Scored (30 page)

I gulped down a mouthful of water and stared at the pitch.

“Exclusive interview?” Phil said, creasing his brow and wrinkling his nose.

My interest in the guys raking the grass in front of the goals increased. It really was fascinating to see what they did to the grass before the game began.

“You didn’t tell me about that.” Phil sounded both shocked and confused.

“Well it wasn’t exclusive, really, just a few comments about how the team were coping and what the starting line up was today.”

“You did an exclusive interview with Lewis Tate and you didn’t think it an interesting enough nugget of information to share with me?” Hurt rang through his voice.

A wretched, guilty feeling settled in my stomach. “I would have, it just slipped my mind, what with all the excitement.”

Phil squeezed his lips into a tight line. Rubbed his forehead and glanced down at his shoes.

“Ah, well, I’ll just leave you guys to it,” Ted said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Nicky.”

My ankle suddenly throbbed. I sat and placed my match-day program and iPhone on my lap. Put the bottle of water on the floor at my feet.

Phil dropped heavily on the chair next to me. “So what did he say?”

“Who.”

“Tate, for God’s sake.”

“Just, you know, the team were holding up well, excited but anxious.”

“And exactly where did you interview him? You’ve been bed-bound for days.”

I found an elastic band in my jeans pocket, scooped up my hair and twisted it into a ponytail. Shit, what was I supposed to say to that? That I’d interviewed Lewis Tate while he’d had his head resting on my breasts? That he’d been tired from making love but not too tired to fondle my nipples. That was hardly the answer Phil was looking for.

My iPhone trilled to life. Still looping the band around my hair, I glanced down at where it sat on my lap.

Lewis smiled up at me from the screen, holding his morning tea and lounging in the Presidential Suite. His first name flashed across the bottom in bold black letters.

I dropped my hair and grabbed the phone.

It was too late.

Once glance at Phil and I knew he’d seen everything he needed to.

“What the fuck,” he said, widening his eyes, “is Lewis Tate doing calling you?”

“It’s not what you think, please, Phil…” My heart tripped over itself.

“How come the captain of England has your number? And where did you get that picture?” His mouth hung open. I could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. “He’s supposed to be on the pitch in a few minutes’ time not making calls.”

“I know, I have to take this, but I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

He shook his head. Disbelief flashed in his eyes. “Really.”

“Yes, really.” I snatched the phone to my ear.

“Nicky?” Lewis’ voice was echoing and tense.

“Yes, hang on.” I stepped away, holding onto the back of a couple of chairs as I did so. “Are you okay?”

“I feel sick.”

“Why? Are you ill?” Panic welled within me.

“No, no, it’s just hit me, that’s all. We have to win this thing. We’ve come so far. The fans have come so far with us.”

I glanced at Phil. He was staring at me, but he was too far away to hear what I was saying.

“It will be fine,” I said. “The team are playing better than ever.”

“Yeah, I know, they’re incredible.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the locker room. Everyone has just headed to the tunnel to line up.” He paused. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

A lovely warm fuzzy feeling settled in my belly. He just wanted to hear my voice. I stared down at the entrance to the tunnel. Imagined I had X-ray vision and could see him standing in the locker room, his red kit clean and his long, strong muscles warmed up and ready for action. “Lewis, you’ll be great. I know you will be. And whatever happens, as long as you’ve thrown one hundred percent effort into it, that’s all anyone can ask of you.”

“I suppose so.”

On his end of the line I heard shouting.

“Now go out there and score some goals,” I said.

“I’ll try.”

“And whatever happens…” I hesitated. “However today ends, it won’t change the fact that I love you.”

For a moment it was like my ears had been stuffed with cotton wool. My vision blurred and the noise of the packed stadium faded. I’d said it, I’d told him what was in my heart. I’d had no choice, it couldn’t stay a secret for another second.

“Tate, where the fuck are you? Get your ass out here.” Fellows’ voice blasted away my moment.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Yes, of course. Good luck.”

The line went dead and my screen flicked back to normal. I dragged in a deep breath and noticed my hands were trembling. Had I just ruined everything by telling him I loved him moments before the match of the decade? What if he hated me for getting all girly and heavy when he was about to take on the might of Spain’s best players? But more importantly, what if he didn’t love me? The sentiment hadn’t been returned.

That thought didn’t bear thinking about.

I limped back and sat next to Phil. Took a sip of water and tried to ignore the hollow feeling growing in my belly. A void that could only be filled by one person; no one else would ever compare.

“So,” Phil said. “How is the captain doing?” He was sitting with his arms crossed and a black expression on his face.

