Guarded Goalie (Unintended Urges #1)

Chapter 1

ROLAND

—Don’t Let Me Go

by Cigarettes After Sex

Sex is such a chore.

I’ve always known that, and I’ve successfully tucked the thought away where it couldn’t bother me too much, but lately it’s been impossible to ignore.

And I’m afraid it’s becoming more obvious.

Sandra doesn’t say anything as she tries (and fails) not to scowl at me after the travesty of a performance I just put on.

Her silence is louder than any complaint.

She just shifts beside me, turning onto her side, her back facing me.

The sheets rustle with her movement and the silence stretches, the bedside lamp casting a muted glow over her smooth and flawless bare shoulder.

I don’t understand how this keeps happening.

None of it makes sense. I am fit, exceptionally so.

At thirty-two, I’m at my peak, my body honed by years of discipline and routine because being the first-choice goalkeeper for one of the greatest football clubs in England demands nothing less.

My reflexes are great and my stamina is relentless.

I train hard, recover well; I don’t slack, and my body does exactly what I ask of it on the pitch.

So why does it betray me here?

Sandra is my wife of two years. She’s beautiful in a way that people notice immediately.

Winning Miss Nigeria three years ago proved that.

Making it to the finals of Miss World the same year we got married drove home that point.

I remember thinking how unreal it all felt, and if I were being honest, that was one of the reasons I put a ring on her so quickly.

Women like Sandra don’t stay single for long. I knew that the moment I met her.

So, what could be my problem? It’s not that I don’t find her attractive, even a blind man can sense her beauty. She fills a room without trying. People notice her, they always have. I noticed her, too. That part was never the issue.

Still, even as a teenager, I never understood the obsession.

My friends were always chasing after skirts, talking about sex like it was air.

Every girl was worth a second look. I just nodded along, laughed when I was supposed to, pretended I felt the same way they did.

I told myself I was a late bloomer, that it would click eventually.

It never really did.

Even before marriage, even in past relationships, sex felt like a routine. Something I did because it was expected, not because I needed it. I thought love would fix that. Or commitment. Or time.

“So, can we discuss the elephant in the room?” Sandra’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I turn my head to look at her. She’s sitting upright now, the sheets pulled to her waist, her shoulders tense.

I blink, playing dumb. “What do you mean?”

She exhales slowly and gives me a look that tells me she’s tired of pretending, too.

“Look, Ro. I don’t think this is working.

” She wets her lips, eyes flicking away before coming back to me.

“You’re rarely home. And when you get here, there’s something missing every time we try to be intimate.

” She shakes her head, frustration creeping in.

“Actually, to rephrase that, there’s something missing every time I try to initiate intimacy. ”

“But ba—” I start, reaching for her, for anything, but she lifts her hand and stops me.

Her shoulders sag. “I’ve noticed since before we got married, but I just kept hoping it would change. Then I thought it was because we rushed to get married after such a short courtship.” Her voice softens, but that makes it worse. “I can’t do this anymore.”

I know that there’s no lie in what she’s saying. Maybe that’s why the anger hits me so hard, exploding in my chest before I can stop it. It doesn’t make sense. I’m not angry because she’s wrong. I’m angry because she’s right. And because I didn’t expect her to finally call me out on my bullshit.

She keeps looking at me like she’s waiting for something.

An answer. An apology. Anything. “I just think there is no point in fooling ourselves,” she continues.

Her voice is steady, but her eyes give her away.

There’s something close to pleading there, like she’s had this conversation in her head a hundred times and she’s already exhausted.

I swallow and shift closer, even though my body feels tight. “I can try,” I say, but the words sound weak the moment they leave my mouth. I hear it and so does she.

“Try?” she repeats, disbelief creeping into her tone. “Do you even hear yourself?”

I run a hand down my face. “Look,” I say, almost snapping, then forcing myself to slow down.

