Page 28 of Floored

"I'll get out of your hair." She patted my face as she passed. "Use your manners, Jude Michael McAllister. Open doors, pull out chairs, and don't attack her as soon as she walks in, all right? You ask her questions and listen to the answers, treat her like a normal human being."

"As opposed to treating her like a non-human?"

"Don't get smart. You know exactly what I mean. Women aren't vessels created simply for your enjoyment because you get paid millions of pounds to kick a ball around."

I felt only slightly defensive when I answered. "I know that."

While Rebecca put away the last of the cleaning supplies and checked on the dinner she'd popped into the oven, I bounded up the stairs to my bedroom to change. Mine was the biggest room in the house, with large windows overlooking the stretch of green grass in the garden. Smack in the middle was a king-size bed decorated in shades of gray. As I tossed the offending T-shirt into the wash basket, I thought for the thousandth time about the best way to tell Lia about what I did.

It was the part I was least looking forward to. The fact she hadn't recognized me, that she thought I was normal, was a huge part of the appeal.

Football to her meant a choice, something you might like or you might not. And if you didn't like it, you simply chose something else.

Football here was embedded in our lives. It was a culture running in your bloodstream, not just a match that you flipped to if you were bored. And as a nod to that, given I'd have to admit what I did sooner rather than later, I reached into the wardrobe and grabbed one of my bright blue Shepperton shirts. The logo on the chest was small, so it wasn't like I'd be opening the door wearing a full kit with my name on it.

"Jude," Rebecca called. "You have a visitor."

"Oh shit," I whispered, tugging the shirt on. By the time I reached the bottom of the steps, my entire body felt charged with excitement. No, it wasn't ideal for my housekeeper to be the one greeting her at the door, but she was here, and that was what mattered.

Rebecca said something that made Lia laugh, and the sound of it had me smiling.

They stood by the front door, and in the full light of my home, she was even more beautiful than I remembered. Her hair—which had been long and curling down her back the last I'd seen her—was pulled back off her face.

She was wearing something yellow, but to be honest, I didn't really care what she was wearing.

"Don't let him take credit for the dinner, my dear," Rebecca whispered loudly with a hand on Lia's shoulder. "That's my secret recipe, and he's an absolute disaster in the kitchen."

Lia's eyes met mine, the blue of them so deep it was like a gut punch. She smiled. "Duly noted."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Atkinson," I said. "Have a lovely evening."

Rebecca gave me a warning look, and I knew that even in that brief window of time, she found herself just as charmed by Lia as I had been. "It was wonderful meeting you, dear," she said to Lia.

Lia smiled. "You too."

Rebecca left, closing the door quietly behind her. And it was then I noticed Lia's fingers knitted tightly together in front of her and the high color in her cheeks.

She was nervous.

"Come on in," I told her. "Would you like something to drink? I've got red and white, if you want wine."

Lia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I actually wouldn't mind some water, if that's okay. Still or sparkling, doesn't matter."

"Of course."

I went to get her a bottle from the fridge, and from the corner of my eye, I saw her wander around the family room, looking at pictures of me and my brother over the years. She stopped at a small white frame and picked it up.

The photo had been taken years ago, after my first game as a top-tier player. I'd changed and showered, so I wasn't in my gear, but Lewis and I were both grinning widely, showing off our Shepperton shirts. There were no smiling parent pictures along the same vein, so she could look all she wanted for more hints of my family, but she'd not find a single one. Life was complicated, and the idea of trying to tiptoe into that conversation with Lia—about my job or my parents—felt just a little bit impossible.

Knowing what I did, it would change the dynamic between us, and suddenly, I found myself wanting to protect this small piece of reality.

I'd tell her. Eventually.

She set the frame down and met me in the kitchen just as I grabbed a second bottle of water for myself.

"Your house is beautiful," she said.

"Thank you."

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