Chapter 9
AUSTIN
—No Roots
by Alice Merton
Being on the road, hopping from one city to the next, is officially not fun anymore.
I feel scammed, don’t ask me how. This was supposed to be a time for me to make wild memories that I can turn into cool stories later.
Instead, I’m living out of a suitcase and eating English breakfast in different hotel rooms that all look exactly the same.
The Nigerian government can’t even splurge and get a stand-by caterer that can make us asun or pounded yam or something. This would all be way more tolerable if I were still sharing room with Johnson. And the fact that it has not happened again is driving me insane.
Ever since I got a taste of him, my brain has been stuck on repeat.
I still can’t believe he let go of all control that night and let me take care of him.
I would’ve thought he would want to be the one to call the shots, not the one begging.
And now my body seems to think he’s a necessity.
Not a want, but a need. Like how I need food or sleep.
For the first time since we got on the road, things between us are not awkward.
I can actually relax around him. I swear he flirts with me sometimes, even if he has no clue that’s what he’s doing.
Or maybe I’m the one shamelessly flirting and he’s just going with it because he finds me entertaining.
Which, fair. Either way, I don’t feel like I have to disappear when he shows up in the same space as me.
Sometimes, we even end up sitting beside each other on the team bus, shoulders pressed together. He even goes as far as to lean in to hear me over the noise, or to glance at me with a quick grin, and my chest does this stupid flip every time.
I am extremely close to hunting down whoever is in charge of assigning rooms and ask them to put Johnson and me together.
The problem is, there are more staff members on this World Cup trip than players, and they seem to multiply when I’m not looking.
It’s like every time I turn around there’s another official-looking person with a green-white-green badge and zero explanation for why they are here.
I’m not even surprised because that’s the Nigerian factor in full force.
You don’t question it, you accept it and move on.
And since I have no clue who’s actually in charge of the rooms, my brilliant plan dies before it starts.
And even if I did, I would have to tread carefully.
A lot of these people give off strong close-minded energy, meaning I’d have to keep certain parts of my life locked down tight.
I am not in a rush to test exactly how backwards they can get.
It has never come up in our conversations, but I know some of the guys who play in Europe are way more progressive.
You can just tell by the way they talk and the things they don’t make a big deal out of.
Still, there is no universe where I’m walking up to whoever Johnson is rooming with and asking to swap so I can have my wicked way with him.
I may not have a lot of dignity, but I have enough to stop me from doing that.
We fought like our lives depended on it against Japan in the group stage and barely scraped out a one nil win.
It was the kind of match you thought would end in penalty, but towards the end of the second half, Mfon had sank one in and the stadium exploded.
Johnson was exceptional as usual, turning into a wall and making sure nothing got past him.
Shot after shot smacked into his gloves or got punched away, and each save cranked the noise of the fans higher.
By the time we had filed out of Pride Park Stadium in Derby, we were riding that high hard, convinced that this World Cup is already halfway ours.
“We’re here, finally,” Akintola announces as the bus glides into the car park of the Leonardo Hotel in Southampton.
A cheer ripples throughout as people start standing up before the bus even stops.
Johnson stands up beside Akintola and stretches, his arms lifting over his head in a lazy arc, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting.
He looks back and catches me staring. The smile he gives me is small but lethal, and it slams straight into my chest.
My throat dries out. I swallow, throw him a wink, and pretend I’m smooth about it. I am not. I used to be able to keep my attraction to him contained, especially since I had to hide it from Sandra, but now my first instinct is to grab him by his shirt and grind against him.
The corner of his mouth tilts up and he gives me a tiny shake of his head. If Johnson could blush, I swear his cheeks would be on fire right now. And the fact that I might be the reason sends a smug little thrill through me. I should be embarrassed by how proud I am. Again, I am not.
I have no idea why he hasn’t initiated a repeat yet, but one thing is obvious. He wants me. I might have to retire my cool and casual act and make a move, pursue him properly. I’m ninety per cent sure he’ll fold under my charm, and that’s me being humble.
Ugh, if only we get paired today, it would make things so easy for me. I can’t believe I’m already addicted to someone I’ve only pinned under me once. Who am I kidding? I’ve been gone for this man for years. It’s a miracle Sandra didn’t clock it during their entire marriage.
I step off the bus, welcoming the evening air on my face after the stuffy heat inside. My boots thud against the pavement as I walk towards the compartment to carry my bag. I straighten after picking it up and Johnson is right there, falling into step beside me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his arm brushing mine.
I glance up at him, before having to look away because it’s offensive how good he looks after spending hours on a bus.
“Like I just sat in the bus for three hours,” I say.
He laughs. “That means you’ll crash as soon as you set foot in your room.”
“It happened one time,” I protest, punching his arm lightly.
He looks down at me with that amused expression of his. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, like he’s trying not to laugh, but he says nothing more.
My brain scrambles for a second before I decide I’m apparently feeling brave today. Or reckless. It’s hard to tell the difference lately.
“Are we ever going to talk about . . .” I let the world trail off and gesture between us, sure he knows what I mean.
I used to spend an embarrassing amount of time daydreaming about finally getting to touch him. In those fantasies, I would look into his eyes, say something witty, and then we would roll straight into round two. Instead, I passed out right after the most intense orgasm of my life.
Damn, I need him under me again as soon as possible.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. “About that . . . ”
“Yo, Johnson,” Akintola calls, and I’ve never wanted to whack someone on the head more. “You’re with me, let’s go.”
Something that looks a lot like disappointment flickers across Johnson’s face, which is comforting, at least I am not suffering alone.
“See you later,” he says, jogging up to Akintola.
Later when, exactly? Tonight? Tomorrow? In five business days? I want to shout, but I compose myself, pretending like I’m not rocking a semi just from our brief interaction.
Bayero walks up to me, hands me a keycard and we walk into our room. The second I get inside, I flop onto the bed and pull out my phone, ready to text Johnson. Then I stare at my screen and remember I don’t have his number.
“I’m meeting someone,” Bayero declares, already halfway to the door.
I glance up at him, and it takes exactly one second to read his face. He is so going to hook up. Good for him, I guess. I’m not jealous at all.
“Okay, man. I won’t wait up.”
He huffs out a laugh. “See you tomorrow morning.”
I snort. “Don’t miss the bus, we’re leaving for training by nine.”
He salutes me, mumbles something that sounds like agreement and leaves.