It took Ryan a few seconds to get his head together before he realised she was already pulling her clothes back on, running her fingers through that sexy, dark red hair of hers. He’d never been one for those post-sex cuddles that women always seemed to like, yet he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she was up and off him in what had to be record-quick time. That was usually his trick.
‘Yeah. Yeah, okay,’ Ryan said, slightly confused by what was happening now.
‘So?’
He looked at her as he hurriedly pulled on his own clothes, still unable to shake that disappointed feeling. ‘So, what? You… you want me to go now?’
She nodded, standing by the fireplace, her arms folded, her eyes unable to meet his.
‘Jesus…’
‘Please, Ryan.’
He stood up and walked over to her, reaching out to gently touch her cheek, and even though he’d half expected her to flinch away from him, she didn’t. She stayed right where she was, but she still couldn’t look at him.
‘You’re something else, Amber. Do you know that?’ Ryan said, stepping away from her and making his way to the door.
She finally looked at him as he walked out of the living room, closing her eyes as she heard the front door close behind him. But even then, she knew it was too late. Amber Sullivan had let her guard down. Worst case scenario.
Chapter Six (#uaf1d58cd-6deb-57a0-bc2a-5e27f52ff15a)
Ryan could feel the atmosphere from the stadium outside before he even reached the tunnel; the noise and the music and the excited cheers from the thousands of fans who’d turned up to see how the returning local hero was going to fit into this beloved club of theirs. He could hear it all the second they’d stepped out of the dressing room, the decibel level rising with each step of the short walk to the tunnel. He had a lot to prove, and he knew the pitfalls that would be waiting for him if he managed to stuff up his debut appearance.
He could feel his heart racing, his stomach turning in a mixture of excited and nervous somersaults, the noise of the crowd reaching a crescendo as both teams finally approached the tunnel, standing still for a few seconds side-by-side, hands behind their backs as they took in the sheer wall of sound that seemed to reverberate around the stadium outside.
Ryan smiled as a couple of his new teammates patted him on the shoulder and wished him good luck, whilst a player on the opposing team whom he’d never got along with threw him an altogether different expression that conveyed the hope that he’d break a leg or smash a shin bone. Ryan ignored him. Nothing like that was going to get to him today. Today he was focused, totally on his game, ready to prove that he was going to deliver everything he’d promised.
He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, opening them quickly as more music blared out from the stadium tannoy system signalling the players’ cue to run out and get this match underway. And as Ryan jogged out of the tunnel, out onto a perfect pitch, the roar of the crowd was almost deafening. But it was exactly that which gave him the will to play this game to the best of his ability. It was that feeling only a stadium-full of football fans could give a player like him – a feeling of absolute determination not to let them down. He’d do it for them, and show them he was worth every single penny of those multi-million pounds this club had forked out for him. Ryan Fisher was home.
‘There’s no doubt about it, the guy can play football,’ Ronnie said, leaning against the small corner bar in the Players’ Lounge as the post-match crowd started to drift in. Everybody from journalists and sports reporters to pundits, players’ wives, friends and girlfriends would congregate in the Players’ Lounge to dissect the match, catch up with people they hadn’t seen in a while or, in the case of some of those aforementioned wives and girlfriends, bitch about somebody’s ill-advised choice of shoes, hairdo, or personalised number plate on their brand new, salmon-pink Range Rover.
‘Are you expecting somebody?’ Ronnie asked, taking a much-looked-forward-to sip of cold beer. He’d just spent the best part of two hours stuck in a commentary box and he was parched. The cups of tea he’d been given during the game just weren’t going to cut it anymore.
‘Hmm? Sorry?’ Amber said, turning to face him. ‘Did you say something?’
‘You keep looking at that door as if you’re expecting somebody to come through it.’
‘No I don’t.’ Amber frowned, her voice a touch more defensive than she’d wanted it to be.
‘Yeah. You do,’ Ronnie went on, taking another sip of beer. ‘So, when did you sleep with him, then?’
Amber almost choked on her lager. ‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie! How the hell do you know I’ve slept with Ryan Fisher?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ronnie said, leaning back against the bar again. ‘But you’ve just admitted it now.’
‘Shit! I hate you, do you know that?’ She took a long drink of lager. ‘Thursday night, if you must know.’
‘And you haven’t spoken to him since?’
‘Only when I grabbed a few words with him seconds after the match for News North East. Professional capacity only. In front of the camera wasn’t really the right time to discuss our sex life.’
‘So, you’ve got one, then?’
‘Got what?’ Amber asked, still somewhat distracted.
