Chapter One
Alex
One more disparaging word and I’d buy the entire football club just to ban Cameron and Ronan from the stadium. The only thing worse than watching your favorite team lose to a club with half the talent was listening to your best mates carry on about it.
“After this most recent and, dare I say, brutal loss,” Cameron said, his voice pitched like a commentator. “We might be headed straight for relegation.”
“Piss off,” I muttered, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my overcoat. We’d left the luxury and warmth of the hospitality suite for the bitter cold; I didn’t need him adding to my misery. Nothing made a dreary December evening worse than watching the Argonauts—the team I’d loved since I was a boy—give away another goddamn match.
Cameron turned to Ronan, holding his phone out like a mic. “Go on, King. Lay it out for us. What’s your post-match breakdown?”
Ronan snorted, narrowing his gray-green eyes in a pained expression. “It was all pish. The team looked like they’d just met each other. Couldn’t string together a single pass.”
I scowled at the truth. Around us, people swarmed out of the stadium, the opposing team’s fans singing at the tops of their lungs in celebration. “How did we lose to Salford United?” I growled. “They’re complete rubbish!”
Cameron clapped me on the chest, his curly brown hair shaking as he laughed. “You know the team always has a chance to take the league…next year.” He and Ronan snickered. I shrugged him off. “Ah, c’mon. We have to laugh about it, or we’ll cry.”
I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to shake the manager and demand why we were further away from a promotion to the Premier League than ever before.
“Maybe next month’s transfer window will bring in some players who understand the point of the game is to actually put the ball in the net,” Ronan said.
“That’s assuming the board wants to spend its money,” Cameron noted. “The cheap bastards.” He and Ronan started laughing again, falling off as I glared at them.
“I can see that vein in your head throbbing,” Ronan said to me.
“Let’s go drink until we can’t remember the score,” Cameron suggested, wrapping his arms around us. “My driver’s parked around the corner.”
“Rain check,” Ronan said. “Some of us have real responsibilities.”
“Say hi to the girls for me,” I said. “And don’t forget you still have to send us the list of what Willa wants for her birthday.”
“I’ve been given one word,” Ronan said. “Capybara. And no, it better not be the real thing.”
I laughed as Cameron saluted him. That was exactly the kind of nonsense Uncle Cam would coordinate for the six-year-old if left to his own devices. “What about you, Montgomery?” Cameron asked me. “Drinks? It’ll only be the best people, and I know for a fact that there will be MacRae whiskey available. Come on, you know you love it as much as I do. Okay, maybe not as much as me.”
I wrinkled my nose. As the owner of Valiant Sports and Entertainment, Cameron was always meeting and greeting and schmoozing. But the last thing I wanted was to be dragged to some VIP suite in central London, entertaining conversations I had no interest in, even if MacRae was served. I just wanted to be angry, and the best place to do that was surrounded by fellow fans.
I glanced down the street, drawn by the noise of a rowdy pub. We’d neared the Golden Ram—the sports pub dedicated to the Argonauts where my late grandfather, Alfie, had worked. The man had loved this team with a passion rivaling my own.
The place was completely packed, and I knew instantly that’s where I wanted to be. Crushed in the crowded bar space, sitting elbow-to-elbow with fuming fans, those who remembered the good old days. People who understood the wretched feeling swirling inside me.
“Maybe next time,” I told Cameron, inclining my head down the street. “I think I’m going to stay awhile.”
Cameron frowned like he couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Suit yourself.”
We said goodbye, and I carried on down the street, forcing my way past the crowd at the door who’d spilled onto the pavement to smoke and moan about the squad. Beyond the hazy, dimly lit entrance, the space was packed full of Argonauts memorabilia—photos of amazing penalties, lists of team rosters from decades ago, signed football tops. It felt like coming home, and I was hit by a well of grief. This was Alfie’s domain, and I didn’t want to think about the last time I’d been here. By some miracle, there was an open stool at the end of the bar.
I made a beeline for it, shouldering my way past drunk fans, but just as I was about to sit down, something slammed into me. Hard.
No, not something. Someone.
We both careened off opposite sides of the stool. I twisted around, prepared to tell the twit off, but instead of some belligerent drunk, there stood a gorgeous woman, dusting herself off. She tossed her long, red hair over her shoulder and adjusted the fitted Argonauts top. It clung to her curves in a way that should be considered illegal.
I opened my mouth, an apology on my tongue, but without even acknowledging me, she went to take the stool again like it belonged to her.
