CHAPTER FOUR: Color Me Shocked.

Christian

It was immature.

Not only immature but stupid to say.

Deep down, I knew I was just being jealous when I said it, but I couldn't help it.

Nate was going on and on about the younger player, and I burned with annoyance.

"You used to be that cool, you know?"

Nate hadn't even meant the words with any malice, but it still infuriated me.

I'm not old news. I am still that good.

Still, I can't deny that the kid is fast.

Later, when I returned to my hotel room, I'd looked him up against my better judgment.

Ashford Ryder.

23 years, and a member of Brooklyn Bruisers.

They are a fairly good club. One of the top ten clubs in the country.

But is a striker that good? It is almost laughable that they were able to get him.

Nate was right.

The boy did remind me a little bit of myself—young, fast, and immensely skilled.

The best striker the European league has ever seen, they'd called me.

I never realized how much of an old news I'd become, but seeing that younger player relishing in everything I once was takes me back.

Not only is he a very talented player, but he also has the two things checked.

He's hot, and trending.

I take another gulp of the beer in my hand and hiss when it burns.

Shit. Fuck.

"This place sucks." Nate beside me, leans a little closer, his brown tousled hair falling over his face.

He gives me a bored look. "I thought it'd be better. I guess since the star player isn't here, it's not really the rave now."

We decided to hang out at the pub close to our hotel after the match, and not the after-party hosted by the team.

Frankly, I didn't want to hear about how cool this Ashford guy is, and how I barely caught up.

It bruises a man's ego.

I take another chug of my drink. "I think I'll go to bed early tonight. I'm bored, and that chic over there keeps giving me the eyes." Nate continues.

My eyes follow his, and fair enough a young woman in a tight red dress, and bleach-blonde hair is staring this way.

I can't help but compare her dyed hair to a certain someone's rich golden blonde.

The fucker just had to be a looker too. I can't even think about him, without remembering that ridiculously pretty face.

I raise my glass at him. "Best of luck, my friend. I think I'll drink myself to stupor tonight." I reply.

Nate actually pulls his eyes away from the girl and looks back at me a little concerned.

"Chris, you don't have to take the loss so hard, you know? The Brooklyn Bruisers are good. Everyone knows that. And they've got fresh material too. You did well."

His words sound kind enough, but he's wrong.

I'm not taking the loss hard at all.

It's just one match anyway, in a sea of many others, and it was a friendly match.

It's that player that has my mood so sour.

I've never considered myself an envious person, but when I went down that deep dive of lame G****e research on Ashford Ryder, I realized I was.

Why do players like me who've worked half our life to get where we are get pushed to the side just because he's hot and trending?

And talented, a snide voice whispers, but I ignore it.

I give Nate a lopsided grin. "I'm fine. Go have fun. I'll head back when I'm done here."

Nathan Geiger—Nate, as I like to call him—the only member of my team I've let myself get close enough with, smiles at me.

“Alright then, mate! Cheers!” He tips off an invisible hat and walks off.

I'm finally all alone, left to peddle in my bitter thoughts.

And I'm fine with it for a while, as I order another glass of beer, and let my eyes trail the dimly lit club.

I consider getting myself a woman to take back to my room tonight, but a part of me knows that the deep unfurling need inside me won't be satiated by a woman tonight.

But I can't just pick out someone else here, I think with annoyance.

As if reading my thoughts, a lone figure suddenly strolls into the club, a leisurely gait, and familiar blonde hair falling over his face.

I watch him a little too long before I realize who he is.

What is he doing here?

I thought his after-party was happening at the other club.

Shit, why do I even care?

It's not like he's here for me.

The guy is probably too popular to remember every face he's ever seen.

So I quickly force my eyes back to the drink in front of me and act like I didn't just see Ashford fucking Ryder walk into the pub.

But it seems like I'm not in luck today because I feel more than see his presence settle on a stool a close range from mine.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him place an order for a cup of punch, and wince at his choice.

What grown man comes to a pub to drink punch?

Still, it takes everything I have in me not to abandon my stolen glances, and just full-on stare at him.

From here, I can see the way his tight pants hug firm thighs that spread open when he relaxes on the stool.

I'm a little irritated with myself that he even has my attention, but I can't help it.

Some people at the club have already noticed who he is, and a few girls at the side are whispering, and making gestures at him.

Fucking perfect.

Just what I need.

His posture is still relaxed and cool, as he sips his punch, his eyes trained firmly on the table in front of him.

I suddenly decide it's about time I head back anyway since this jerk has successfully ruined my mood.

But just as I get up to leave, I get the absolute shock of my life.

Another man appears beside Ashford, and I raise a brow at the dreamy look the other man has when Ashford looks at him.

Except, it's not just that.

As if in a trance, I watch as the newcomer leans into him, completely ignoring the public view, and presses a firm kiss to those beautiful lips of his.

Well, if I wouldn't be damned.