Page 4 of Watched

“I need to meet with the manager soon, but investigate that ref, would you? He’s biased against this team. I want to know why.”

I nod and look back to Rome; the game ends before the opposing team can score again. I wait until the beautiful blond moves back into the team’s tunnel and out of sight, before I slide out my phone and begin my research on Rome Aston.

Chapter three

ROME

My phone vibrates continuously with incoming messages from the team’s group chat. I pause last night’s game on my laptop and drop it to the cushion beside me. Flicking through the messages, I come to the video that sparked the heated conversation.

I had a meeting with my manager this morning, so this video is no surprise.

Yolanda Isabella—head of the Professional Game Match Official—appears to make a statement. “It has been brought to my attention, through an anonymous source, that Brian Long—a twelve-year official in the European Football League—has shown bias. During last night’s game, Mr Long appeared to target number eight, Rome Aston.”

I shake my head, the rage from that bullshit call resurfacing.

“Communications, including deleted emails and text messages between Mr Long and Rome Aston’s former coach—Jayce Scott—were presented to me early this morning. It confirmed Mr Long had accepted a cash payment for specifically targeting number eight, Rome Aston. Mr Long has been denied his request for review and terminated, effective immediately—”

I exit the video, not bothering to listen to the rest. I knew Brian was favouring our opposing teams, so I asked my coach to put in a review a week ago. Despite Brian’s best efforts, we’ve gone undefeated the last five games.

My phone vibrates again.

Connor: Tonight?

Me: I’ll be there in an hour.

An hour later, I draw my grey hood and keep my head bowed, hastily crossing the apartment lobby to tap the black key card and open the elevator. The thrashing nausea settles when I find it empty, and I step in to tap the card again, pressing the sixth-floor button.

I’ll feel like shit once this is over; I always do. I should stop coming here, let him down easy, keep the separation as civil as possible.

Closing my eyes, I draw a deep breath and shakily blow it out when the doors open. My shoes squeak on the white tile as I turn right and reach the end of the two-apartment floor. Steadying my nervous hand, I tap the card to the pad and open the heavy door, greeting unusual darkness. Moonlight spills through the balcony window, the living room furniture forming shadows on the wooden floor.

“Connor?” I call out, closing the door and reaching for the light switch. My stomach flips when a hand grips my wrist to stop me. “What are you doing?” I laugh.

He caresses my arm slowly, trailing up to my shoulder. I swallow back the unease and let my lids fall shut, relaxing back into him. His shoulders aren’t meeting mine. Why does his body feel vastly larger than last week?

A cold chill shudders my spine as harsh leather glides up my neck, leaving a damp trail as it continues to my jaw. My eyes spring open when I’m hit by a metallic smell.

Blood?

“C-Connor?” There’s a stutter in my chest when cold, hard plastic grazes my left ear, calm muffled breaths straining behind what I assume is a mask.

“Try again,” an American voice taunts in a deep chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s not dead…yet.”

“Wh-who are you?”

“Yours.”

His fingers caress to wrap around my throat and I jerk left, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the kitchen. The taunting slap of his boots launches my heart to my throat as I retreat from his drawn hood and white mask. My shoe catches, a startled noise ripping from my lips when I tumble backward.

The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I gasp, wobbling on the uneven surface. The masked figure cocks his head as I scramble off Connor and tap his body frantically, searching for his head. Locating his neck, I hold two trembling fingers to his pulse and set my other hand on his chest. A rhythmic pulse beats beneath my fingers, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“Novice move,” the figure taunts. “You just left your DNA everywhere, Rome.”

“Help!” I let out a strangled plea, swiping my hands over Connor’s body to find the source of blood.

“Tsk. Apartment’s soundproof, baby.”

His words about DNA finally sink into my panicked mind, and I retreat, holding my hands beside my head. If Connor is to report someone in his home hurting him, it’s my DNA everywhere. The door handle. His body.