My thoughts short-circuited. “You’re having a laugh.”
She finally glanced at me. “Excuse me?”
“That was my stool,” I said, raising my voice and leaning toward her so I could be heard over the din of arguing fans.
She looked me up and down as I removed my coat and laid it on the bar. Her gaze lingered on my suit, and the hairs at the back of my neck prickled. “Didn’t you ever learn basic etiquette? Ladies first.”
“Sorry, I was a little busy learning not to be a human wrecking ball.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Listen, Cufflinks, as much as I love being rammed off stools by strangers, I’ve had a shit night. Okay?”
“I think we all have,” I pointed out. “And I didn’t ram you, you rammed me.”
The bartender walked up, placing a drink down in front of the woman. She clinked glasses with the man next to her. “After a loss like that, I need this more than you do. Just trust me.”
She hadn’t even asked for the drink, and for some reason that bothered me more than it should. This had been my grandfather’s spot, not all that long ago. Alfie had prided himself on knowing which drinks to slide across the bar when the fans were celebrating and which drinks to set out when they were mourning.
He could read the fans better than anyone.
Frustration beat at my temple, and my grief that he was gone intensified now that a different bartender stood in his place. I should have been the one handed my drink of choice without asking. I should have fit this place like a favorite football top.
“Are you going to lurk there all night?” she asked, glancing at me over her shoulder. Deep brown eyes flashed in the low lights.
I crossed my arms. “You’re still in my seat.”
“No, see,” she said, gesturing to the back of the stool. “You missed the part where it says reserved for the team’s biggest fan.”
“You’re the Argonauts’ biggest fan?”
She took a swig of her pint. “Something like that.”
I shook my head. Not bloody likely. I could name every single player on the 1967 European Cup winning team—even the ones we’d had out on loan. “All right then,” I said. “Let’s see.”
A delicate eyebrow arched up her forehead. “Let’s see what?”
“There’s no way you know more about this club than I do.” Heads turned in our direction, conversations quieting.
She threw her head back and laughed as she twisted on the seat. “Sure you want to do this?”
“Am I sure I want my stool back?”
“Are you sure you want me to embarrass you in front of all these people?” she said, rising to the challenge. “You don’t look like you ever step out of the executive suite. When was the last time you were even near the pitch?”
Christ, who did this woman think she was? She pursed her lips, and I found myself incapable of looking away. I had no business staring, but I couldn’t help it, and that cocky smirk of hers heated my blood. Beneath that there was something else too. A feeling that made my skin tingle with awareness. I leaned toward her; the jasmine and peach scent of her perfume engulfed me. “Try me.”
Oohs and aahs sounded, more patrons turning our way, eager to get in on the action. The bartender set down a fresh pint, glancing between us with interest. “How about a sip for each wrong answer and the loser buys a round for the entire pub?”
“Deal,” the woman said, holding her hand out to me. “Winner is crowned the biggest fan and the keeper of the stool.”
I took her hand, lingering a beat too long perhaps as her smile curled into something devilish. She was pretty when she smiled like that. Too bad I was going to make a fool of her. “Fine with me.”
The woman popped to her feet, pint in hand, squaring off like we were about to go ten rounds in a boxing ring. “Ready, Cufflinks?”
The crowd hooted as I brushed my finger over the gold football-shaped cufflinks Alfie had given me. I had no idea what this woman was looking so smug about. I knew this club as well as I did any spreadsheet at my office—the stats, the standings, the transfer fees. Whatever she threw at me, I’d be able to answer. That stool was going to be mine, and she and her crowd of minions were going to slump off with their tails between their legs.
“Ladies first,” I said, smirking as her eyes narrowed minutely. “Top scorer last season?”
“That’s easy,” she said, perking up. “Rianson. Twenty-six goals.”
There was a cheer and hasty applause before someone hushed the group. I wasn’t fazed. That had been an easy one.
“Your turn,” she said. “Five years ago. Captain of the team during the Carabao Cup?”
“Elliot Travers,” I shot back immediately. Her eyebrow twitched. I didn’t know if she was impressed or annoyed. “What year did the Argonauts’ logo change?”
She frowned. “What?”
Ha! I hadn’t expected to trip her up so soon, but I was a bottomless pit of knowledge, and she was playing in the deep end. “When did they start using royal blue instead of cobalt blue in the logo?”
She gaped at me. “Normal people don’t memorize facts like that.”
