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“Now, folks.” The referee inserted a heavy pause. “I want a nice, clean game. All right?”
Like anyone would tell him that no, what they wanted was an ugly, dirty game. Comeon.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Alex shielded his eyes against the sun, watching the traditional handshake between Jeff and Oliver Bramwell. Sportsmanship suitably demonstrated, the two captains headed to their respective spots as the referee checked his watch with the air of someone who wanted it known that time answered to him, not the other way around. The same thing was true for the two teams lined up in formations that differed slightly—two forwards on Alex’s team facing Manchester United’s lone striker.
Lee Taylor.
Alex let his gaze rest on him for a beat, then he returned his attention to the referee.
Come the fuckon.
When the whistle pierced the air, the crowd in Liverpool’s packed stadium roared like a ravenous beast. Alex’s focus shrank to the pitch in front of him.
It wason. Number one against number three, battling it out in a tight race for the top spot in the Premier League. It was a perfect day for it, too—a cloudless sky in early May, with the sun beating down as if it held a personal grudge against any pale-skinned Brits in the crowd. A sea of red jerseys filled the stands.
On the field, it was a different story. The visiting players were decked out in dark green away shirts, clearly instructed by their coach to fight for every inch on the pitch. Got to hand it to Ben Jimmer, he knew how to turn a team around. In just over a year of training Manchester United, he’d yanked their sinking star up by its bootstraps and brought them back to Champions League standard. And Lee Taylor was key to Jimmer’s strategy.
Not today, though. Not if Alex could help it.
It was a hard-fought match from the get-go, both coaches shouting instructions and spectators on the edge of their seats. Overpriced beer and soggy chips were forgotten in favour of cheering on the teams, the rhythmic beat of drums and clapping a steady hum in Alex’s head. Lee dashed in and out of the penalty area, light on his feet, blink-and-you’d-lost-him. Alex didn’t intend to blink and lose him—it was rare for him to mark one specific player, but for the current top scorer of the Premier League, he was willing to make an exception. Sure, when they’d last faced off against each other, Lee had come out on top and he’d only improved since then.But so had Alex.
At eighteen, Alex had been slight and gangly, hadn’t yet grown into his new height. Now, some five years later, he’d filled out, and he had no qualms about using his entire body to block Lee and intercept his shots. While Lee might be faster, Alex had strength on his side along with a healthy dose of lingering resentment, so whenever they clashed, tension stretched thick. It was personal, all right.
Another clash. Alex squinted against the sun in his eyes as they jostled for control of the ball, Lee twisting around his own axis, feigning to the right and darting to the left as he took aim. Alex moved with him, got his foot between the ball and the goal.
Corner.
“Fuck,” Lee muttered.
Alex didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Life’s a bitch, eh?”
“Piss off.”
“Thrilling conversation,” Alex said. “Let’s do this again soon.”
Lee’s eyes narrowed, and objectively, Alex could admit that he was really bloody fit—dark hair and equally dark eyes framed by the strong planes of his face. He was an arse, though. Had been at twenty when they’d first met, with a chip on his shoulder that should have given him chronic back pain, and clearly, nothing had changed.
“Just try to keep up, pretty boy,” Lee threw back, and fuck him. Really, just …fuckhim for hitting Alex exactly where it hurt, like he’d plucked the shadows right out of Alex’s mind. Both then and now.
This time, Alex’s grin took conscious effort. “I’m just getting started.”
Lee flicked him a dismissive glance and trotted towards the penalty spot. Yeah, because Alex was about to let him out of his immediate vicinity.Dream on, Taylor.
Following on Lee’s heel, Alex stayed obnoxiously close as everyone lined up for the corner. While Lee was far better with the ball on his feet, he’d scored several headers already throughout the season, and Alex had no intention of letting him add to that tally.
Lee took a step away. Alex sidled up to him again.
“Do you fuckingmind?” Lee hissed, and Alex shook his head and aimed for a parody of his trademark smile—wide and happy, dimples pressing into his cheeks.
“Not in the least.”
In lieu of a response, Lee stuck out his elbows.
The referee blew his whistle, and the ball came sailing towards the goal area. The noise of the crowd rushed in Alex’s ears as he jumped in the air with everyone else, shoulder bumping against Lee’s.Ball, where’s the ball, where’s the fuckingball? There!It was Kili who cleared it, bouncing it over to Jeff, who chested it down and sprinted towards the other goal with two of their teammates flanking him, Manchester United’s defence rushing into position.
Alex ran after them, moving over to the right wing,go go go. In Manchester’s goal, Oliver Bramwell made himself as tall as possible, arms out, radiating calm confidence. Bloody national goalkeeper he was too, and Jeff passed the ball to Selim, back to Jeff, and over to Chris. A defender got in the way, but Chris managed to get the ball to Alex, who started forward, saw a gap—and Oliver Bramwell blocked the shot, bloody world-class parade, damn it. But the ball was still hot, dropping right in front of Jeff, and then it wasin!
