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1314 Words
The walk across the fields to the soccer game is awkward for two reasons. Firstly, Willow hasn’t talked to me at all since we left the house, and I feel I may have made a mistake pushing my way here. Secondly, the mothers that are now staring right at me. Holy hell on a broomstick. Every millionaire mummy in the world must be here, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a photo shoot, yet all eyes are now fixed firmly on me. The women are literally pausing their conversations to stare at me. Mr. Masters must be the topic of a lot of conversation around here. And why wouldn’t he be? They probably all want to bang him.
I really didn't think this through very well, and I most definitely didn't think about my outfit. I'm wearing tight denim jeans, a white T-shirt, with a large army green jacket over the top. My long, dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and I have white runners on, with gold Ray Ban aviator sunglasses framing my face. I must look eighteen at most.
Mr. Masters and Willow are walking in front of Sammy and me, the two of us holding hands. We walk past at least twenty people standing on the sideline, and I can almost hear the whispers of judgement as we pass.
“Did your other nannies ever come to watch, Willow?” I ask Sammy.
“Nope.”
“Has your father ever brought someone else to a soccer game?”
“Like who?” Sam frowns.
“Like, one of his lady friends, perhaps?”
He shrugs. “Dad doesn’t have lady friends, just man friends.”
“He’s never had a lady friend?” I ask, surprised.
Sam shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.”
Willow waves to her friends before she runs off to the dressing shed.
Mr. Masters chooses a spot and puts down three fold-up chairs. “Here, Miss Brielle.” He gestures to my chair.
“Thank you.” I smile before I fall into it awkwardly. I really should have stayed home. I’m feeling very uncomfortable.
“Dad, do you want to kick?” Sam asks as he throws the spare soccer ball to his father.
“Sure thing.” He takes Sam over to the other field, where they begin to kick the ball to each other. I watch on, and if I was a nice person I would tell you I
am watching Samuel playing happily with his father. But, because I’m a dirty pervert, I can openly admit that I’m watching Mr. Masters, and nobody else.
He’s wearing a cream cable knit jumper with light, tight jeans that fit snug in all the right places. His dark hair has a bit of a curl to it from the moisture in the early morning air.
Sam kicks a high ball, and Mr. Masters laughs as he tries to reach it.
He has a beautiful laugh and such straight teeth.
I can’t help but wonder when his last girlfriend was.
He must have a girlfriend now. Men who look like that, with his charisma and brains, are never single. He obviously just hasn’t introduced her to the children yet.
Good for him. I hope she’s f*****g his brains out. God, I know I would be if I was her.
Wait, where did that come from? Since when have I ever found thirty-nine-year-old men attractive? Not that I've ever really known one.
It’s okay to think he’s attractive. He is attractive. It doesn’t mean that I want to f**k him, although, one does have to wonder what he would be like in bed?
I bet he’s well endowed. My eyes drop to his jeans as I investigate my theory.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t met?” a snooty female voice interrupts. I glance up to see an attractive blonde lady standing over me, and I quickly stand from my seat.
“Hello. I’m Brielle.” I hold out my hand and she shakes it in hers.
“I’m Rebecca.” She smiles.
“Hi, Rebecca.” I smile awkwardly.
She frowns, clearly concentrating as she studies my face. “Have we met before?”
“No.” I pause as my eyes seek out Mr. Masters on the other field, completely oblivious. “I’m Mr. Masters new au pair. I’m from Australia.”
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Oh, really?” She turns to look at Mr. Masters. “How… lovely.” She hesitates. “I currently have an au pair living with me, but she’s from Italy. Her name is Maria.”
“Really?” I smile.
"Yes, you two will have to meet. She's around your age, I'd say, and she's been with me for six months now."
“That would be fantastic, thank you.” Maybe I could get some survival tips off this girl. This could work out well.
“She’s not here today. Maria doesn’t work weekends.” She catches Mr. Masters eye and waves sexily, and he waves back as he kicks the ball.
“I’ll go get my chair and sit with you guys.”
“Okay.” I smile. “Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m fine, dear,” she replies as she walks off.
She seems surprisingly nice. I sit and look around for a moment, spotting Willow near the sheds. A group of three girls from the other team are around her, and I can tell by Willow’s body language that they are not her friends. She seems uncomfortable.
One of them hits the ball out of Willow’s hand.
What? Are they messing around?
I watch them and unease fills me. I look around, but nobody else seems to be noticing this exchange. Maybe they are her friends and I’m just imagining things.
Mr. Masters comes and takes a seat next to me just as I sit down, while Sam keeps kicking with another boy.
“Who are those girls talking to Willow?” I ask him.
He narrows his eyes, trying to focus.
“Do you wear glasses?” I ask as I watch him.
“I don’t need glasses,” he huffs.
“Then why are you squinting?”
“Because my eyes aren’t bionic.”
Jeez. Touchy.
“I think they go to her school, yes. One of them used to be a good friend of Willow’s, but she hasn’t been around for years now.”
“Oh,” I reply, distracted as I turn my attention back to the girls. Willow’s teammates come out of the sheds, and one of the girls says something to the three girls that were talking to Willow, and then one of them snaps back. Nope, definitely not friends. That is a hostile exchange.
The coaches come out and the teams line up to run onto the field.
Rebecca arrives back, struggling with her chair before she sets it up next to Mr. Masters. He rolls his lips, as if he’s unimpressed. “Hello, Rebecca,” he offers.
“Hi, Julian, how are you?” She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. I have to bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I keep my eyes on the field in front of me.
I think Rebecca is a bit sweet on Mr. Masters.
The whistle blows and the game begins.
“Willow is playing centre forward?” I whisper to him.
“Yes.” He frowns, turning to me. “You know football?”
“I know most things,” I whisper back as I keep my eyes on the game.
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Julian, I called you this week about the fundraiser. Did you get my message?” Rebecca asks in a high-pitched voice, trying too hard to sound casual.
- Writer
