Page 21 of Linebacker
“I get you,” I reply sympathetically, because I do. “It wasn’t easy for me to get taken seriously at the beginning. It’s the typical chicken and egg situation. They will only overlook your young age if you have the experience to back up your credentials, but you can’t get the experience if they don’t ignore the age thing and give you a chance. I’ve been there. I’m only 25 myself.”
“So, how did you get where you are now?” she rests her elbows and leans in further towards me from the other side of the table, waiting on my big secret.
“I begged, pleaded and worked for free.” I breath out heavily. Saying out loud has me realising how ridiculous that sounds.
“You didn’t get paid?” she scolds. “Isn’t that financial suicide?”
“Oh, it might have seemed that way at first. They thought I was crazy. But I made it clear that after three months, that they had to give me an honest and detailed reference for the work and improvements that I made while there.”
“You were that confident?” she gasps.
“Not really, but it was my one chance of getting my foot on the ladder, so I put everything I had into it.” I drain the rest of the pink gin from my glass. I slide to the edge of the bench seat to go get us another round.
“Wait,” Lucy stops me before I get to my feet. “Did they stick to the agreement?”
“It was irrelevant really, because after six weeks they offered me a job.” Stepping away from the table, I move over to order and squeeze my way in between the crowd of people standing around.
“Same again?” the bartender asks, and I’ll admit with the amount of people here, remembering what people have ordered previously is a sign of good staff.
“Yes please,” I reply with a smile.
“Really sorry, but…” he cringe smiles at me, “I’m going to have to ask you for I.D.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah,” I stammer as I zip open the back pocket of my bag and pull out my driving license.
“English,” The blond-haired server, smirks back at me when he’s checked out the details of the card. His eyes are the bluest of blues, his square jaw covered with a perfectly trimmed stubble that works perfectly with his dusky pink lips and slightly crooked nose. All in all, very pleasing to the eye. “You royalty? Because you sure do sound like it.” Oh hell. Here we go again. Normally such a stupid comment would put me off, but he is kind of pretty to look at, so I decide, what the hell, let’s have some fun instead.
“Cor blimey governor,” I reply with my best cockney accent. “Would you Adam and Eve it. How’d you guess?” I quickly look from side to side before leaning in, to which the bartender moves in closer. I get a subtle burst of his woody cologne and lemon zest. “I’m the illegitimate daughter of the second duke of Westyorkchester but I’d rather you kept schtum, because I’m staying here on my jack jones, and I don’t want any barney rubble.”
“What?” He blurts out, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead as his mouth drops open, giving me a flash of a silver ball piercing in the middle of his tongue.
Nice.
I can’t help it. I just burst into a fit of laughter. “I’m joking. Yes, I’m English but I’m as related to the queen as you are to Donald Trump.”
“Actually, he’s my uncle,” he replies stoically.
“STOP!” Heat comes to my face. Shit, he is blond and tanned but is far removed from the man who waves to his adoring fans with his hair.
“Gotcha!” he laughs, holding out my l.D. towards me, that’s slipped between his index and middle finger. I go to take it, but he doesn’t let go. “By the way, happy birthday. I better get you your drinks.”
“It’s on me, seeing as today is a special day,” he offers when I go to pay.
“That’s really nice of you but let me at least pay from my friend’s drink.”
“I couldn’t have that now, could I?” he winks. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be obliged to return the offer of buying me one back sometime, would you?” Was that a roundabout way of asking to meet up? Before I get a chance to ask, he’s moved further down the bar and started taking an order from another customer. He casts me a quick yet generous smile, before grabbing a couple of glasses and turning towards the optics. I take that as my cue to go back to the table and Lucy.
The body count in here seems to have tripled in the few minutes that I was at the bar, and the area is crowded as people hustle to get served. Which makes it difficult when trying to make my way back to Lucy. I sidestep and twist, trying not to spill anything on myself or anyone else as I negotiate my way back. Eventually, I break through the crowd only to find that Lucy is no longer on her own.
“Marshall,” I say in greeting while placing our drinks on the table. I slide back onto the seat opposite, where he sits up close to Lucy. The black short-sleeved t-shirt he’s wearing fits tight across his chest, and for a moment, I let my eyes linger there. He’s always had a great physique, but the additional years since I last saw him and his undisputed dedication to his sport have definitely enhanced it. His body fills out most of the booth, and his posture is relaxed with his arm resting across the back of the seat behind Lucy. His hand dropped, cupping her shoulder, his fingers slowly stroking and caressing her bare skin. With every flex, the cuff of the cotton around his bicep is stretched to the max, the ink on his skin dancing. I’d like to ignore the pang of annoyance that hits me, but damn there’s no denying it. You see, in my opinion, he’s far too close to her, far too handsy and it’s simply not acceptable when he’s meant to be cleaning up his act.
“Hopeless,” he sniggers, using the name that I thought I’d left behind in youth. “What brings you here? I wouldn’t have thought that this was your scene.”
“It’s a sports bar. What’s not to like?”
“You know, the fact that it’s full of people, having fun and socialising. From what I can remember you were a bit of a social misfit.” Obviously, he’s trying to get a rise out of me, but hell, I’m not that girl anymore.
“Wait!” Lucy interjects. “You two know each other?”
