“There’s so many people,” I mused. We were walking through a leafy wooded area. A nice wooded playground on one side, stumbling football fans on the other. It was definitely different.
“Foley Field just had a twelve million expansion completed two years ago and can now hold twenty-six thousand fans,” Phil informed me.
“There’s going to be twenty-six thousand people there today?” I asked in surprise.
“Twenty-six thousand people ready to see Bolton get their arse’s handed to them,” Phil grinned.
“I don’t know anything about football. I think I’m going to be completely lost,” I admitted.
Phil put his arm around my waist and I stiffened. “I’ll explain everything to you, don’t worry.”
I patted his arm and then slid out of his grasp. “We need to find the ticket office.” This was most likely a date, even if I was essentially using Phil to keep the hot soccer stud that had invited me at arm’s length.
So why had I come at all? What was I trying to prove?
I wasn’t the kind of woman to play games. I barely knew how to date like a normal person, let alone engage in the tug and pull of seduction that other people my age seemed to enjoy so much.
I had one boyfriend in college. One in high school. That was it. No one-night stands. No random hook ups. I was pretty boring.
Which is why my behavior at The Thorny Rose was so strange. And a little exhilarating.
And mortifying.
And whole bunch of other adjectives too.
“It’s just over there. Come on.” Phil led me through the rowdy crowd. “Maybe we should stop at the team store and pick you up a scarf. Just to get into the spirit,” he suggested.
“Sure. Sounds good. When in Rome and all that.”
We got in the line to get our tickets and when it was our turn I gave the man behind the counter my name. “My name is Morgan Carter. I was supposed to have tickets left for me.”
The man frowned. “Did you purchase them online?”
I glanced at Phil. “Um, no someone left them for me.”
“You’re not allowed to exchange tickets. If someone else purchased them, they need to be the one to pick them up. I need to see the credit card used to buy them.” The man seemed to enjoy his modicum of authority. Some people got off on that stuff.
“Who got the tickets, Morgan? Can you call them?” Phil asked.
I was getting uncomfortable. “Can’t you just look for my name? I was told the tickets would be left under the name Morgan Carter.”
“And I’m telling you that you can’t exchange tickets. The individual who purchased the tickets needs to be the one to pick them up.” He tapped his fingers on the counter in frustration, already looking past me to the guy behind me. “Can I help you—?”
I leaned over the counter and dropped my voice into a near whisper, but loud enough that the prick could still hear me. “Look, Lucas Bradley left the tickets for me. Can you look, please?”
The man snorted. “Lucas Bradley?”
I nodded. “Yes. Lucas Bradley. Now just look already.”
The man seemed as if he wanted to roll his eyes but was willing to indulge me, if for no other reason then to call my bluff. He knelt behind the counter for only a few seconds before standing again, two tickets in his hands and a sour expression on his face. “Morgan Carter you said?”
“Yes, that’s me.” I got out my passport, knowing I would need to show ID. The now very unhappy man looked at my passport longer than was probably necessary before handing me the tickets and complimentary program.
“Enjoy the game,” he grumbled.
“Thank you.” I gave him a smile, even if he didn’t deserve it.
Phil’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So it was Lucas Bradley huh?”
