Scored (4 page)

“Did you find me somewhere?”

“Kick hard, kick fast and kick better than the rest, baby.”

“Does that mean you’ve found me a place to rest my weary head or what?”

“Or what. Blimey, you should be kissing my feet, dropping down and worshiping me.”

“And why would I do that?” He was seriously starting to piss me off and I was in very real danger of being incredibly rude to my boss. Which was never advisable.

“My lovely Nicky, I’ve only gone and got you a room in the best hotel in the Ukraine.”

What?
“You have?”

“Yep.”

Phil looked at me and cocked his head. I shrugged, bewildered by Reg’s uncustomary enthusiasm. He was probably being incredibly cruel and sarcastic and about to send me to some flea-ridden hovel. I couldn’t imagine he’d blown the budget and found me somewhere great. But even so, I sent a quick prayer heavenward it was the latter.

“And where is that?” I asked warily.

“Oh, you’re so skeptical. I can hear it in your voice.”

I sighed. “I’m just tired. Tired and sick of dragging my luggage around. It was a late night and an early start.”

“Well, it’s just as well you’re tired because you’re going to sleep like a baby at the Donbass Palace.”

“The Donbass Palace?” I gasped and shoved a hand through my hair.

Reg chuckled.

Phil sat forward, eyes wide. “Bloody hell,” he mouthed.

“Really?” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was bound to be a joke. Perhaps there were two Donbass Hotels in Donetsk and I was staying at the one that had yet to have a visit from the Hotel Inspector.

“Yes, really. I tried several hotels, all fully booked. So I called the Donbass on a long shot and they’d just had a cancellation. You’ve got a room there. It’s expensive, Nicky, blowing the budget, to be honest. But hey, the European Championship only comes around every four years so we have to give the readers what they want.”

“But, but that’s where all the players are staying.” As I spoke an image of Lewis Tate came to mind—in bed, naked, white sheets twisted around his legs, his pert behind visible, his long smooth back rippled with muscles and his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“No shit,” Phil muttered, leaning back and folding his arms.

I shrugged to show I couldn’t believe it either and forced the sexy, sleeping Lewis from my mind.

“Nicky, this is going to be big,” Reg said. “I want you to have a good snoop around, get in with all the action. Poke your nose into the dining room and the bar. See what they eat and listen to what they talk about. Who they talk about, and make sure you utilize the camera on that fancy fucking iPhone I bought you.”

I ran my tongue around my teeth and gums. Damn, I should have seen this coming. He was installing me at the Donbass so I could get the gossip he craved. The gossip I didn’t want to write about. Give me penalties and formations, substitute options and league tables and I was all over it. What the players ate and wore and talked about wasn’t my thing. Well, maybe what one of them wore, ate and talked about was of particular interest to me, but not in a professional capacity. That was to feed a purely personal obsession.

“Nicky, I mean it. You find out what time they go to bed, what time they get up. Haul your sexy little arse down to the pool and see who is lounging around, what color trunks they’re wearing, what they’re reading and what brand of sun lotion they use.”

“But do you really think Kick readers want—”

“Yes, I bloody well do. And we’ve had this discussion before, Nicky. Kick readers want all the juicy details on and off the pitch.”

I pressed several biscuit crumbs with the pad of my thumb, squashing them into the table.

“And you,” he said, his tone low and menacing, “are going to damn well get those details for me.”

“But—”

“I mean it. There will be no more Mr. Nice Guy if you don’t get me reports with facts no one else has. Got it?”

I sucked in a deep breath and looked at Phil. He was still frowning, his arms crossed tight over his chest.

“Nicky,” Reg said, “I swear, I will make sure you never bloody go on another trip away. Not only that, you’ll never cover another premiership game, even if its only fucking QPR.”

Reg hated Queens Park Rangers. Mainly because that’s who Fellows had played for many years ago. Personally, I rated them. They were playing well this season. They looked likely to finish in the top five of the table.

“Nicky, did you hear me?” There was a threatening tone in his voice that I didn’t fancy hearing more of.

“Yes, yes of course. Gossip, facts. I’ll do my best. Can’t guarantee, of course, but I will keep my eyes peeled at all times.”

“Too damn right you will. I’ll expect your first report at nine tonight so I can prepare it.”

“Absolutely.” The line went dead and I dropped my mobile into my handbag.

“Well you’ve landed on your feet,” Phil said, raising his brows.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Talk about getting the inside scoop.”

I sighed and drained the last drip of my coffee. “Trouble is, I spend my whole time trying to prove that I’m a sports journalist and not a tabloid reporter and then Reg puts this kind of pressure on me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get the gossip, Nicky. Find out this and that. I’m not interested what the players do off the pitch. My focus is the game.”

