Page 57 of Floored

At Lia's age, I'd been just taking the premier league by storm, one year after my transfer from the German team where I got my start. But maybe to her, that paper was the same type of thrill as hoisting a cup over my head was for me.

"What are you going to do with that fancy paper?" I asked. Groggily, she lifted her head, and I stifled a laugh at her expression. It reminded me of when my head was clenched tight between her thighs and she'd just about torn the hair from my head as she came to a screaming release a couple of days earlier. "When you finish, I mean. Take the Brontë world by storm, as it were?"

"If you want me to answer"—she hissed in a breath when I moved to the other foot—"you have to stop doing that." I held my hands up, and she exhaled heavily. "I don't know, really."

My eyebrows lifted. "Meaning ...?"

"Meaning," she drawled, "I don't know what I want to do with my degree just yet."

"Aren't you close to graduating?"

"Yup."

"With your master's degree."

She tapped a finger to her nose. "You got it."

The look I gave her was incredulous. "How do you not know?"

"Okay, judgy, a lot of people in this world go on and get their doctorate while they decide if they want to write or research or teach. It's not that uncommon." She sat up and folded her arms over that marvelous chest of hers. "I don't think there's anything wrong with not knowing."

Maybe not wrong, but I tried to wipe the look off my face of total and complete lack of comprehension. How did one not know? She’d devoted years of her life at uni studying this subject.

I chose my words carefully—pregnant woman and all. "It certainly seems like you have a lot of options."

"I do." Her chin was pointed at a mulish angle, and it was surprisingly sexy, as was the defiance in her tone.

"And once you decide which one, you'll be incredible. Prove you were right in wanting what you want."

Lia's brows lowered over those eyes of hers, confusion clear. "Prove to who?"

I shrugged. "Everyone."

She hummed.

"What?"

"Nothing," she answered lightly.

"Bollocks. That's not a nothing tone. Don't try to read anything into it." My entire career was based around proving a point. Every day that I showed up to work my arse off, it was to prove a point. Every time I scored. Every time I left a piece of myself on the pitch, it was the prove a point. "Come to my match on Saturday?" I asked her.

She smiled. "Of course. Is your family coming to this one? I'd love to meet them."

To match her smile with one of my own was difficult, but I tried. "I'll ring and ask. It's hard for them to leave the farm."

Lia sat up and swung her leg over my lap until she’d settled nicely on top of me. My hands slid up her back while her fingers played with the ends of my hair. "It's a big game, though, right?"

"Very." Adding three points now, with how the rest of the table was shaking out, would be a bloody relief.

"Chelsea's good, though, right?" She peeked at me under her lashes.

I smiled. "Someone's been doing her homework."

"A little. But with their best striker injured, don't you have a better chance of beating them?"

With a groan, I tugged her closer. "Keep talking, I could get off listening to you like this."

Lia laughed. "I just mean, wouldn't your parents want to be at a big game?"

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