“They’re just about to come onto the pitch.”

He turned to me. “Lewis Tate is Peter bloody Piper, isn’t he?”

There was no denying it. Again, the truth had to come out, to Phil at least. I pressed my knuckles over my lips and nodded.

“I knew that fucking name was made up. I thought you’d said it as a way of blowing me off but all the time you really did have a boyfriend, and not only that it’s Lewis Tate, the man the whole country wants a piece of.”

“Shh, be quiet, will you.” I glanced around. Luckily, no one was taking any notice of our conversation.

“I just can’t believe it. How long has it been going on?”

“I don’t know, since the beginning of the tournament.”

“Blimey, what did you do, stalk him at the Donbass? Seduce him or something?”

“No I didn’t, actually, it was the other way round.” I pursed my lips in annoyance. “He sought me out.”

“Well I suppose I can’t blame him for that.” He slotted his shades over his eyes and stared out at the pitch.

“Phil,” I said, covering his clenched fist with my palm. “I’m sorry. I should have been more honest. But it’s complicated, hardly like a normal couple meeting and dating. Fellows is…”

“Fellows will make you the center of a witch hunt if England don’t win today and he finds out you’ve been distracting his star player.”

“I know.” An icky taste filled my mouth. I took a swig of water to wash it away. “He hates me already.”

“All the more reason for lover-boy to get results then.”

I felt numb as the players came onto the pitch. Spain in pure white, England in red. Lewis walked ahead of his team, holding the hand of a small girl with pigtails. She was beaming from ear to ear and her tiny stature made him look all the taller. Side by side with him was the Spanish captain; he, too, held hands with a child.

“Though I suppose,” Phil said with a sigh, “I couldn’t have lost you to a better bloke.” He tipped his mouth into a half smile.

A glimmer of hope that I hadn’t lost his friendship sparked within me. “He is a great bloke,” I said, “he’s not just a footballer who can be cold-shouldered with the press. He’s got so many layers to him. He’s kind and considerate, and funny and…”

“Whoa, whoa, you’ve got it bad.”

“I think I have.”

“But what about him? Is he just fooling around or is it more?”

The memory of my confession minutes ago filled my mind. What was I to Lewis? It was a good question. When I was with him he made me feel like I was the center of his world. But looking at him now, on a pitch with sixty thousand people watching and goodness only knew how many more million watching on TV, I knew that couldn’t possibly be the case. How could he switch on and off from what he was? Being the best of the best took up so much of his time and energy. It was more than a game, it was a way of life.

I looked at Phil. He’d lifted his glasses to the top of his head and was studying me intensely.

“I’m not sure what I am to him.”

“I’d hate to see you get hurt,” he said.

“I’d hate to be hurt.”

We sat silent for a moment.

“I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone, you know,” Phil said, sipping his water.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged as he screwed the lid back on the bottle. “If you’d told me what was going on.”

“I didn’t know that, or at least to start with I didn’t.”

“That was him, wasn’t it, at the cathedral?”

“Yes.” Oh my God. The cathedral. What I’d just done to Lewis. Imagine if Phil had wandered in while I’d been sucking his cock.

“I knew there was something odd going on there.”

“Just goes to prove you’re a great journalist when it come to sniffing out stories.”

“I can be a friend too, Nicky. I don’t have to write everything down and make it hit the headlines.”

I had a sudden rush of affection for him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know that now. You’re a good friend, the best. I honestly couldn’t have coped this last month without you.”

“That’s me, always the friend.”

A sudden roar from the crowd snagged our attention. The match had begun.

 “Here we go,” he said, producing his usual pencil and notepad. “Let the battle commence.”

My head spun as I watched the ball flashing around the pitch. Players darted after it, stole it, lost it. The English goal post was hit twice in the first ten minutes. Another inch and we could be losing. Luckily, this seemed to perk up the game and Clare and Lewis took good shots, though unfortunately the Spanish goalkeeper saved them.

By halftime the score was nil to both teams. The sun had finally slipped from the sky and the floodlights gave the pitch a surreal glow. I was tired just from watching Lewis charging around. His energy seemed to be limitless. He was always on the move, making sure he was in the right place at the right time.

Phil got us a beer, as had become his habit, and I felt sad this would be my last time in the Ukraine watching a match with him. Hopefully our paths would cross again professionally, and even more so, I hoped we’d stay in touch as friends despite my deception.

The second half kicked off with a burst of determination from the Spanish. Their captain blasted up the wing, passed to a center-mid who took a shot. The Spanish fans erupted as the ball hit the back of the net. The English fans groaned.