4. Nicole
NICOLE
I haven’t got time for anything anymore. I’m broke and have debts coming out the wazoo. So when my editor at the very established sports newspaper I work for asked me about a ‘getting to know you’ series for the players of Heath Hampstead, I was over the moon.
Until she changed the premise and asked me to focus on Owen Lockheart instead.
Fuck. I can’t say no. I need to settle my debts.
Well, not my debts, but the ones I’ve been left to handle after my waste of space dad decided to up and leave.
Loan sharks don’t really give a damn about whether the person who borrowed the money from them is still around.
Not when they’ve got me as collateral. And it was never an issue before.
I always managed to fly under the radar with the other loan sharks.
Even when my dad, the deadbeat gambler, threw me to them. But this one is relentless.
But I can’t risk them coming anywhere near me now.
“Mum, can I haf cereal before school insteada toast?” Lucky calls out from the living room after I’ve already put the bread in the toaster. Because five-year-olds have the most impeccable timing.
“No, Lucky. I’ve just started making the toast and we’re not wasting it.” I bite back a smile when his groans float through the small space between the living room and kitchen. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me. Even if he wasn't supposed to happen at all.
Who knew taking the herbal medicine St. John's Wort could completely negate the implant in my arm, Not me, that’s for sure. But tamper with its effectiveness it did. The first time I ever had sex without a condom and I ended up with Lucky. Everything about that night was lucky. Until it wasn’t.
I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be chasing a reality star about a cheating story.
My editor at the time was a sleazeball and wanted me to use my feminine wiles to charm this guy into bed.
It was the last straw for me, and even though my wages were the only thing keeping me and my dad afloat with his gambling problems, I decided that night I was quitting.
Instead of chasing the reality star, I went to a club and my friend Micky let me sneak into the VIP section.
I wanted to hide. I wanted to have a drink without a swarm of people pressing into, or sloshing their beer onto my shoes.
So as long as I didn’t bother anyone, Micky said I could hang out in the VIP section.
I sidled up to the bar, grabbed a stool, and tried to stay incognito.
But then my little obsession walked in with his teammates, and I couldn’t help swap barstools to be nearer to him.
Owen Lockheart.
The drop dead gorgeous goalie for Heath Hampstead FC was standing by the bar, alone. And scowling.
I’d been obsessed with him since he signed for us and followed him on all social media, but the dude never posted. It was frustrating as hell. The closest I’d ever come to him was when a wannabe WAG came to me with a kiss-and-tell story I refused to write.
Unfortunately my editor didn’t have the same scruples and wrote the story anyway.
Using my name. I was furious. But once the damage had been done, what could I do?
I convinced myself he wouldn’t read it anyway—a huge football star wouldn’t bother reading a slimy little newspaper.
I did eventually get a retraction printed, but it was so small it wasn't worth the ink they used.
My nerves had taken over and I drank my rum and coke like it was water, all the while watching him like a crazy stalker.
I couldn’t help it. He was magnificent. The scowl etched on his brow, the scruff covering his face, his olive skin making those blue eyes of his pop.
I’d let my gaze trail down his body and hummed in approval at his tight white shirt clinging to his muscles, and his thighs so thick the seams on his jeans are barely holding on.
That man was a snack and mumma was hungry.
The barman had placed another drink in front of me and I took a generous sip of it.
As I lowered the glass from my lips, Lockheart had smirked.
At me. And I don’t know why, but it had compelled me to talk to him.
The confidence that oozed from me felt like it was coming from another person entirely, and the next thing I knew I was at his apartment, signing an NDA and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.
Except there was. And instead of feeling awkward and needing to run away, I’d stayed wrapped in his arms. Listened as he poured his heart out about losing his mom and how much he adores football.
Loved the way he called me whiskey girl or Nico.
The familiarity had just fit with him instantly, even though he was practically a stranger.
I’d told him about my mom dying, moving over here and my dad developing a gambling addiction. He was the first person I’d told how worried I was. And instead of judging me, he’d listened.
Being that comfortable with someone I’d just met meant something.
Everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t.
Did it hurt when he called me a whore? To my soul.
But I understood. I’d lied to him. Pretended I didn’t know who he was.
And I’d continued lying. When he told me how hurt he was after that WAG’s story was printed about him, I didn’t come clean.
Didn’t tell him my name was used or that I’d refused it initially.
I just pretended I was a simple receptionist, waiting for our little affair to be over so I could hold onto the happy memories.
Because, let’s be real—Owen was never going to settle down with the likes of me.
After I left his car, I went back to my editor and demanded a retraction be written. And never wrote under the name Nic Moran again. It was tainted.
I had no job, no Owen, and a broken heart. So, I took my sorry self back home and wallowed in my pit for a day or two.
But reality came calling in the name of a loan shark demanding money. I paid him what I had left, but with no job and no income, I had nothing to my name. And a few weeks later, I had a whole other reason to worry.
Lucky.
I tried to contact Owen. Went to his apartment, but he’d moved. His number was disconnected. I was desperate. A baby needed to know both parents, and even if he thought I’d done it intentionally, he still deserved to know.
The training ground was my only option. But I was sent away and told not to come back.
I tried to get through the main door but Nic Moran was known to be a paparazzi, trash writing journalist and wasn’t liked.
Nicole Morgan wasn’t appreciated either.
The receptionist just gave me a glare when I mentioned I knew Owen and told me to call him.
So I waited outside the ground with all the other groupies and paparazzi.
I knew which car was his as it drove through the gates, and even though I couldn’t see his face through the blacked out windows, I still felt that frisson of excitement.
Maybe, just maybe, seeing me there would make him change his mind and he’d talk to me.
Let me explain everything and tell him about the baby.
How stupid was I? The excitement quickly turned to a burning ache deep in my chest, my cheeks blazing in embarrassment when security came out and told me Mr. Lockheart had no need to see me, didn’t want to talk to me, and would’ve preferred it if I never set foot here again.
Not only could he not bear to see me, but he’d never get to know about our baby either.
I was barely scraping by. My dad was borrowing more and more, gambling on anything he could get his hands on, and I was paying whatever I could to secure my and the baby's safety. It was an endless cycle of anxiety and fear and never knowing whether I was going to wake up the next day to strangers in my house demanding things I didn’t have from me, or if my dad was going to have bailed again.
Finding a job with a news outlet that didn’t sell kiss-and-tell stories and I had my beautiful baby boy on my own.
When he came out looking exactly like a certain goalkeeper, I was devastated. I wanted him to be there. To know his son. But I had no way of contacting him.
The only avenue I didn’t try was going through his agents.
And by this time I was scared he’d take Lucky away from me.
He had all this money, resources, and I had nothing but a gambling addict father to my name.
No support network, no familial ties with anyone, I was alone with barely a dime to my name.
The funny thing with secrets, though, is they come out one way or another. And my obsession seems to have transferred to my son. He’s in love with Owen Lockheart, goalkeeper of his beloved Heath Hampstead, and it breaks my heart a little more every day watching him play football on his own.
I wish my editor hadn’t tasked me with a number of articles on Owen, the legacy player.
But I can’t turn this job down. Especially not now that the loan sharks are back and my dad is nowhere to be found.
I can’t risk Lucky’s safety like that. But being around him, knowing he’s the one person I have never been able to get over, is making my stomach roil with nerves.
I jump back to reality as a loud piercing sound infiltrates my thoughts and I realise I’ve not only burnt the toast but I’ve also set off the fire alarm in the kitchen.
As I pop the blackened bread out of the toaster, I grab a tea towel off the counter.
Fanning the smoke away from the alarm, I balance precariously on the chair to try to reach the off button.
Lucky appears in the doorway grinning and covering his ears.
“Do I get cereal now?”
As the alarm stops, I grin down at my boy. “I guess you really are lucky today.”
Blue eyes penetrate my very being as I try my hardest not to squirm on the spot. It’s been six years since I’ve seen him in the flesh, and as I worry about how different I look to him now, I square my shoulders back and take a deep breath.