Page 46 of Surrender
SOME SAY SEX AND FOOTBALLdo not mix. Considering I just played the game of my life today, I say, sign me up for thirds, please.
Our boot studs clack against the concrete of the stadium tunnel as we make our way off the pitch at Chelsea Football Club. Matches at Stamford Bridge in South West London are always intense. The Blues fans are notoriously known as glory hunters and Chelsea has had an incredible season. So the fact that I stopped a shot from their star striker, Vince Sinclair, with only twenty seconds remaining means I’m not getting any smiles from these fans.
The atmosphere in the tunnels after games is always night and day different than it is before games. Before a match, it’s like a family reunion. Lots of matey pats on the back and memories tossed back and forth between old teammates. Often times, there’s some youth group or fans being escorted out by the host team. The energy is buzzing with intensity and excitement.
After a match, it’s another matter entirely. We’re forced to make our way off the pitch, side by side through a single hallway. The losing team is pissed off because they lost. The winning team is euphoric because they won. Everyone is at completely different emotional levels with testosterone-driven adrenaline bubbling beneath the surface. This means trash-talking and fights happen quite regularly in the tunnels. Tonight the air is thick with the tension of someone itching to throw a punch.
I’m just itching to see Sloan again.
We saw each other a couple more times after our blindfold experiment that was a smashing success on all levels, but now I haven’t seen her for an entire week. She said she was going to be travelling for work and wouldn’t be due back until next Monday. I thought it might kill me, but her sexy texts and one epic phone sex session have kept me functioning.
This letting go of control is actually working for me. She makes the rules. She sets the times. She goes home every night. I’m literally at her mercy and I’ve never been more sexually satisfied. Hearing her confident voice through the phone line, seeing her eyes light up with strength…It’s the ultimate aphrodisiac. She’s a total tease when she wants to be, and she seems to really get off on edging my cock, which turns me on even more. I’m relishing in the pleasure it brings her and having orgasms I didn’t even know existed.
It is the perfect arrangement.
And thank fuck she’s back in two days because I feel like a starved carnivore that hasn’t had meat for days. I’ll stay in London through Sunday night dinner at Dad’s. Then Monday morning, I’ll be on the first train home to prepare for a night of debauchery with Sloan—my fucking gorgeous Treacle.
Vince Sinclair suddenly jogs past me in the tunnel and aggressively bumps shoulders with Hobo, who’s a few steps in front of me.
“Oh, I beg your pardon for being totally fucking visible!” Hobo exclaims and pushes forward at Vince’s retreating frame.
I reach out and yank Hobo’s shoulders back, forcing him to fall in line beside me. Vince turns on his heel, walking backwards and smiling the same shitty smile he always has on the pitch. He’s known for being a cocky sod. Fans either love him or hate him.
His dark eyes slide in my direction, losing all humour and pinning me with a murderous glare. I stare back with indifference. I’m too old to get sucked into the bullshit with newbies. Fights only happen between players who are insecure about their place on the pitch. Vince’s contract was nearly sold last year, so he’s what I call a flailing guppy in football, trying to make a splash back into the sea.
Vince’s teammates push him to keep walking. Thankfully, he begrudgingly concedes. I exhale and try to shake the anxiety riddling my nerves. Vince is a prat, but it doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got one past me tonight. He’s fast and two-footed and difficult to predict. My tackle on him at the end could have very easily turned into a penalty kick for Chelsea, which would have fucked us royally.
But the call wasn’t made despite Vince’s dramatics on the ground or his obnoxious arguing with the ref. That means we were able to hold our victory over Chelsea one-nil.
Hobo gives my shoulder a shove. “Jaysus, I hate that guy. I was glad you took him down, but you gave us all heart attacks when you did it in the box like that.”
I shoot him a moody scowl. “I knew what I was doing.” The truth is, Vince is a hell of a lot faster than me. I’m finding a lot of strikers are nearly getting past me these days. I’m thirty-two years old. In the world of football, that’s grandpa status. The last couple of years, I’ve had to adjust my defence to keep up.
We turn down the hallway toward our changing room where a mass of cameramen, photographers, and media personnel are standing outside the door. I intend to pass by without a word, but a female journalist who looks shockingly like Sloan catches my eye.
“Gareth! What do you have to say about rumours that you and all of your brothers will be selected to play for England in the World Cup this summer?”
My steps falter as the woman arches a perfectly plucked brow at me. Several of my teammates pause and gawk at the question my agent has been calling his wet dream coming true. The headline potential of four brothers playing for England in the World Cup would be the endorsement deal of a lifetime, but the actuality of it happening is less likely than me going back to play for my father.
I stop in front of the woman and all the other cameras press in around us, one even bumping me in the shoulder. “Where do you hear these rumours?”
The brunette smiles a flirty smile and shrugs. “Around.”
I nod knowingly, my eyes narrowed. “There’s a lot of season left to be played before World Cup selections are made.” I know this better than anyone. I was a qualifier for the World Cup team four years ago, but I sprained my ankle at the tail end of the season. It was a minor injury in the scope of my career, but it ruined my chance to play for England.
“Well, your brother Camden’s hat-trick for Arsenal tonight pretty much sealed his spot on the team.”
My brows lift. Now I’m itching to get to my locker to see for myself. Normally, the very first thing I do after a match is walk off the pitch and check my mobile to see how my brothers played. Vi texts us updates of each other’s matches, and reading her stream of commentary during all of our games is one of my favourite things about football. I’ve been telling her for years to do a podcast, but she laughs it off.
I shoot a broad smile at the reporter. “The only thing I know to be a fact and not a rumour is that Camden would have never scored three on me.”
The other reporters roar with laughter. Then the woman smiles and nods a silent thank you as the others begin shouting follow-up questions. With a wink, I turn away from the crowd and find Hobo standing at the changing room door waiting for me.
“You are a cocky sod, you know that?” he jeers.
I shrug. “It’s a family trait.”
After finishing the post-match press conference where I was grilled about the upcoming award I’ll be receiving, I hurry out to the player parking garage to find Vi waiting in her vehicle. She smiles brightly as I hold up one finger and jog over to the waiting fans on the other side of the barrier. I hurry through about twenty autographs before I give everyone a smile and wave my goodbyes.
