Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Emily
Thursday night is date night, according to Jack. On account that it can’t be Friday night because they have a match on Saturdays then on Saturday night, he’d be too knackered for a date.
My shifts have worked out and I have this Thursday and Friday off, so I have no excuse not to go on this date. Do I even want an excuse to not go? I don’t know. I’m still slightly pissed off at him for him blindsiding me at work on Sunday and making me look unprofessional in front of Mrs Khatri.
The obvious rumours have started at work, thanks to Jess openly teasing me whilst simultaneously butchering Shakespeare, ‘Oh Romeo, Romeo, where doth thou get roses delivered to workplaces.’ Thankfully, no one knows who the real ‘Romeo’ is.
That hasn’t stopped it becoming his new nickname at work though.
I don’t think anyone would believe me if I openly came out and said Jack Cartwright was actively pursuing me, anyway.
I think most people would be as shocked as I am that Jack is even interested in me.
Jack—Heartthrob Heartbreaker Sex God—Cartwright, yes that’s his full name, interested in Emily—solid 7/10 children’s nurse who still isn’t quite over her ex—Ryan, not my full name but what they would call me.
I laugh out loud at the thought. Not a chance anyone will be finding out about this.
I sigh as I add some blush to my cheeks. My curled hair is cooling on my back, getting ready for me to brush it out into a wave. I needed to make some effort; it is my first date since Chris. No. No thoughts of your ex when you’re in the middle of finally moving on.
It’s only been a few months since I had my heart ripped out, stomped on then put back in upside-down and back to front.
I’m not sure my circulatory system can handle it.
Even if the more I think about him, the more of an ick he becomes.
I don’t even know if I want to date again, let alone with a famous, gorgeous footballer that women basically throw themselves at.
I doubt I could trust him to stay away from that kind of temptation.
Shit, Chris couldn’t stay away from someone in a sweaty office full of boring accountants, how is Jack supposed to stay away from gorgeous models on yachts? Who could blame him anyway?
No, we’ll go on this date, he’ll realise the mistake he has made in bothering to spend so much time trying to get this date then we can both go back to going on dates with people were supposed to be with.
Him: supermodels, me: random people on Tinder.
The thought of scrolling on my phone and coming across him in a tabloid on a date with someone else forms a hollow pit in my stomach that I’m not in the mood to analyse just yet.
I pull on my tightest black jeans that make my arse look incredible and tie my backless hanky hem top around my neck and lower back. I am at least trying to look nice for this guy that is way out of my league. It’s the last I can do.
I can’t stop thinking about the way he was when he visited the hospital the other day.
He was so attentive and kind to everyone he spoke to, why can he be all that and drop dead gorgeous?
Leave some for the rest of us. I had tried to stay away and busy myself with jobs, but I couldn’t help but peek in the day room to catch a look of him and my ovaries had exploded watching how he had spoken to the children.
He’s been the talk of the ward since then and everyone only has good things to say.
I risk one last look in the mirror by the door as I tie my heels around my ankles and sigh. Mediocre at best.
Why am I doing this?
***
I didn’t know what I expected when I agreed to go on a date with Jack Cartwright, but I wasn’t expecting to be sat in the corner of a small, local, slightly dated but still lovely, country pub.
When we pulled up, Jack had said we weren’t far from his house, and that this was his ‘local’.
So why he insisted on driving all the way to my house to collect me when I could have driven to him, I don’t know.
We’re at a two-person table with one booth side which he let me take whilst he sits with his back to the rest of the room on a small, rickety wooden chair. How it’s supporting his muscular build, I’m not sure, but physics has never really been my thing.
There is a pool table just to the left of us that is currently occupied by a young couple and along with them, there are two older men sat at the bar nursing pints of dark liquid.
That’s everyone in the pub, the six of us, seven if you include the plump greying lady behind the bar.
Nice and quiet, as I was hoping, less people to watch me embarrass myself in front of a famous person.
There is a log fire burning along the back wall that is keeping the place nice and toasty and I have already shrugged off my jacket.
Jack is really trying—bless him—but I can’t help but notice his eyes keep dropping to my breasts, probably because my nipples haven’t got the memo about it being warm in here.
Jack looks incredible in dark jeans and a navy long sleeved shirt, only a hint of his tattoos poke out of the sleeves and collar.
He’s wearing a black cap over his distinctive copper hair, which he has apologised for but wants to keep on because it helps him not get recognised.
Although the landlady greeted him by name, no one else seems to have noticed who is sitting in the bar.
He ordered me a glass of wine and got himself a diet coke stating he doesn’t drink often during the season, and never if he is driving.
A reminder that I am on a date with a professional athlete.
I need the wine, to calm my nerves. My hands haven’t stopped sweating, and I can still hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting,” I blurt, unsure of what else to say.
“Oh?” He looks at me sceptically.
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t looked you up online and it looks like you’re always in fancy places with fancy people.” I look down slightly embarrassed at my confession of stalking.
“Fancy people?”
“Oh, you know. Models, actresses, reality TV stars.” I reel off holding out my fingers as I say each one, putting up two when I get to the reality TV stars to see if he gets my drift.
He does as he replies with a small shrug, “Okay, OKAY, I get it, I was young and they were hot. You can’t blame me.
” I guess I can’t really when I think about it.
What else is a guy in his early twenties going to do when women literally fall at his feet?
It doesn’t help me feel better about the situation though.
“If you looked at the dates of those articles, you’d see that I haven’t been like that for a while,” Jack continues.
Now I come to think of it, they were from a few years ago—one of the reality TV stars hasn’t been in that series for years now.
“So, you’ve settled down?” I ask prying.
“You could say that…” he hedges. “It’s kind of a long story."
“Isn’t that what dates are for?”
He fidgets as if uncomfortable, “I’m assuming your detective skills brought you across my accident?
” I only nod in return letting him tell me as much or as little as he wants to.
I already know most of the story anyway, it was front page news for weeks after it happened.
One of Jack’s friends was driving them home from a bar the night before a match, the car went off the road and hit a tree.
The driver and the passenger behind him both died, Jack was seriously injured and another walked away.
The accident totally upended his career and is why he is no longer playing in the premiership.
“Well, Harry was my best friend, had been since the first day of year seven when we got into an argument over whether Ashley Cole and Phil Neville were a good left and right back team.” A small smile crests his lips as if remembering the fight.
“We were literally inseparable, even when I got signed and he went to uni, he picked to go in Manchester so we would be close. He did a physio course so obviously as soon as he was qualified, he became part of my team. He was driving and didn’t make it. ” He gulps.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, as he sits back in his chair. He shrugs, looking down and nervously playing with his hands.
“I broke my pelvis and femur in the accident. Twelve weeks on bed rest in traction, followed by two surgeries and eighteen months of physiotherapy to get me back to being able to play the game me and Harry bonded over all those years ago. It was only the thought of what he would say to me that kept me going on the really bad days. He would have been furious if I gave up, so I never did, in honour of him.” He sighs and finally looks at me again the pain of his friend’s death is written on his face.
I wonder if he knows how easy he is to read when he isn’t playing his cocky, self-assured press persona.
It’s so easy to see how much blame he carries over the accident. Of being the one still here.
“Anyway,” he sighs running a hand over the back of his neck.
“After everything, the one game I wanted to play so badly, that I was incredible at, became really, really hard. I couldn’t keep up with the top teams and I had to put a lot more effort in to training.
So, I stopped with all the partying and the bullshit it came with.
Because, what’s the point if it was getting in the way?
So yeah, you could say I have settled down now.
” He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine with a small, shy smile that I return.