“I’m not saying I’m the best husband alive or anything, but there is nothing I won’t do for you.

I fly home every other month because you refuse to stay with me in London.

I get you everything you need to make sure you’re comfortable.

You lack for nothing. And this is such a non-issue that can be solved with time. ”

I know without being told that the words come out defensive.

“Non-issue?” she scoffs. “Not making your wife orgasm in the two years you’ve been married is not an issue?

Most of the time, you can’t even get it up!

” She stands up from the bed, her breasts bouncing lightly as she straightens, her hands braced on her hips.

She’s breathing harder now, the calm finally cracking.

“And you know quite well before you proposed that I have my business here in Lagos. I told you I am not one of those women who leave their whole life to follow a man, and you were okay with that.”

The room feels smaller with her standing over me, the space between us loaded with everything I don’t know how to fix. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“I just don’t know where this is coming from,” I murmur, my voice low and tired even to my own ears.

Her head snaps up. “Because I need more passion!” she shouts.

“I need my husband to come home after a while apart and ravish me. Tear off my bra and panties and make me feel wanted.” Her eyes are bright and glassy.

“Do you even love me?” she asks, her voice cracking.

“Because it doesn’t feel like it. It was different when we were dating.

I thought you were just prude. I even found it endearing, but now it’s just frustrating. ”

“Hey,” I say quickly, rushing out of the bed. The sheets slide to the floor as I close the distance between us. I pull her into my arms before she can pull away.

She fits there easily, warm and familiar. Her forehead presses into my chest, and I can feel her heart racing. I love her. I know that much. That part has never been a question. “I can see a doctor,” I say softly. “Maybe get something prescribed that can help?”

She goes still. Then her shoulders start to shake. “Oh,” she whispers, turning her face fully into my chest. It takes a second for it to register that she’s crying. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” I lift her chin gently, so she has to look at me. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks damp. “I should be the one saying that. I never meant to hurt you.”

She takes a shaky breath, her lips trembling as she tries to steady herself.

“I know, that’s what makes this so difficult.

” She looks away, her gaze fixing somewhere over my shoulder.

“Last week when I called you, I was a little tipsy and in the mood,” she says.

“I thought we could fool around on the phone. But the way you answered and said you were tired . . . I felt disregarded.”

My stomach clenches.

She pauses, swallowing hard. I already know this isn’t going anywhere good. I can feel it settling deep in my gut. “Austin came here,” she starts, her voice flat and distant. “One thing led to another, and . . .” Suddenly, the room feels too quiet and too still. “I’m sorry,” she adds.

I take a deep breath. I know I should be angry. I should feel something explosive. Rage. Hurt. Anything. Instead, all I feel is a dull kind of indifference.

“It’s okay.” My voice steady even though I don’t know why. “I’m barely here. It’s understandable that you might feel lonely.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve said the wrong thing.

She pulls out of my arms and stares at me like she doesn’t recognise the person standing in front of her.

Her brows pull together, confusion flashing across her face.

Then she lets out a harsh laugh. “Unbelievable. I just told you I slept with someone, and all you have to say is that you understand?”

“Sandra,” I try, helpless now, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides. “We can work it out. Maybe see a couple’s therapist or something.”

“Or something,” she mutters, shaking her head. “No, Roland. I want you to say it’s not okay. That you cannot bear another man touching me. I want you to break down and demand why I would do that to you.”

I stare at her, my thoughts slow and tangled. I shake my head, like maybe I missed something obvious. “You want me to be pissed at you?”

“No,” she says, already turning away. She walks into our walk-in closet, her voice barely carrying back to me. “There’s no point.”

I stand there, frozen, watching her disappear between rows of clothes we once picked out together. The room feels even more hollow now.

She is right, I should be furious. I should be shouting, slamming doors, demanding answers. But I can’t force myself to care about the betrayal itself.

And if I don’t care that my wife stepped out on me, then what does that really say about our marriage?