Erin tensed. She would be out for months—ACL recovery could take eight to twelve—and she wasn’t naïve. It was likely that someone would be brought in to replace her. Temporarily. Albion’s usual back-up striker was good, but she wasn’t twenty-four goals a season good. Goals that would need to be found elsewhere. “Do you know something?”
With a shake of their head, Alex finished the last bite of their omelette. “I know as much as you.”
So, little.
“How’s recovery going?”
Erin sighed, fingers automatically rubbing at the bandage on her left leg. “Slowly.” The longest she’d ever been out before was fourteen weeks. Eight weeks since tearing her ACL in the FA Cup final, she already wanted to crawl out of her skin, knowing she was nowhere close to stepping back onto the pitch.
Not to mention she had nightmares every other night.
In her sleep, she relived that horrible, awful moment over and over: She received the ball on the edge of the penalty box and then turned, her studs catching in the perfectly prepared Wembley turf, her knee twisting. A pop. Agony flashing through her body, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing her to howl in pain.
A movement she’d done a thousand times before, but it had never resulted in her lying flat out on the grass, crowded by the Albion team doctors as they raced onto the pitch to treat her, panic and terror clawing at her throat because pain like that could only mean one thing.
“Surgery went fine.” Erin forced herself to focus on the positives. Her physio would be proud; Gregor was constantly chastising her for dwelling on the worst-case scenarios. “And I’m back in the gym working on strengthening. But they say it’ll be another two or three months at least before I’m running again.”
“It’ll be over before you know it.”
“We’ll be halfway through the season by then.” Watching from the sidelines would be torture. “But—” Erin paused when she glanced at the TV screens spread around the room, tuned into the sports channel. A breaking news banner ran along the bottom of the screen, and hushed whispers broke out around the canteen.
In a shock move, Wanderers star Lia Ashcroft LEAVES and signs with rivals Albion.
On the TV, a video of Lia arriving at the Park Lane training ground played, cameras flashing to document her arrival.
Erin’s stomach dropped.
Of all the players they could have possibly brought in to replace her, Lia Ashcroft had to be the worst. Seven years Erin’s junior, the Welsh striker had been lauded as the next big thing in the Women’s Super League. When she’d beaten Erin to the Golden Boot trophy last season—by one meagre goal—the media had had a field day, touting Lia as the greatest striker the English game had ever seen.
A title that once had been Erin’s.
Who had approached who? Had Lia sensed blood in the water after Erin’s injury and asked to make the switch to the other side of Manchester? No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would she leave the team that had won the title last season to go to the runners-up?
But the alternative, the idea that Albion’s coaching staff reached out to poach Lia from their closest rivals, made Erin uneasy. She was not an insecure person, but Albion seeking out the one woman people already thought was better than her? Were they not confident that she’d make a full recovery? Did they doubt Erin’s ability to get back to her best?
Was this Albion’s way of trying to nudge Erin off the first team?
She clenched her hands into fists.
Erin imagined the drivel the media would write now, her lips curling into a snarl as Lia waved at the cameras before ducking inside the Park Lane entrance. She bit back a growl. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
* * *
“One more interview and then you’re done.” Milly, Salford Albion’s player liaison manager, shot Lia a kind smile. “Would you mind wearing the away kit for it?”
Lia took the proffered bundle of clothing. Operating on autopilot, she stripped out of her brand-new blue-and-white striped home shirt and shorts and swapped them for the solid burgundy away kit. She hadn’t worn a different kit in seven years, and seeing Albion’s roaring lion on her breast instead of Wanderers’s roses made her stomach swoop.
Things had moved so quickly since she’d stormed into Carol’s office. Lia still hadn’t processed things. Everything in her life had been upended in the last week, and she was still trying to catch her breath.
Once changed, Lia was led back into the room she’d spent the last two hours in, undergoing interviews and photo shoots to capitalise on the buzz her transfer had generated.
“So, Lia.” A reporter pressed a microphone toward her mouth. “What are you most looking forward to at Albion?”
Pushing aside her anxiety and sadness, Lia smiled, playing the part of a football starlet excited to begin the next stage of her career. “Helping the team to win as many trophies as possible.”
A rehearsed answer, but a true one. As much as Lia loved playing football, she loved winning things even more. She’d never pass up the chance to add to her trophy cabinet. And with Albion playing in four competitions throughout the season, she’d have multiple chances to try. Three domestic trophies were available: the Women’s Super League and two knock-out cup competitions—the League Cup and the FA Cup. But the fourth was European glory—the Champions League. The greatest teams in Europe all vying for their chance to be the best of the best. Last year, Lia had won two of those. This year, she wanted more.
“So, are you hoping to follow in your brother’s footsteps and win multiple league titles?”
