Page 13 of Blindsided
“I’m not taking lessons from you on the English vocabulary, okay?” I snap defensively as my chest heaves with anxiety because admitting these suppressed feelings I’ve had for Javier for months feels like I’ve shit out a giant elephant. Forget shitting kittens. This admission is shitting an elephant. Although, I still haven’t told anyone that I’m an actual virgin, and that’s probably where most of my anxiety comes from.
All of these thoughts cause my balance to sway. Mac notices, and in a split second, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and begins leading me towards my bedroom door. “Why don’t you go to bed and we can talk more about all of this tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to go to sleep,” I pout. “I want to die from embarrassment because that entire party thinks I’ve done a dirty Sanchez.”
“Everyone was drunk. Don’t even worry about it, Cookie.”
“I need a cookie is what I need.”
“I’ll bring you cookies for breakfast tomorrow,” Mac says, opening the door and standing at the threshold. He flips the light on and glances inside like my bedroom is a curious place he’s never seen before.
Come to think of it, the loo down the hallway is probably the closest he’s got.
“Promise you’ll bring me cookies?” I ask pathetically while slumping against the doorframe.
“Promise,” he replies with a grin and glances down at my dress. “Are you…okay to get out of that and put yourself to bed?”
My eyes go wide, and I quickly cover up my cleavage. “Yes! Crikey, I think I’ve embarrassed myself in front of you enough for one night. I don’t need to scar you for life with the sight of all my wobbly bits as well.” I shudder at the thought of Mac seeing me in my knickers.
Mac looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “Utter shite.”
“It’s notshite,” I retort. “You don’t want to be around when I take off my Spanx. I’ll look like a cast member of Cirque du Soleil, or possibly a crime scene.”
Mac’s shoulders shake with laughter as he leans in and kisses me on the head. “I’ll lock up.”
I sigh heavily and watch his large, fit frame turn and walk down the hallway to my front door. If I had an ounce of Mac’s sweet, boy-next-door charm, I would’ve totally had The Sex by now.
Something tells me I’m going to regret this, I think to myself as I turn down Freya’s street with fresh cookies and coffees sitting in my passenger seat. It’s not the treats I’m worried about. I still have seven weeks left in the off-season, so I’m going to enjoy the taste of freedom while I can.
I’m actually concerned about what I’m about to offer Freya because there’s a chance it could change everything between us, and I don’t relish that thought at all.
But my friendships are everything to me, and after seeing Freya so disappointed in her behaviour at the party, I realise I haven’t been a good friend to her at all. I feel like shite because I clearly let her “secret friend” request go on for far too long. Because of that, I never realised how hard dating and being around men is for her. So, after some serious tossing and turning in bed all night, I know exactly how I can help my pal.
Selfishly, I enjoy having Freya all to myself, though. The woman makes me smile. Aye, sure we argue more often than not, but that’s because she doesn’t take any crap from me. She is so unapologetically herself that I always know right where I stand with her, and I like being around that kind of person.
As a footballer, I’ve been traded around to different teams in the UK a fair amount. I even played in Germany for a year. All that shuffling made finding genuine friends whom I actually got on with a bit difficult. And no matter what team I played for, the women I met were always trying way too hard to please me, or they were killing themselves to look the way they thought a footballer’s WAG should look. Big, pushed-up tits, artificially plumped lips, and makeup that’s caked on so thick, you have no clue what they look like underneath.
Now that I’m well into my thirties, I feel too old for all that fake shite, and I don’t fancy wasting my time on women like that. I think that’s why when I met Freya at Kindred Spirits and her freckles shone as bright and real as her personality, I instantly took a liking to her. Not in a sexual way, mind you. To be truthful, I think I was keen on being friends with her because I was able to enjoy the company of someone who didn’t care about the world of football. For that reason, we became proper pals, and we’ve grown damn close over the past year.
Hunkering down in Freya’s flat, we’ve been able to share a lot about ourselves. Surprisingly, we’ve never really spoken about her dating life, and that fact makes me feel awful. Though, in all fairness, she hasn’t asked me about mine either. Not that there’d be much to report. Since my friends have all wifed-up in the past year, I’m in the middle of what one might call a dry spell, and my hand is practically calloused from the overtime.
Never mind me, though. It’s Cookie who needs some help, and I’m keen on being there for her. Especially if it means I can keep her away from that worm Santino, who looks at every woman like a melting ice cream cone he wants to lick. A chill runs up my spine from the memory of him rubbing himself all over her last night. She was so oblivious to his leering, it took everything in me not to bolt across the room and wrap my hands around that absolute wank’s throat. Santino and I have history. And it’s a history I’d rather Freya not know about.
Hopefully, the barista she fancies is a better prospect that I can help her with. After her performance last night, I’m imagining Freya’s dry spell has been even longer than mine. Maybe if she got laid again, she’d be a bit sweeter to me, too.
Probably not.
I smile at the thought.
I park outside her flat and use my key to get into the building. When I knock on her door, I hear the sound of Hercules’s paws sprinting down the hall and a pained yelp from Freya. In a rush to check on her, I let myself in and find my friend bouncing on one foot in the hallway outside her loo, wearing nothing but a wee towel. She’s gripping her other foot and cursing expletives up at the ceiling.
Even though this is my best mate whom I do not fancy, my eyes can’t help but lower. The towel is covering all her naughty bits, but I do get a rare view of her creamy white legs and can’t help but smile at the state of them.
“Christ, woman, if you have bonnie legs like that, why the hell are you always covering them up with long skirts and trousers?” I ask, closing the door behind me and setting the cookies and coffee on the dining room table.
Freya ignores my remark and scowls towards her bedroom where Hercules must be hiding. “Saints preserve me, Hercules, you truly are a psychotic little shit.”
I move down the hall, laughing. “Last night, you were defending your precious cat. This morning, he’s psychotic?”
