Page 27 of Floored

Funny how being abandoned voluntarily by one of your birth parents colored your judgment on stuff like that. With that thought ... my thumbs flew across the screen.

Me: I'm actually open the next two evenings if you are. I'd love to see your neck of the woods.

Jude responded almost immediately.

Jude: What a very American phrase, but tomorrow evening is free in my 'neck of the woods'. If you're good with eating dinner at my place, I can send you the address.

Me: Send away.

8

JUDE

I never usually gave much thought to what someone thought of my house. Usually being the operative word. My housekeeper, Mrs. Atkinson (whose first name was Rebecca, but I never dared called her that), tutted at me all day while I hovered around her, cleaning behind where she'd just done.

"Bloody footballer," she muttered, swatting at me with a dusting thing/weapon. "Go kick something and let me do my job."

"She's never been here, and I like this one. I told you that, right?"

She rolled her eyes. Yes. I'd told her.

If fans of Shepperton FC, the mighty Shorthorns, had any idea that their midfielder's only friend was his fifty-five-year-old housekeeper, they'd piss themselves.

"If you're so concerned with what the young lady thinks," Rebecca said with the patience of a saint and the advice of a bloody therapist, "go to the market and get her some flowers or buy her some chocolates."

While she dusted the rest of the family room, I sat on the large gray couch. "You don't think that's too cliché?"

"If a man bought me flowers and chocolates, I'd spend the night flat on my back without blinking."

Groaning, I covered my face. "Mrs. A, have pity."

She cackled. "Get out of here while I finish, young man. You should go do drills in the garden. The way you were handling the ball on Monday was a tragedy. You're slipping in your old age."

"Et tu?" I asked dryly, standing from the couch. "If I'm old, what does that make you?"

"Well-seasoned and incredibly smart." She eyed me over the edge of her glasses. "Is that what you're wearing?"

I glanced down at my white T-shirt and black trousers. "What?"

"You look like you're going to serve her coffee, not romance her." Rebecca set down the dusting wand. "And that reminds me, are you inviting this nice American girl over here for a quickie?"

I whistled. "Awfully judgy of you, Mrs. Atkinson. Maybe that's why she wants to come." I pointed a finger at her. "Plus, you have no idea. She's nice."

"Oh, she's nice if you've invited her to your home." The dusting resumed. "I've seen some of the tarts you've wandered off with over the years."

"Yes, when I was nineteen and stupid and let my first year of playing go to my head. You know I haven't done that in years." My phone rang, and Lewis's number appeared. I sent it to VM but lifted the screen for her to see. "I'm too busy trying not to lose my bloody job to other big-headed nineteen-year-olds to sleep around anymore. Besides, those tarts don't care as much about you when you're old and your money's gone."

"I know how much you make, young man. It's nowhere near gone."

She was right. Even though I was in the last year of my current contract with Shepperton, my payslip had a lot of zeros on it, and I had every reason to believe that I'd get a renewal for at least a year or two, even if it meant they'd transfer me to another interested team. As long as we could stay in the top tier, at least. Our last two wins helped, moving us a bit higher up the table.

I fucking hated disappearing in the middle.

With a glance at my watch, I stood from the couch. "She'll be here shortly. I suppose I better go change my shirt."

"Smart boy." She paused. "You didn't make her take the train from Oxford, did you?"

"No. She said a neighbor let her borrow her car."

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