Falling For The Captain Who Buried My Father

The first thing I learned about working at Blackthorne Football Club was that nobody f*****g cared how hard you had worked when something went wrong. It was always about who was going to fix it. “Tell me you’re joking.” I held my phone between my ear and shoulder, searching through the papers spread across my desk. Beyond the glass walls of the administrative offices, the stadium trembled with the roar of thousands of supporters celebrating a victory. “No, Mr. Bennett. I’m telling you the appearance was scheduled for seven, and the match has only just ended. I can't make the player appear before he's had the chance to get ready.” “Your club confirmed six-thirty.” “My club confirmed seven.” “Then perhaps your club should learn to communicate.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Three weeks into my new job, and people were already making their problems mine. “I’ll review the correspondence and call you back within fifteen minutes.” I ended the call before he could find another reason to raise his voice. The printed schedule lay beneath a half-empty bottle of water. Someone had crossed out two appointments, moved a third, and left me to explain the confusion to a sponsor whose contract was worth more than my annual house rent. Lovely. I dragged the schedule towards me and checked the time again, hoping the numbers might have changed out of sympathy. Lily Sparks, my supervisor, walked in with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. Her eyes went straight to the mess on my desk. “Please tell me you’ve sorted out the Bennett situation.” “I’m working on it.” “That’s what you said twenty minutes ago.” “Then it’s a good thing I haven’t changed my story.” Her lips twitched. She placed the tablet beside my keyboard and leaned over to examine the schedule. “The new management wants the sponsor report before the press conference. And the chairman wants to know whether Cross will attend the event tonight.” I let my head fall against the back of my chair. “Of course he does.” Lily straightened, watching me with an expression I didn’t trust. “Something you’d like to share?” “Only that the entire club seems to believe one man can be in three places at once.” She pressed her lips together, but the smile escaped before she caught it. “Careful. That’s our captain you’re talking about.” “Should I be frightened?” “Not frightened. Just sensible.” I turned back to my computer. Blackthorne had a new chairman, a new executive team, and plenty of promises to do things differently. It worked in my favor. I had applied for the operations position, got through the interview, and earned the job. “Fix the schedule,” Lily said, picking up her tablet. “ And try not to start a war with our most valuable player before you’ve finished your first month.” I waved her off without looking up. “Why would I start a war with him?” “Because you’re you.” I looked up just in time to see her disappear around the corner. I had better things to worry about than a footballer’s schedule. I worked too hard to build a career of my own, separate from the scandal attached to my family name. I wasn’t going to jeopardise it over a man who kicked a ball for a living. A shadow fell across my desk. “Speak of the devil,” I muttered. Adrian Cross stood in front of my desk, still wearing his black match jersey. I used to see his face on billboards and across the club's social media pages, but the picture didn't prepare me for the way he looked at people, as though he expected them to move out of his way. His eyes travelled over the papers scattered across my desk before settling on me. “Are you the one holding up my evening?” I slowly lowered my pen, allowing the plastic to click against the desk. “Good evening to you too.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve been told I have a sponsor appearance in fifteen minutes. Nobody seems to know where I’m supposed to be.” “That’s because you’re supposed to be in the media lounge at seven, not downstairs with the chairman.” He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. “It’s six-forty-five.” “Congratulations. You can tell time.” His eyebrows rose, then he shifted his weight and slipped one hand into the pocket of his shorts. “Do you speak to everyone like this?” “Only the ones who come into my office and accuse me of delaying their evening.” His gaze dropped to the paper beneath my hand. “Let me guess. Bennett called.” I didn't bother looking as my fingers returned to the keyboard. “Mr. Bennett, yes. He’s convinced we confirmed a different time.” Adrian glanced through the papers on my desk. “We probably did.” My fingers stopped moving. “Excuse me?” “The manager kept us in the dressing room for a while after the match. The press conference was moved too. Someone probably forgot to update the sponsor.” “And that someone is apparently me?” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” I spun my monitor around, shoving the paper trail under his nose. “This is the schedule I received. The media lounge at seven. Your manager confirmed it, and I sent the same information to Mr. Bennett yesterday. If somebody changed the arrangement, I wasn’t informed.” Adrian bent slightly to read the email. His shoulder came close to mine that I caught the scent of soap beneath the sweat. I moved my chair back. “That’s my manager’s address,” he murmured. “Yes, I can read.” “And you’re sure he sent this?” I bit back the reply that came to mind. I needed this job. “Unless someone has learned to send emails from his account.” He let out a short laugh. “Can you move the appearance to seven-fifteen? I need to shower.” “The sponsor has already threatened to leave.” He glanced at his watch again. “ Fine. I’ll go as I am.” I called Mr. Bennett before Adrian could say anything else. He answered on the second ring. After some arguing, I promised him a signed shirt for the charity auction, and assured him we would review the club’s communication process. When I hung up, Adrian was still by the window. He wandered over to the cabinet beside the window, where a glass sculpture sat among the club’s awards and sponsor gifts. He stopped in front of a glass sculpture, tilting his head. “ You said your name was?” “ Serena,” I muttered, my fingers curling around the edge of my desk. “ Serena Vale.” The sculpture slipped from his hand and shattered against the floor. “Vale?” he muttered.