Page 43 of The Keeper and I

“Jordan?”

“Yeah?”

“You really are a good fake boyfriend.”

He chuckled. “I told you, I’m committed to the bit.”

He could have sworn he saw her lips turn up, but it was fleeting. “Thank you.”

“Of course, angel.”

“I like that, too. You calling me angel.”

“Good to know we have an approved endearment.”

She reached up and took hold of his free hand with one of hers and interlocked their fingers.

Her palm against his, her cheek on his chest, and her thigh touching his hip was the most contact there had ever been between them, and Jordan’s body was on fire. All these little embers were making a crackling blaze. He wanted more. He wanted to feel every soft curve beneath his hands and taste her skin. He wantedher.

He wouldn’t dream of acting on it when she was so vulnerable. But holy shit, a man could only resist for so long. Maybe he should reconsider his stance.

He shook his head.

It would be her first time. She deserved something special,someonespecial, not a fake boyfriend, no matter how good she thought he was at it.

It was going to be a very long few months.

For a moment, Jordan wished he would drown.

It would be easier than hearing another recap of the previous match. But if he held his breath long enough in the ice bath, perhaps the tingling would make him forget it.

He surrendered to his natural instinct to avoid self-destruction and surfaced. His face stung with the sudden increase in temperature, but that wasn’t what made him start. Coach Warren stood in the doorway looking unusually grim.

“Fuck!” Jordan yelled. “Cough or something next time, Coach. Don’t be lurking like a desperate pap.”

“Sorry,” Coach replied. “In my defense, you were underwater when I walked in.”

“Then shout.”

“Noted.”

Coach stepped closer to the tub, and Jordan saw an uncharacteristic weariness about the Stanmore manager. Coach Warren was generally an upbeat man with an optimistic outlook. Especially after they finished the last season as FA Cup champions and higher on the table than they had ever been before. Coach Warren’s cheeks had had more color, his blue eyes had an extra sparkle, and even his limp seemed less exaggerated.

And then the new season began.

“Ten draws,” he said, pulling up a chair and taking a seat.

“I’m aware,” Jordan replied bitterly. He turned his eyes back to the ice floating on the surface of the water. He wasn’t going to be able to leave it behind him after all.

“I’ve spoken to the staff,” Coach continued. “But I want to know what you think. You see the game closer than I do, and you’re the captain of this squad. So tell me. What are we doing wrong?”

Jordan’s gaze slid over to his manager. “We need a new striker.”

“The transfer window is closed until January,” Coach Warren said, though Jordan already knew that. “What do we do until then?”

Jordan didn’t answer for a long moment. He went over every play they ran in training and recalled how it worked on the pitch. The problem being that it hadn’t worked at all. In that day’s match, the goal they got was the result of a lucky header off a corner kick, and the joy of it was short-lived. Liverpool equalized in five minutes. Jordan could still see the ball whizz past him before he could move to block it. It was the story of their season.

“Fucking stupid,” he muttered.

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