Chapter 36
BLOWN COVERAGE – DEFENDER FAILS ASSIGNMENT, LEAVING RECEIVER OPEN.
Wembley Arena has been called an architectural marvel that rises out of northwest London like a glass crown.
The arch glints, even in the gray overcast. Maya leans into me in the back of our hired car.
“Is there a part of you that wishes you had had the chance to play here before your career ended?”
“I’d be lying if I said no. While I was playing, they never asked the Lightning to play in the international series.
“When did that happen?”
I furrow my brow. “About five years ago? Two years after I left the league.”
Before we can talk any further, our driver pulls into the restricted lane. “Club access is just ahead, Mr. Walsh, but security is waiting to escort you to the front of the line.”
Maya’s hand has been resting on my leg the whole trip from our bed-and-breakfast, soaking in the experience.
Now, amusement flickers across her face as tens of thousands of football fans swarm the gates in Oklahoma and Connecticut colors.
Awe colors her voice when she says, “It’s just like the stadiums back at home. ”
I reach over and tug up the collar of my spare leather bomber jacket that dwarfs her curves. Then I ensure her scarf—Lightning colors, of course—will not only keep her warm but mask most of her face. Still, she’s glowing.
Something’s changed, and I’m dying for the game to be over so I can figure out exactly what it is.
I note the security personnel approaching the car. “You ready?”
She grins. “Do you mean for the mob or the game? You know I’m likely to get us thrown out by yelling at the refs.”
Her easy response causes me to bark out a laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s go, uvetta mia.”
The door opens from the outside. I step out first, and show them my tickets. Once I’m certain I don’t feel there’s any imminent concern for Maya being overrun because of the price of my former notoriety, I reach for her hand. She alights from the car with enthusiasm. “Which way?”
“Ma’am. Sir. Please follow us.” One of the security guards veers off, but we pick up a uniformed steward as we approach a door labeled only with Authorized Access.
I let out a slow breath after we pass through security checks—wands, bag checks, pat downs. For a few seconds, everything feels like it’s going according to plan until the steward opens the door before Maya’s had a chance to wrap her scarf back around her face.
Then I hear it. My name being called.
“Troy!”
“Over here!”
“Walsh!”
“Come to support your former team?”
“Any predictions as to who is going to win today?”
My gut tightens with every question being flung at me as the steward leads us to the private club level elevator. Once we’re safely inside, Maya murmurs, “Well, that was fun.”
“I’m sorry, I…” but she stops my words with a gentle press of her lips against mine.
“It’s fine, Troy.” The elevator stops, and before I can stop her, Maya strides out, chin held high. She waits for me.
Holding out her hand for me to take.
Heart thundering, and not because there’s press still on this level, I clasp her fingers in mine. I continue to ignore the people shouting my name as we make our way down the long concrete corridor.
Finally, we reach the entrance to the stadium club and have our credentials scanned. “Follow the signs once you’re past the bar for midfield, Mr. Walsh. You’re clear.”
I slip my arm around Maya’s back, cautiously testing what I think she’s trying to tell me.
She wraps her arm around my waist before tipping her head back and smiling. “Is this okay? I know we haven’t really talked about it, but you called me your girlfriend to that whiny whino.”
Amused at her description of Chelsea, I reassure her, “This isn’t the crowd you have to worry about.”
She murmurs, “I know.”
“Then why…”
“Because I’m not afraid for the world to know I’m with the most incredible man in the world.”
Stunned by her words, I don’t even have time to react to them before we approach doors that vibrate with the roar of the crowd. I hold out my badge; Maya does the same.
The young usher brightens. “Mr. Walsh, welcome. Your seats are just ahead. Block 228, Row A. Right on the fifty. Let me escort you there.”
Maya holds my hand as we follow her down the carpeted stairs. She leans forward while we wait for a couple to pass by and teases, “Not bad seats for Wembley. Think we could get tickets to a concert here?”
Knowing I’ll do anything for this woman, I promise, “We’ll look into it.”
Finally, we’re standing in front of our seats, and there it is. The field’s stripes perfectly cut, making landscapers everywhere jealous. Players are running warmup drills. The crowd is feeding off its own energy as more support for both teams pours in as the clock ticks down to kick off.