I settled her with a look that said drink up, woman. She wasn’t going to win this. “You’re avoiding the question.”
She ground her teeth together. “I don’t know,” she muttered as the crowd around us groaned.
I pointedly eyeballed her pint. She took a long swig from the glass, and I watched her throat work, mesmerized for a second by the long, slender neck on display. She lowered the glass, licking her lips. “Okay, Cufflinks, which member of the Blue Brigade got banned from away games for starting the ‘board’s shagging the ref’ chant?”
The Blue Brigade was composed of the most loyal Argonauts supporters—the ones who maintained their season ticket subscriptions, knew all the chants, and who spent the whole game slagging off the opposing team. But I didn’t know which of those fools had got themselves banned. “That’s not football knowledge.”
The group around us erupted. “It is!” they cried, clinking their glasses together. “For Chris we get pissed!”
“Chris McDonald,” she said, pointing to my glass. “Drink.”
I did, masking my frown behind the ale. The crowd was clearly on her side, which meant I was about to school the lot of them. “Highest attendance record last year. I’ll even help you out. The game was in May.”
She groaned, shaking her head. “You’re such a numbers guy.”
“Booooring!” someone else booed.
“Just admit you don’t know,” I said.
“Neither do half the fans that were at the game!” she cried, and the crowd laughed along with her.
A smirk tugged at my lips. “Forty-three thousand, six hundred and nineteen people.”
She glowered at me and drank. “It’s ridiculous that you know that.”
“I have a lot more where that came from.” Was she concerned? I couldn’t tell. But I liked the way she was looking at me, eyes flicking up and down like she couldn’t get enough. “It’s okay to admit you’ve got in over your head,” I said, voice low and rumbling as I leaned toward her. “Give up the stool, and I’ll put you out of your misery.”
“Not a chance,” she said, smacking her lips together. She thumped her glass down on the bar, waving her arms to rile up the crowd the way football players did on the pitch.
“That’s not going to work,” I said. “Just admit defeat.”
“Never,” she said, throwing both arms into the air, making the triangular letter A all fans did during the games. The surrounding crowd cheered louder. “What words are carved into the supply room door in the pub?” she shouted.
There was so much commotion, I had to stare at her lips to hear her properly. “How would I know that?” I yelled back.
A shit-eating grin curled up the side of her face. “It says real fans drink here!” she cried. “And you would know that if you were one!”
The crowd exploded like we’d just put a penalty away in the final minute of extra time. And apparently, that was the game-winning question. A man ripped his shirt over his head, swinging it in a circle. “Biggest fan!” he chanted. “Biggest fan!”
The entire pub was shouting and pounding their tables.
The woman bowed to their applause.
I shook my head. This was almost as rubbish as watching the Argonauts lose.
“Pay up, lad,” some old man said, clapping me on the shoulder. I sighed and slid my card across the bar. The bartender rang it up, and the crowd cheered even louder.
The woman flipped her hair off her shoulder and reclaimed the stool with a flourish. I shook my head, leaning against the bar next to her. “This entire game was fixed. You won because someone vandalized a door. That isn’t the important stuff.”
“That’s what matters to the fans,” she argued, nudging me. “Don’t be bitter. You put up a pretty good fight.”
I wasn’t bitter. I glanced at her. Okay, I was a little bitter. But mostly, I was appreciating the fact I was close enough to count every single one of her eyelashes. All in all, the view was captivating. She didn’t look away, and a coiling tension tugged us closer. “So, what’s the prize for runner-up?”
Her eyes dropped to my lips, then flitted away. She downed half her drink in one go before twisting toward me. “What kind of prize are you looking for?” she asked, those brown eyes filled with an intensity that made it difficult to swallow.
That tension twisted even tighter, and I resisted the urge to reach for her, to tilt her face up and…maybe there was still time to turn this night around. I held my hand out for hers again. “I’m Alex.”
Her lips twitched as she wrapped her hand around my palm. “Sera.”
I leaned close to her ear. “You know, I’ve got a pretty solid stool at my place. Perhaps you want to check it out?”
As I pulled away, her eyes flashed with interest. “I should definitely make sure it’s worthy of the Argonauts’ biggest fan.”
I held my arm out for her to pass. “Ladies first, then?”
She slipped off the stool and winked at me over her shoulder. “Let’s see that you keep that energy.”
I grinned, watching her saunter toward the door. Oh, tonight was going to be fun.
