Page 3 of Watched

Fuck me.

“Who are they?” I ask my father.

“Sergio Cota,” he nods to the man with his dark hair pulled into a bun, “and Rome Aston. Rome was an exception and drafted at seventeen. Number one pick of his year.”

“Incredible talent,” Shane—Dad’s business partner adds as he steps up to the table.

Rome Aston.

Rome turns, and I cock my head to peer past the couple in front of me. His features are defined yet soft, an incredibly rare contrast I’ve not ever witnessed.

Rome takes a seat on the stool, lowering the microphone to his lap, nervously rubbing his thumb up and down the side. Sergio lifts the microphone in my peripheral, but, fuck, I couldn’t drag my eyes away from Rome if I tried. Him sitting in that position—clothed, even—would make a fucking masterpiece.

Rome’s bright green eyes flicker over the crowd, the thudding in my ears fading when he lifts the microphone. “It’s been a good season so far,” he starts, and an audible groan passes my lips at his deep, silky voice. “With two rookies coming in, I believe they’ve adjusted well,” Rome finishes.

“They’ve been put though some paces,” Sergio muses, gesturing to Rome.

The crowd laughs, and Rome flashes a gorgeous grin.

Dimples. He has fucking dimples. Christ.

His left hand raises to point to the crowd, and I study the tattoo sleeve on his left forearm. A leafless tree and a dead rose. Interesting. There’s more ink on his bicep, but it’s under his sleeve, so I can’t see it.

“Is there any advice you gave the rookies before their first game at the start of the season?” I hear a young girl ask. “And how nervous were you when you started?”

“Very nervous,” he explains lightly. “The first few games are about learning your team and finding your feet. I believe I told them to just enjoy it. Enjoy the crowd, the lights, relish in the feeling of your first game, because it only comes once.”

Agreeing words and claps sound around the room, my own included.

The cool London breeze stings my nose as I adjust in the outdoor seat to sit up straighter, bettering my view as the ball is kicked to Rome. The bright lights shine against his sweaty face, my cock thickening as he expertly dribbles the ball down the pitch. Another player joins him right before the goal, swiping his feet out from under him and sending him crashing sideways to the ground.

“The fuck?” I shout. “That’s a penalty.”

No whistle is blown, and the other team takes control of the ball, manoeuvring it back toward their goal. The crowd erupts in anger, all of us aware no call there was complete bullshit.

Rome pushes off the grass, stains covering his jersey and shorts.

Those shorts. Fuck me.

He moves toward the ref, tapping his finger to his temple. Although I can’t hear his words from this distance, I can read his lips. “Are you fucking stupid?”

His irate body towers over the smaller man, his hands and mouth moving frantically as he points to where he just was. I grind my teeth when the ref pulls out a yellow card, holding it in the air. The large screen across the stadium displays Rome’s raged expression and the refs clearly mouthed words. “Do you want a red?” Rome’s lips twitch in anger as he turns to walk away.

After two more minutes, I’m leaning against the railing, cursing under my breath when the opposing team scores.

3-3. Fuck.

There’s ten gruelling minutes of back and forth, and then I straighten as the ball travels through the air toward Rome. He controls it through an opposing player’s legs, driving it straight into the goal. He stops his momentum quickly, the screen across the stadium displaying his face as he turns to the ref with a smug smirk, lifting a finger to his lips to shush.

A grin spreads across my lips. Bratty little thing.

Dad chuckles beside me. “So, what do you think?”

“I don’t need to see the analytics. They’re a winning team.”

“I’m thinking fifty percent ownership.”

“Do it.”