Maya is practically bouncing with excitement. “This has such a different energy than any other game I’ve ever been to.”
I watch her instead of the field when I respond. “Yeah. It does.”
The way her blue eyes glow, the way her breath catches, she understands my meaning as we sit in our seats and she leans back and slips her arm beneath mine to get closer to me.
That’s when I catch the first phone pointed in our direction out of the corner of my eye from the next section over and one row up. I mutter a curse under my breath.
Maya’s head snaps around. “Is everything okay?”
My jaw is tight. “I was hoping we could enjoy ourselves without being bothered today.” Without reminding you of what you went through with Bryce is left unspoken but lies between us.
That’s when Maya shocks me. She reaches up and cups my cheek. “Let them take their pictures, Troy. I didn’t fly to London with my boyfriend to hide that from the world.”
She turns back toward the field. Before I can figure out a way to get out of the stupor from Maya calling me her boyfriend, the national anthems ring out. Maya stands next to me, her fingers brushing mine. I focus on the flags, but my pulse is rocketing from her touch.
Once kickoff happens, Maya and I cheer for the Lightning in equal measure.
It feels just like it does when we’re doing it in front of my television back at Tenuta delle Ombre.
At one point, the crowd erupts when her ex-imbecile throws a perfect forty-yard completion for a touchdown.
I jump to my feet along with everyone else before I realize, Oh, shit.
I’m cheering for the man who broke her.
When I hazard a glance in her direction, I’m astounded to find Maya full-out laughing at me. She’s slumped in her chair, grinning. “I’m going to text your mother this picture of you.”
Relieved, and a little terrified of what the picture looks like, I try to snatch her phone from her. “You’re supposed to be watching the game; not me.”
She holds it away from me with a sassy grin. “You’re more interesting. We’re crushing the Colonials despite the awful refs.”
Shaking my head, I lean forward and press a brief kiss against her lips.
The rest of the half is spent like that. Between plays, I catch the occasional fan lifting their phone in our direction. My name is murmured reverently. Normally, I’d pass it off as nothing. But today, with Maya by my side, I’m concerned it’s going to turn into something more.
She seems less concerned than I am. After I go for drinks, we’re snuggled together when both our phones buzz at the same time.
I set down her pint while Maya pulls up the link. Resigned, I ask, “They got us; didn’t they?”
“Yep.” She pops the “P.” “We even have hashtags.”
“We do?”
“Let’s see. There’s #GoTroyAndMaya, #MayaAndTroyMoments #MayaAndTroyFalling, and my personal favorite, #MayaAndTroyEndgame.”
“Guess that means we’re internet official now.” Since we’ve been outed, I lean close and ask, “You don’t mind?”
“Troy, did you think I’d come to Wembley with you and expect us to not come out?”
“I just wasn’t certain if you were ready.”
“I am.” She meets my gaze. “If people see that, good.”
I couldn’t answer her verbally even if I tried. My chest feels too full with hope and something much more dangerous—the love I’ve been holding back for so long. Instead, I lean forward and wait to see what she does.
She meets me the rest of the way and brushes her lips against mine. When we pull back, we’re both grinning like we’ve already won when there’s still a second half to go through.
And what a second half it is. Every play sucks the air out of at least half of the stadium.
At one point, the Lightning kicker lines up for the game-winning thirty-seven yard field goal attempt.
Instinct and lingering memories of being in this exact position make me tense.
When the ball sails cleanly through the uprights, the relief hits like a physical force.
Once we’re done cheering, there’s mere seconds on the clock. We count down together until the final whistle tears through the air. There’s maybe half a second of silence before Wembley detonates into pure chaos.
The arch above Wembley flares white. Confetti rains like gold dust. Players swarm the field, helmets in the air, shouting and whooping. But there’s only one sound I hear. It’s Maya’s laugh overriding the roar. The sight of her — cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes bright — hits harder than the noise.
“What a game!” she shouts.
I can’t look away. “That it was.”
She grins, and I can’t help thinking the best part of the win hasn’t fully kicked off yet.