Page 5 of Floored

JUDE

Things I did not need tonight:

- Beer.

- My brother to be out of town the one night I was in London and felt like stopping by to see him.

- A cheeky American woman with big blue eyes and long dark hair.

Yet knowing the safest course of action would be to not drink the beer, go back home and pretend I'd never stopped by, and ignore the invitation in her eyes, I damn well ignored it.

The woman laughed at my blatant come-on, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple on the right side of her face. But after a shit day, a shit week, indulging in something that I wanted—not needed—sounded perfect.

Like me, she must have been caught in the rain, which was heavier than I'd expected it to be when I came to see Lewis. The ends of her hair looked damp where they curled against her back.

But the smile was all I got in response, which only intrigued me further.

"Educate me on soccer, huh?" she mused quietly, leaning back on her stool and folding her arms over her chest. Those big eyes focused on the match, one I'd wanted to watch from home, except I had an appointment with my agent, something I couldn't ignore. Looking at her delicate profile in the dim light of the pub, I couldn't even regret that I wasn't at home, watching Tottenham and Bethnal Green, the latter who I'd be playing in short order.

"Football," I corrected with a grin. When she rolled her eyes, I laughed. "Been in London long?"

"About ten days." With graceful fingers, she traced a line of condensation along the surface of her glass. "I'm here to study at Oxford for Michaelmas."

I nodded. A smart, cheeky American then.

"You probably meet many interesting people," she said carefully.

"Why's that?"

She gestured at Carl. "I assumed you worked here or were here a lot or something."

He lifted his bushy gray eyebrows in question, probably wondering if I'd answer her honestly.

I was a footballer, and my brother was the pub owner. And not only did I not spend a lot of time here, but it was the first time I'd ever stopped by without my little brother asking first.

"My brother owns it," I said. "While I do meet some characters in my job, I'm sure Carl has me beat for good stories."

Carl snorted. The American smiled.

"Let's say I'm interested in this soccer lesson," she began, turning slightly on her stool until her knees touched my legs under the bar. I didn't move. Neither did she.

My elbow bumped hers. "For the sake of argument, and since the rest of the world calls it football, can we dispense with the s-word, please?"

She grinned. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Well, it's the wrong name, so yes." And not that I'd say it out loud, but playing that game—the one she was currently disparaging with her American label—was the center of my entire universe. If we sat at those stools long enough, or Carl flipped to the right channel, a replay would likely come on showing me on the pitch, doing what I did so well. The only thing I did well, it felt like, even as my body was trying to tell me I was getting too bloody old to keep going at it the way I wanted.

Thirty-one felt a decade older some days, especially given the young talent.

She gave a magnanimous wave of her hand. "Fine. When in Rome and all that."

"They call it football there too," I pointed out.

Carl walked past and shook his head when he saw how closely we were sitting together—the American and me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

She licked her lips, pulling my attention to her mouth. It was a bloody marvelous mouth too. When I tore my eyes away and met her gaze again, it was knowing. It was also full of banked heat. The pretty American girl had no problem with me staring at her pretty lips.

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