Now, it’s time to let him know he has mine.
36
BLOWN COVERAGE – DEFENDER FAILS ASSIGNMENT, LEAVING RECEIVER OPEN.
Wembley Arena has been called an architectural marvel that rises out of northwest London like a glass crown. The arch glints, even in the gray overcast. Maya leans into me in the back of our hired car. “Is there a part of you that wishes you had had the chance to play here before your career ended?”
“I’d be lying if I said no. While I was playing, they never asked the Lightning to play in the international series.
“When did that happen?”
I furrow my brow. “About five years ago? Two years after I left the league.”
Before we can talk any further, our driver pulls into the restricted lane. “Club access is just ahead, Mr. Walsh, but security is waiting to escort you to the front of the line.”
Maya’s hand has been resting on my leg the whole trip from our bed-and-breakfast, soaking in the experience. Now, amusement flickers across her face as tens of thousands of football fans swarm the gates in Oklahoma and Connecticut colors. Awe colors her voice when she says, “It’s just like the stadiums back at home.”
I reach over and tug up the collar of my spare leather bomber jacket that dwarfs her curves. Then I ensure her scarf—Lightning colors, of course—will not only keep her warm but mask most of her face. Still, she’s glowing.
Something’s changed, and I’m dying for the game to be over so I can figure out exactly what it is.
I note the security personnel approaching the car. “You ready?”
She grins. “Do you mean for the mob or the game? You know I’m likely to get us thrown out by yelling at the refs.”
Her easy response causes me to bark out a laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s go,uvetta mia.”
The door opens from the outside. I step out first, and show them my tickets. Once I’m certain I don’t feel there’s any imminent concern for Maya being overrun because of the price of my former notoriety, I reach for her hand. She alights from the car with enthusiasm. “Which way?”
“Ma’am. Sir. Please follow us.” One of the security guards veers off, but we pick up a uniformed steward as we approach a door labeled only withAuthorized Access.
I let out a slow breath after we pass through security checks—wands, bag checks, pat downs. For a few seconds, everything feels like it’s going according to plan until the steward opens the door before Maya’s had a chance to wrap her scarf back around her face.
Then I hear it. My name being called.
“Troy!”
“Over here!”
“Walsh!”
“Come to support your former team?”
“Any predictions as to who is going to win today?”
My gut tightens with every question being flung at me as the steward leads us to the private club level elevator. Once we’re safely inside, Maya murmurs, “Well, that was fun.”
“I’m sorry, I…” but she stops my words with a gentle press of her lips against mine.
“It’s fine, Troy.” The elevator stops, and before I can stop her, Maya strides out, chin held high. She waits for me.
Holding out her hand for me to take.
Heart thundering, and not because there’s press still on this level, I clasp her fingers in mine. I continue to ignore the people shouting my name as we make our way down the long concrete corridor.
Finally, we reach the entrance to the stadium club and have our credentials scanned. “Follow the signs once you’re past the bar for midfield, Mr. Walsh. You’re clear.”
I slip my arm around Maya’s back, cautiously testing what I think she’s trying to tell me.