Phil nodded and I was relieved when the creases in his forehead melted away and he unfolded his arms and reached for his coffee. “Yep, me too, but there are plenty of guys here who wouldn’t sleep for the next two weeks just so they could stay awake and stalk around the hotel, looking for information to sell on.”

“Yeah, well, three years at Uni studying journalism didn’t include a module on stalking.”

He grinned. “Where did you study?”

“Leeds.”

“Ah, yeah, I had a mate who studied there, several years ago now. Great place.”

“Yes, it was good. I have fond memories. But Kick is my first big job since leaving and I really don’t want to mess it up.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Two years. I figured three would show commitment and look good on my CV. Maybe then I’ll move on to some of the bigger papers, perhaps even break into TV.”

“Why not, you have the credentials, the knowledge and certainly.” He paused. “The good looks for TV.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugged and grinned. “You’re welcome. Maybe I could come over and see you at the Donbass.”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

I studied his face, his big brown eyes and heavy brows, his charming smile and neat white teeth, the front top two fractionally crossed. He was cute, charming, but did he want to see me or was he hoping for some of the details I would have access to? That was the damn trouble with reporters, they could charm the pants of a nun to get a story and were equally happy to bite the hand that fed them to get what they wanted. You just couldn’t trust them any further than you could throw them.

“Anyway,” Phil said, when I didn’t reply. “Chances are you won’t see the players at the hotel. I’d heard that they’ve been given the entire top two floors. No one but staff will be allowed up there.”

“Well that will suit me just fine,” I said, standing and reaching for the handle on my case. “Thanks for the coffee, Phil, and it was great to meet you. But I ought to get going. I’m beat.”

He stood also. “I’m glad you’re sorted now for somewhere to stay, though I wouldn’t have complained if you’d had to sleep in my room.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible flirt?”

“As a matter of fact they have.”

Grinning, I stepped away, toward the cathedral.

“Where are you going? I saw a taxi rank that way,” he said.

“I just want to check out the cathedral first. It looks beautiful.”

“Oh, okay. See you around then.”

“Yep, see you.”

Carefully crossing the wide road, I headed toward the flight of steps that led to the impressive building.

As I stepped inside, cool darkness wrapped around me like a gossamer shawl. The scent of incense seeped up my nostrils and laced my tongue. I stood still and looked around the vacuous space, feasting on the grace and beauty.

Rows of pale wooden pews filed before me, and several individuals were dotted about, heads low, utterly silent. A couple stood to my left, leafing through pamphlets.

The ornate ceiling was stunning and I gazed upward as I walked down the aisle, my heels and holdall thankfully not attracting attention because of a ribbon of dark red carpet down the center.

The altar was draped with flowers, and fat, creamy candles, unlit, were set amongst them. A large effigy of Christ on the cross was hanging over a gilded table and an open Bible had been set on a stand.

I took a seat halfway to the front, happy to let the calmness seep into my pores and soothe my soul. The air was still, the atmosphere reverent—the hush of respect a very real, very powerful force that was a balm to my fractious nerves.

A giant organ with brass pipes caught my eye and as I admired the gleaming metal I sent a few prayers of thanks heavenward. I was happy to be safely in Donetsk. Thrilled to be doing what I’d wanted to do all of my life, sports reporting, and grateful that I’d made a friend in Phil. The next few weeks were going to be a roller-coaster of fun and opportunity, hard work and goals, and I was very much looking forward to it.

Someone shifting ahead caught my eye. It was a man. Tall, six feet at least. He wore a black hoodie and his hands were shoved deep into his jeans pockets. There was something about his broad shoulders and the way he moved that screamed power and control.

I suddenly became aware I was a little vulnerable in the practically deserted cathedral; a female tourist, with all my belongings, passport and money on me. I glanced around. There was only one other person in the pews now—an old lady with a red-dotted headscarf. The couple near the entrance had disappeared.

The man was heading toward me, or perhaps the exit, I couldn’t be sure. His head was low, his footsteps heavy.

I swallowed tightly and gripped the handle of my case as he drew closer. Watched his progress, hoping he would keep going and I’d hear his shoes bang into the distance and fade.

The hoody was practically covering his face, making him even more sinister, as though he didn’t want to be seen.

As he came level with my pew he turned to me.

Shock blasted through my veins. I would recognize that dented chin and those ocean-blue eyes anywhere.

Lewis Tate paused, as if as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Our gaze connected and stuck like magnets attracting. But only for the briefest of seconds because then I dropped my head down. Stared at my clasped hands and squeezed my lips together.

Sweet Jesus, he was beautiful. He should come with some kind of warning because seeing him, when I wasn’t expecting to, was like a nuclear bomb going off inside me. Exploding all kinds of emotions, from lust and admiration, to mortification and star-struck stupor. It just wasn’t safe to have that kind of shock without any notice. My system couldn’t take it.