Chapter 1
Lily
Wanker. I have no other words.
You know when you’re on a first date? It’s fun, exciting, and fresh. You buy yourself a new dress and shoes, maybe get your hair done, or even treat yourself to a manicure and an everything wax. All because you want to make a good impression.
I did all of the above because Rachel from HR told me that I just had to meet Carl.
He’d be perfect for you.
Well, Rachel can eat a bag of dicks.
I need an out.
I’m officially retiring my vagina. She’ll have to settle for BOB—he’s brought her more pleasure than any man.
Carl is currently on his sixth pint and has gotten louder with each one. To the point that people have actually moved to get away from his obnoxious voice, which is grating on my last nerve.
Take me with you, I beg you.
He’s trying to mansplain why our local football team, City, lost to Forest yesterday.
Was I at that game?
Yes.
Did I also write a column for ‘Powerful’, the UK’s biggest sports and fitness magazine, detailing the highs and lows of that game?
Why, yes I did.
Am I an ex-professional footballer who played not only for City but also her country?
Yes, I fucking am.
So I don’t need this wanker explaining to me, wrongly, I might add, why Spencer should’ve been brought on as a substitute instead of Gale.
Why is he wrong, you might ask? As everyone is allowed their opinion. Well, let me explain. Spencer no longer plays for the damn team.
I’m really struggling to keep my snarky comments to myself. He keeps grinning at me, and every time he flashes his teeth, I battle the nausea rolling in my stomach at the piece of spinach that winks at me from between his top teeth.
I can’t sit here any longer.
I’m about to message my girls an SOS when I feel someone’s eyes on me.
And if this night couldn’t get any worse, sitting on a barstool, staring straight at me, beer in hand, a smile on his ridiculously handsome face—I mentally slap myself for calling him handsome—Marcus fucking Diaz winks, holding his bottle up and saluting me.
Fuck. My. Life..
This man.
I can’t seem to avoid him.
He swaggered into the EBS studios on his first day a few years ago as one of the lead reporters on ‘Strike’, the UK’s primetime football program, with a cocky, self-assured aura about him.
We don’t work directly with each other. Thank God.
I do a lot of the behind the scenes stuff.
Writing scripts, collating data for the reporters, analyzing games, along with my side hustle at ‘Powerful’, but our paths cross just enough for his presence to light a fire inside me and make my blood boil.
He has made it his personal mission since I pretty much ignored him that first day to get on my last nerve.
Rolling my eyes, I try to bring myself back to Carl the cu… “Oh my God, is that Marcus Diaz?” Of course he loves Diaz the Douche.
Give me strength.
“I have to get an autograph. That man is a legend.” Not sparing a second thought for my feelings or if I want to go with him, he jumps up from the table, charging straight towards the man of the hour.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch as Marcus turns his dazzling smile on Carl.
My muscles tense as Carl fawns over Marcus.
This type of behavior always gets me riled up.
Even though I’ve been talking to Carl all evening and have told him about my time as a professional footballer, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest, but Marcus walks in and he practically kisses his boots.
This is my cue to leave. I know it’s a dick move, but I can’t do this anymore, so I stand to leave.
“Chambers. Leaving so soon?” Marcus’s deep voice travels across the room, halting my escape.
For fuck's sake. Karma, seriously, girl, what have I done to you?
Walking over to the man who I would rather shit in my hands and clap than speak to, I stand tall. “Diaz.” I cock my hip. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Oh shit, you two know each other?” The look of confusion on Carl’s face would be comical if I cared.
“Yes, our paths have crossed plenty,” Marcus answers, his voice is smooth with a slight Spanish lilt.
“Yes, unfortunately, we work together.” Which you would know if you paid any attention to what I’ve said all evening. But I bite my tongue. “So, what are you doing here? On the hunt for the next unsuspecting victim to disappoint in bed?”
“Oh, Chambers, want to test how disappointed you wouldn’t be?” A cocky smile tugs at his lips as his eyes lock with mine.
“Pfft, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Hey, man, I love you, but don’t hit on my date.” Carl pulls me into him, breaking my stare down with Marcus, but he stiffens as I wriggle out of his hold. Read the room, Carl. There was nothing about this date that indicated I wanted you to touch me.
“Oh, this is a date. Classy Chambers. You were about to leave your date without a goodbye.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Bit rude. But then I don’t suppose I’d expect anything less from you.”
“I paid the bill,” I grit out. God, this man gets me so fucking mad. “And my date decided you’d be better company.”
“Of course I’m better company.”
“You were going to leave?” Carl sounds hurt as he turns to me, his lip jutting out in a ridiculous pout. Jesus Christ, he’s still here?
“The fact you got up and left halfway through our date to go and introduce yourself to this jumped up prick, yes, I’m leaving,” I say flatly.
“But he’s Marcus Diaz.” His eyes widen, as if trying to emphasize his point.
“I’m aware of who he is,” I snap. Marcus is enjoying this far too much. Smirking into his beer. “Look, I’m off. Tonight was…” I trail off, not wanting to say what’s actually going through my head, and salute them before turning to leave.
“Should we plan another date before you go?” Carl grabs my wrist, twisting me to face him with a hopeful smile. That spinach leaf is still flirting with me. It takes all my self-control not to dry heave. From the corner of my eye, I see Marcus’s face lit up with pure glee from my awkwardness.
“Look, Carl, I don’t think this is going anywhere, so no,” I say calmly, forcing my eyes not to roll.
“You don’t think it’s going anywhere?” His face crumples in confusion. Seriously, is he that dumb?
“No, I don’t, and you don’t either, or else you wouldn’t have got up to see him.” I gesture to the prick, chuckling into his beer. “So, I’m going to leave. You both have a wonderful evening.”
Urgh, seriously, Lily, why do these things happen to you?
Pushing through the restaurant door, the brisk London air hits me, and I wrap my jacket tighter around myself as I walk toward the underground station.
That’s it, I’m not dating anymore. The next time someone tells me they know the perfect person for me, I’m going to throat punch them.
I’m absolutely fine on my own.