“Um, do you know what’s going on?” I ask, anxiously checking my watch again.
“No idea,” he grunts. “Might be an accident. We’re only six minutes out, though. It might be faster just to walk.”
“Okay. Thanks!” I say, slipping out of the car.
I will notbe late on my first day. Shielding my face, I set off in the pouring rain, running as fast as my varnished Mary Jane shoes allow. I try not to dwell on the fact that this one-of-a-kind pair I thrifted in Notting Hill might be ruined forever. Why do I always forget my brolly? Splashing across the asphalt, I zigzag between cars until I reach the next intersection and survey the scene before me. The entire street is blocked on that side, the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars contrasting against the dull grey sky.
I speed-walk through puddles, the rain coming down harder now, until I finally reach a pedestrian crossing. I pause, waiting for a break in the cars whizzing past. If traffic is at a standstill on one side, the other lane is practically a speedway, and the drivers there don’t seem to care that I’m late for work. I’m turning my head again to see if the coast is clear when a lorry barrels past, sending a tidal wave of stormwater over me. I snap my eyes open, hoping that was just the punchline of a particularly bad dream, but I’m still standing here in the street, soaking wet up to my knickers.
Movement catches my eye, and I notice a kid in the backseat of a car in the gridlocked lane, pointing and laughing at me.
I'm two secondsfrom bursting into tears, but I ultimately decide I won’t be humiliated by a kid in a Paw Patrol hat. Channeling every ounce of dignity I have left, I check that no one is about to play Poseidon again and sprint across the road.
Finally, the gate of the training centre comes into view. I show the guard my credentials, and he lets me through, even if he does give me a weird look. I try to ignore his bewildered expression. Best if I don’t think about my appearance right now. Hopefully, I’ll have a few seconds to clean up in the loos before the briefing.
My soaked Mary Janes carry me across the big parking lot until I reach the main building. It’s sleek and modern, all glass panels except for the large Regents logo hanging front and centre. I enter through a set of double glass doors and into a large lobby with white-and-blue walls, catching the faint whiff of citrus. Stopping, I glance around, trying to figure out where to go next. The club owner didn’t say much when I spoke with him on the phone last week.
After a moment, a security guy walks over to me.
“Hi,” I say, flashing him a smile. “I’m Millie Templeton. It’s my first day. I was supposed to meet with Philip Mountford.”
“I’m here,” a voice booms from behind me. Wheeling around, I see Philip marching from a corridor. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that complements his salt-and-pepper hair nicely. “Glad you made it, Ms. Templeton. I heard there was a bit of traffic.”
My shoulders sag. “Yes. Sorry again. I promise, I’m not normally—”
“It’s all right,” he cuts in with a sharp smile. “Do you want to use the facilities before the presentation? It’s just over there, on the left.”
“Yes!” I blurt out louder than I intended and hurry toward the door.
I can’t even imagine what I must look like right now. If he had to suggest I clean up, it must be pretty bad. I drop my bag on the sink and let out a little cry when I glimpse my disheveled state. My light-brown hair is dripping, rainwater is plastered on my face, and runny mascara clings to my cheeks. I grab handfuls of toilet paper, hoping no one will choose this exact moment to enter the girls’ toilets, and wipe my cheeks. With my face somewhat presentable, I wring my hair out. I scrutinise myself again in the mirror. Better, but not great. There’s only so much one woman can do in ten minutes with a wad of two-ply paper.
“Are you ready, Ms. Templeton?” Philip asks when I step out. “I’ve got the entire team waiting for you in the briefing room.”
Tightening my grip on my purse strap, I nod and follow him into the corridor.
Here we go.
Chapter 2
Callum
“Two briefings in one morning,” I mumble, grabbing a seat at the back of the room. “Are we football players or students?”
“Looks like Grumpy Callum has landed,” says Archie Wilcott, ruffling his brown hair before sitting next to me.
I ignore him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Has he evernotlanded?” asks Finn O’Leary, arching a brow before shooting me a cheeky smirk.
I flip him the bird and settle into my seat.
“What? Has your bloody parrot messed up your sleeping schedule again?” he prods.
Archie wrinkles his nose. “Hate that bird.”
Let’s just say Archie’s first—and only—encounter with Fergie didn’t end well for our goalie.
I roll my eyes. “Leave Fergie out of this. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re sitting in a briefing room instead of out there on the pitch, preparing for tomorrow?”
