Noah, Adil, and I were at the Angry Boar, our favorite pub, for a last get-together before they flew home to the US and Morocco, respectively. It was the day after our disastrous loss against Holchester, but they’d already heard all about Coach forcing Vincent and me to train together for the summer.
I’d invited them out hoping for sympathy and distraction, but I should’ve known better. Adil thought my situation was hilarious, and Noah was stoic as a rock.
Wankers.
“I’m going to order us another round,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
Adil had moved on to needling Noah about his nonexistent love life, and Noah was too busy ignoring him to do more than nod at my words.
I made my way toward the bar. I got a few glares and snide mutters, but no one openly pushed for a confrontation.
There was a reason why footballers loved the Angry Boar, which served strong drinks, cheap food, and no bullshit. It had a strict no-cameras, no-autographs, and no-brawls policy, enforced by triplet bouncers the size of mountains and the meanest owner this side of the Thames.
The last person who’d violated its rules had gotten tossed out on his ass (literally) and banned for life.
I ordered at the bar and glanced around the pub. A group of women blatantly stared at me from the corner and giggled to each other behind their hands while a passing couple did a double take. The girl opened her mouth, but she didn’t get a chance to speak before her boyfriend dragged her off and shot me a dirty look over his shoulder.
I took it all in stride. Stares and whispers came with the territory, and at least there were no paparazzi here hoping to trip me up.
“Here ya go.” Mac, the owner, shoved two pints (for me and Noah) and one Coke (for Adil) across the counter. “Don’t fucking spill it this time.”
“C’mon, Mac, you still mad about the other week? We didn’t actually break the jukebox.”
The Angry Boar was one of the few pubs with a jukebox, and Mac took great pride in it.
He glared at me, his grizzled face wreathed with a scowl. He didn’t give a shit about celebrities and was as likely to chew out a film star as he was the average Joe. It was why we loved him.
I grinned. “No spilling. Got it.”
I balanced the three glasses with both hands, turned—and promptly spilled one of them all over the person behind me.
In my defense, she hadn’t been there a second earlier, and she was standing so close, I couldn’t have avoided her in time unless I had eyes in the back of my head.
“Jesus Christ!” Mac exploded behind me while the girl let out a string of curses colorful enough to make a sailor blush.
I never would’ve thought someone so delicate-looking could string together those particular words in those particular ways. It was impressive.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I set the glasses down, grabbed a handful of napkins, and attempted to help her clean her shirt. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I figured. I—” She glanced up, and the expression that crossed her face would’ve been comical had it not been aimed at me. “You.”
My eyebrows popped up. I was used to eliciting various reactions from the opposite sex, but horror typically wasn’t one of them.
“Have we met before?” I asked. The you sounded a little personal.
I was almost positive we hadn’t. If we’d crossed paths, I would’ve remembered her.
She was objectively, unequivocally stunning. Glossy black hair, creamy skin, light gray eyes fringed with thick lashes—she looked like a classic Hollywood star in the mold of Ava Gardner and Hedy Lamarr.
However, it was more than her looks. I met a lot of beautiful women in my line of work, but there was something about this girl…even in a beer-stained shirt and jeans, she exuded an elegance that couldn’t be bought or learned. You had to be born with it.
“No, we haven’t,” she said. “But I know who you are.” Her tone indicated that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Interesting. Maybe she was a Holchester fan.
I hope not.
“Well, then, it seems a bit unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” I teased.
I didn’t date. If I wanted to be the greatest footballer in the world, I couldn’t waste time or energy on a serious relationship. Many would argue I was already the greatest footballer, but I hadn’t won a World Cup yet, and until I did, I couldn’t assume that title.
That being said, there was nothing wrong with a little flirting—or a lot of flirting, if it involved this mystery girl.
“Life isn’t always fair,” she said, looking amused.
The woman standing beside her muttered something under her breath. It sounded suspiciously like “He’ll figure it out soon,” but I couldn’t be certain.
Honestly, I’d been so captivated I hadn’t realized she was with a friend until that moment.
“In that case, I’ll settle for your number.” I nodded at her shirt. “I owe you a new top.”
“Oh, you’ll settle for my number?” The glint of amusement in her eyes brightened.
“Yep. It’ll be anonymous if you want. No name, just a number—so I can buy you a new shirt or pay for dry cleaning, of course.”
“Of course. I’m sure that’s all you’ll use the number for.”
I shrugged, a smile playing around the corners of my mouth. I hadn’t felt this lighthearted since yesterday’s match. Coming out to the pub had been a good idea after all.
