seat, making her pink head rise over the row in front of us. “Are you going to make a call, or are you getting handies from Olli-pop to not do your job!”
The official heads toward where the two players are rising to their feet, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow card.
A yellow card? That was definitely cause for a red, and I’m certain steam is coming out of my ears.
Dad always found it amusing when I got overly heated as we watched a match together.
I would pace the room, hands on my head, and try my best not to scream at the screen because then he would make me put money in a jar.
Let’s just say my allowance always found a way back into Dad’s wallet.
“Oh, fuck,” Lottie huffs, her tone worried.
It snaps me out of my reverie, and I look to where she stares.
Across the field, Tieran is helping a small ball boy to his feet, the kid no older than eight.
He kneels, clasping his shoulders, searching him over head to toe for injuries.
I can’t hear his voice, but I can imagine the worry that must be etched onto his face as he ensures the kid is okay before checking on the other people who got bulldozed.
Then, he stands, muscles flexing and contracting beneath his sweat-soaked jersey as he rolls his shoulders, slowly turning to face Hughes.
And then, all hell breaks loose.