Page 2 of The Game

A lull had fallen between us, but Annie touched my arm. “You’re lonely.”

A sigh escaped me. “It would be nice not to be single over Christmas. I haven’t had time to meet anyone.” Or for a relationship to form. That was the main point.

She brightened. “You’ve left it too late for Christmas. That’s only six weeks away, no time at all to make an impression on any busy man. But if it’s a date you’re after, I know a guy, Ian. He’s a business associate of Josh’s. Tall, intellectual, works in the city. Divorced, obviously, but only because his wife was caught screwing her daughter’s tennis coach and it was too public to cover up. Oh, please, let me set you up. You’ll have more in common with him than any rando you meet in this event, whatever you call it.”

I resisted the urge to grimace at the guy she’d described. Josh’s friend was no doubt fine. In a high-paying job. Well-heeled. I’d dated men like that since I was seventeen, and I was bored at the prospect alone. None of them had ever lit me on fire.

Instead, I summoned a polite smile. “Can I think about it?”

She was already tapping away on her phone. “You said you’re on day shifts now? We can do dinner on the third Saturday of December. I’ll ping Ian now to check if he’s free. Don’t worry, I’ll add a few others so it doesn’t feel too forced, and we’ll make it a little Christmas party. Trust me, honey. I know how short of time you are. I’ve got your back.”

My blood-red cocktail arrived, and I took another healthy swig.

Somehow, I’d been railroaded into a date. But it didn’t interest me anywhere near as much as the alternative I’d daydreamed about all day.

Chapter 2

Emmeline

In the days after my drinks with Annie, I couldn’t get the conversation out of my mind. Arriving home from work, I pulled up adjacent to my spot in my building’s car park.

A grey Tesla straddled the line from the next bay, making it impossible for me to use my space.

Again.

Annoyance flashed through me. By nature, I was non-confrontational, and even though I ran on caffeine and adrenaline ninety percent of the time, real arguments made me shake. I knew who owned the Tesla. It was a single guy who lived on my floor and who walked everywhere with his phone clamped to his ear and his voice too loud.

If I had the guts, I ought to park behind his car to block him in. For a second, I considered it. But that would mean him coming to my door with a demand for me to move once he’d noticed. I couldn’t wait all evening for that. Instead, I gripped the steering wheel and took my chances on visitor parking, which was outside the covered area.

Autumn rain spattered my windscreen but, luckily, there was a free spot. I backed into it and ran through the cold evening to get inside. Once in my apartment, I shivered and rinsed the stresses of the day away in the shower. Then I bundled myself into a fluffy dressing gown, left my hair to air dry, and took a hot chocolate to the couch. Tomorrow, I had the day off. A rare and beautiful thing. I’d do a workout, laundry, and get in a food shop.

That reminded me I needed to eat. The curse of surgeon life was how much I lived on hospital food and takeaways. My fridge generally held half-eaten cartons that really needed to be thrown away. My cleaner did the honours once a week or I’d be in danger of food poisoning when too exhausted to sniff test with accuracy.

For the thousandth time, I longed for a home-cooked meal, though I didn’t have the skill or time to make one.

On my phone, I started a delivery order, at the same time, turning on the TV to auto-play YouTube videos. I selected my dinner to the tune of salacious celebrity gossip mixed with interesting news from around the world.

When I was finished and the food ordered, I raised my gaze to the TV.

A sparring ring of some kind filled my screen, tall nets surrounding it and a heaving crowd jeering at the match. What on earth? I never watched things like this. I grabbed the remote to change it but then froze.

A bare-chested fighter with dark-blond hair and a powerful form stood in the middle of the ring and snared every piece of my attention.

He threw out a quick one-two punch at his opponent then spun around and kicked the other man in the gut in a vicious display of skill. It was the end sequence of a bout, I gathered, something that would never usually interest me, but for some reason, I couldn’t look away.

The second man fell, and the fighter dropped down onto him, sweat dripping from a golden and thickly muscled body. Blood smeared from a split eyebrow until it blended with tattoos that decorated him from his temple down one side of the face and merged with more at his throat and chest.

A black-clad referee knelt beside the contestants and peered at the downed man then made some kind of call.

I turned up the sound.

“Knockout. Another win for Malachi ‘The Warrior’ Hunan,” an announcer crowed to roars of approval from the audience.

He raised the successful fighter’s hand above his head. The act highlighted the rippling muscles of Malachi’s chest, and my blood stirred through my body.

“Unbeaten and unbeatable. Let’s hear it for the UK’s number one MMA star,” the announcer continued. “Give it up for The Warrior!”

The crowd roared louder, and Malachi prowled the ring with his arms raised in victory.

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