I was in complete awe as the car made it’s way through London. We drove past sprawling green spaces and gorgeous old buildings. Through tiny streets and along cobbled pathways. It was everything I imagined it to be and more.
The drive took almost an hour. The car pulled up outside the stadium with only ten minutes before the game was scheduled to begin. The driver assured me that he had already been paid, but I tipped him anyway. He seemed very appreciative.
I didn’t have to find the ticket office this time; Lucas had given me my ticket to bring with me. With some help from one of the stewards—that’s what Lucas told me the staff of the stadium were called—I found my seat, which I was surprised to see was in a recessed box in the middle of the stands. There were around a dozen seats, most of them already filled.
Looking at my ticket I found my spot next to a group of women dressed much like the girls on the train. Their hair was styled and their clothes were clearly designer. One of them had bright red hair and wore so many diamonds she looked as though she’d fall over.
She glanced at me as I sat down beside her. I smiled in greeting but she didn’t return it.
Okay then.
No one spoke to me and that was fine with me. I tried not to listen in on the women’s discussion about nightclubs and whether they wanted to call the red haired lady’s personal shopper at Harvey Nichols.
Soon my attention was on the field. The crowd was going crazy.
And my eyes found the one person I wanted to see.
He walked onto the pitch and my heart stopped.
The crowd roared. It was deafening. His name became a chant. But I knew that later, after the insanity was over, he would be all mine.
Then the game started and I was riveted. I had no real idea what was going on, but I enjoyed every minute of it.
At halftime a man came around with drinks. The women beside me took bottles of water and I took a soda. The woman with the neon red hair finally turned my way, her eyes assessing.
“And who are you?” she asked.
I was taken aback by the blunt rudeness of her question. No “hi, how are you?” or “My name is Lady Gloria of the bright red locks.”
She was sizing me up, taking in my casual outfit and ponytail.
“I’m Morgan Carter. And you are?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. This woman wasn’t nice, I could tell that easily enough.
I saw the ladies behind red hair exchanged glances.
“Morgan Carter?” Red Hair repeated.
“Yes. Morgan Carter.” Was she hard of hearing?
“I’m guessing you’re here to see Lucas then,” she said. I didn’t like the way she said Lucas’ name. Soft and sultry and possibly too familiar.
“Yes, Lucas invited me.”
“He’s always so kind to his pieces of ass,” she stated sweetly and her friends snickered.
My face flushed red. “You haven’t given me your name.” I purposefully ignored her comment, knowing she was looking for a reaction from me.
“No, I haven’t.” She sat back in her chair and uncapped her bottle of sparkling water. “My name is Marla Denham. Craig is my husband.”
Craig? I didn’t know who that was, but I simply nodded. Marla waved her hand towards her friends. “This is Tania and Fiona. Tania is dating Stefan Maez. Fiona is engaged to George Fletcher.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said to the other women. Tania smiled politely but Fiona barely acknowledged me.
Wow, bitch much?
“So you’ve been given a WAG ticket. You must be special,” Marla went on. I noticed her mouth was set into a firm line, her eyes steely. She practically spat out the word special as if it were a dirty word.
“A WAG ticket?” I asked, not knowing what she was talking about.