‘A sex life. Me on Wednesday night, Ryan Fisher on Thursday…’
‘You’re making me sound like some kind of slapper. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Well,’ Ronnie sighed. ‘I don’t want to say I told you so, kiddo…’
‘Then don’t. Because it was me who sent him packing, if you must know.’
Ronnie looked at her, frowning slightly. ‘Huh?’
‘He came to see me at work, I invited him round to my place, he looked hot – he looked really hot, actually – we had sex, then I told him to go. Simple as that.’
‘Why?’ Ronnie asked, wanting to ask so many questions but thinking better of it. She didn’t look as though she was in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition.
Amber looked over towards the door again, not caring that she was making it obvious now. ‘I got scared. I let my guard down, and I let it down in front of Ryan fucking Fisher, of all people.’ She took another drink of lager and slammed her glass down on the bar, putting her head in her hands. ‘Jesus, Ronnie. What have I done? I slept with one of the most notoriously arrogant, self-centred footballers there’s ever been, he’s probably told God knows how many people, and now my “no footballers” rule is tarnished forever.’
‘Wasn’t it tarnished the second you slept with me?’
‘You don’t count, Ronnie.’
‘Gee, thanks, Amber,’ Ronnie replied, a touch sarcastically.
‘You know what I mean,’ Amber sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. If the truth be told, she hadn’t really wanted to come to the match today, but she’d had to work, and she was nothing if not professional. Any personal feelings towards Ryan Fisher that she may be experiencing right now had to be pushed aside. She was just having a bit of trouble managing that.
‘Look, Amber, sweetheart. This ridiculous “no footballers” rule that you gave yourself was pointless anyway.’
‘Was it?’ Amber asked, looking up at him sharply. ‘How’s that, then?’
‘Because you’re around them all the time. The law of averages says you’re probably going to end up becoming involved with one at some point in your life.’
‘Well, thank you, Gypsy Rose Ronnie.’
Ronnie pulled a face and Amber poked her tongue out at him, her head turning to check out the door once more in a reaction that was almost reflex-driven by some kind of sixth sense, because just as she turned her head, he walked in. Tall, tanned, handsome and hot. Ryan Fisher. And practically every female in the room stopped what they were doing to stare at him. He had that kind of aura about him. But his eyes had locked straight onto hers, staring at her, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. A mouth that had been covering her breasts and sending her to heaven only a couple of nights ago. And just the thought of that made her shiver, made her want to turn away and try and forget what she was feeling, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.
‘I’d better go grab a few words with him,’ Amber swallowed, keeping her eyes on Ryan in case he disappeared into a crowd that was quite obviously very pleased to see him. Despite it being called the Players’ Lounge, it wasn’t all that often that any players actually came in there, so when they did they always attracted attention. And Ryan Fisher was hot property today. Hotter than usual, if that was actually possible. ‘On a professional level, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Ronnie said, arching an eyebrow before turning his attention to a fellow pundit who’d just arrived in the lounge.
Amber quickly weaved her way through the growing crowd of people now amassing in the small but comfortable Players’ Lounge, over towards Ryan, who was talking to his new boss. Her heart raced as she tried to adopt her professional stance and forget all about Thursday evening, after all, he probably had. There was no doubt that he’d be moving onto the next conquest at some point tonight when he did the usual footballer’s thing of celebrating a home win with a stupidly expensive night out. And the women, of course, would be queuing up. Shit! Why did that actually bother her?
As she approached Ryan, she accidentally caught the eye of Red Star’s new manager, Jim Allen. He’d come over to the UK from Washington DC over twenty years ago, a young and extremely talented soccer player who’d been lucky enough to play for some of the biggest clubs in the world in his time – including Newcastle Red Star, where he’d spent the final few years of his professional playing career. But he hadn’t just played in England; he’d also spent time in Spain and Germany, not to mention numerous international appearances for his country. He loved the game, and he’d been a great player in his day, but now he was making a name for himself as a pretty successful manager. And to say the Red Star fans had been over the moon when he’d been appointed as the new man in charge of their club was an understatement. Not only had they acquired Ryan Fisher, one of the greatest players around right now, they’d also managed to steal Jim Allen away from one of the biggest, most successful London clubs.
Jim Allen had come into management fairly young – at the age of thirty-five – but he’d already confirmed he was a force to be reckoned with over his thirteen or so years as a manager. Football was in his blood. He’d been a great player, and now he was proving to be an accomplished and well-respected manager; a natural people person, a savvy businessman. And it also didn’t hurt that Red Star had recently been bought out by a large, New York-based consortium who were more than happy to have a fellow American at the helm.
