Page 51 of Bought and Enjoyed

I struggled to find the right words, my mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. “It’s complicated,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Lucas isn’t… he’s not what everyone thinks he is.”

Louise leaned in closer, her dark eyes gleaming with interest. “Oh?Definitelydo tell,” she urged, her voice low and conspiratorial.

I bit my lip, desperately trying to articulate the complexity of my feelings for Lucas without revealing too much. “He’s… he’s not just some mindless jock,” I began hesitantly. “He’s intelligent in his own way, and he can be surprisingly gentle and considerate.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I felt a pang of guilt. Was I betraying Lucas by discussing him like this? Or was I betraying my own principles by defending him?

Louise’s eyebrow arched skeptically. “Gentle and considerate? The man who thinks women should be subservient to their husbands?”

I flinched at her words, remembering the article that had caused me so much turmoil. “It’s not that simple,” I protested weakly. “He has traditional values, yes, but he’s not… he doesn’t want to oppress women.”

As I spoke, I felt a familiar warmth blooming in my core. My body seemed to come alive at the mere thought of Lucas, yearning for his touch, his dominance. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, acutely aware of my body in a way I had tried to keep at bay since that last night with Lucas.

Thankfully another student distracted Louise at that moment, so I was left to do my best to quiet the tension in my body. I thought I had succeeded too; I was actually thinking about the outline for my seminar paper when I saw the poster about the discount student tickets for Paris Saint Germain matches.

I couldn’t have said exactly what really made me scan the code on the poster, or what made me buy the ticket. I told myself it was only fair to Lucas that he should get back some of his money, but even as I formed the thought I knew it made no sense at all.

The match was the next night, ten days after Lucas had taken my anal virginity and I had broken up with him. As I entered the Parc des Princes, I found myself swept along with the sea of excited fans flooding into the gate. The energy in the air was electric, a palpable buzz of anticipation that set my nerves onedge. As I made my way to my seat, I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter. What was I doing here, pretending to be just another supporter when my connection to Lucas ran so much deeper?

My seat was high up in the stands, offering a panoramic view of the pitch below. The pristine green turf seemed to glow under the bright stadium lights, a stark contrast to the sea of blue and red jerseys filling the seats around me. The smell of beer and tobacco wafted through the air, mingling with the sharp scent of excitement and nervous sweat.

As the teams took the field for warm-ups, my eyes were instantly drawn to Lucas. Even from this distance, I could see the fluid grace of his movements as he jogged and stretched. His trademark intensity was evident in every motion, his focus laser-sharp as he prepared for the match. I felt my heart rate quicken, my palms growing damp with nervous sweat.

The fans around me chattered excitedly, their voices rising and falling in animated waves of conversation. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop, desperate for any morsel of information about Lucas.

“Did you hear about the offer from Yokohama?” a young man in a PSG jersey asked his friend.

I leaned in slightly, straining to hear more of their conversation over the roar of the crowd.

“Yeah, apparently it’s a massive offer,” his friend replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “But I heard Lucas is hesitating. Some say he’s considering retirement instead.”

My heart clenched painfully at the words. Retirement? I had known Lucas had reached the late stages of his career, but the word was that he would play forever. The thought of himleaving football seemed impossible, like the sun deciding to stop shining.

“No way,” another fan chimed in, her voice incredulous. “Lucas Moreau, retire? He lives and breathes football. He’ll play until he can’t walk.”

“Well,” the first man lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I read online that he’s been distracted lately. Some say he had his heart broken by that mystery girl from a few weeks back.”

Heat flooded my cheeks as I realized they were talking about me. I slouched down in my seat, irrationally afraid they might somehow recognize me.

“Oh, please,” a woman in front of us scoffed. “Lucas Moreau, heartbroken? That man goes through women like tissues. I’m sure he’s already moved on to his next conquest.”

Her words stung more than I cared to admit. Was that all I had been to Lucas? Just another in a long line of disposable women? I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. I knew better. I had seen a side of him I felt certain no one else had.

As the match began, I found myself utterly captivated by Lucas’ performance. From the moment he took the field, it was clear he was playing with a ferocious intensity I had never seen before. His movements were fluid and precise, each pass perfectly placed, each run timed to perfection.

Lucas seemed to be everywhere at once, orchestrating the PSG attack with masterful skill. When he received the ball, time seemed to slow down. He danced around defenders as if they were standing still, his footwork so intricate and beautiful it was like watching a ballet. The crowd gasped and cheered with each deft touch, each clever feint.

In the thirty-seventh minute, Lucas received the ball just outside the penalty area. With a burst of speed, he cut inside, leaving two Lyon defenders stumbling in his wake. The goalkeeper rushed out to close down the angle, but Lucas remained calm. With exquisite technique, he chipped the ball over the keeper’s outstretched arms. Time seemed to stand still as the ball hung in the air, before nestling perfectly in the top corner of the net.

The stadium erupted in jubilant celebration. All around me, fans leapt to their feet, screaming Lucas’ name. But I remained frozen in my seat, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. As Lucas wheeled away in celebration, pumping his fist and roaring with triumph, I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

As the final whistle blew, sealing PSG’s three-to-one victory over Lyon, I found myself swept up in the tide of jubilant fans exiting the stadium. The crisp night air hit my flushed cheeks as I emerged onto the crowded street, my mind still reeling from the intensity of the match and Lucas’ breathtaking performance.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice the man approaching me until he was right at my side. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “You’re Alice Morgan, aren’t you?”

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. How did he know my name? I turned to face him, taking in his eager expression and the expensive camera hanging around his neck. A paparazzo. I should have known.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, already backing away. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

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