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“Oi, watch where you’re going!”
Keeley glanced over her shoulder to see who she’d just bumped into— although really, how could bumping into anyone be helped in a club this crowded— and, oh, lord, not him again.
Normally, she’d have chirped an apology and kept on walking to find her friends, but something had her feeling feisty that night. She turned around to face the famed Roy Kent, squared her shoulders, and took a long, noisy slurp of her gin and tonic.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should watch where you’re standing.”
His eyebrows— an impressive set of eyebrows, Keeley had to admit— knitted together as he took her in. She’d had a run in or two with the great Roy Kent, of course. It was hard to miss him, given that she’d been dating one of his teammates for the last four months.
Jeremy was nice enough— fantastic in bed, incredibly fit, and looked great on her arm, when he could be arsed to show up— but deep down she knew it wasn’t going to last. That it was just a bit of fun. And, if she was being honest with herself, it was not always all that fun, actually, given that he could be a bit of a prat. Like tonight, when he’d said he’d meet her and her girlfriends out for a few cocktails, before going radio silent.
Okay, not a bit of a prat; a complete and total prat.
“You’re Creighton’s girl, aren’t you?” Roy Kent said, crossing his arms over his chest, and drawing Keeley from her thoughts back to the present moment.
She fluffed her ponytail with her free hand and tilted her head to the side. “I like to think of myself as my own woman, actually.”
He grunted. “Tell your boy he needs to work on his passing. His performance in that last match was complete and utter shite.”
Keeley took a sip of her drink. “Tell him yourself. I’m sure you’ve got his number.” She smiled ruefully, letting only the slightest tinge of bitterness creep into her voice. “It’s not like he’s currently taking my calls, anyway.” She took another long sip, emptying her drink with a loud slurp.
For a moment, Roy Kent seemed to be sizing her up. His eyes narrowed and he let his arms fall to the side. “Right,” he said, and with a decisive nod, he dug his mobile out of one pocket and started tapping away at the screen.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Keeley tried to peek at his phone screen, but he kept it just out of her view.
He didn’t say anything, just held the phone up to his ear and waited for someone to answer. Then, after a beat: “Oi, Creighton. It’s Kent.” He paused, and Keeley watched in amusement as he rolled his eyes, gesturing impatiently with one hand. “Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about all that. I was just calling to tell you that you need to work on your passing, because that last match was complete and utter shite. Just the very, very worst. Understand?”
Keeley giggled, fishing an ice cube out of her now-depleted drink and sucking it into her mouth. She supposed that if the only thing she felt was amusement while she watched a football legend berate her boyfriend, then maybe he shouldn’t be her boyfriend at all. She’d kind of known that for awhile, of course, but there was nothing like the clarity brought on by a night out at the club with mates. Or, apparently, a night out at the club with cantankerous quasi-acquaintances.
“Fucking hell,” Roy Kent said into the phone, his gruff voice dripping with disdain. “Save it for the pitch, Creighton. And you know what else?”
He looked back at Keeley then, and she got that feeling again like he was sizing her up, taking her in. Sometimes that sort of thing made her feel nervous or twitchy or on display, but right now she didn’t feel like that at all. She placed her empty drink on the tray of a passing cocktail server and looked back at him, head cocked to one side and lips quirked into a smile.
Roy Kent kept his eyes trained on hers and huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he said into the phone, “You’re a massive fucking idiot.” With that, he hung up, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his trousers without so much as a goodbye.
Keeley raised her eyebrows. “So, that was entirely necessary, was it?”
He nodded. “Uh huh. That’s right.”
She hummed in response. “Well… I’ve got to go meet my friends. I think they’re at the table in that corner over there,” she added, gesturing to the back of the club.
“Uh huh,” he repeated.
Keeley was about to turn and leave when her own mobile buzzed inside her clutch. She popped open the tiny bag and pulled out the phone to take a look.
Incoming call: Jeremy Creighton
She couldn’t help but chuckle as she looked down at the screen.
“What?” Roy Kent asked. He peered over at the phone, and she turned it so he could see. He made a massive show of rolling his eyes. It was kind of cute, really. “Like I said. He’s an idiot.”
“Well, you know what I think?” He looked at her expectantly, but didn’t say anything, and she continued. “I think tonight is not the night for idiots.” She tapped the button to ignore Jeremy’s call, then put her phone away in her bag.
Roy Kent’s smile was nearly imperceptible, but somehow rewarding nonetheless. “Smart girl,” he said.
She nodded, a grin playing at her lips, and gestured with her thumb to the back corner of the club. “I should really…”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Keeley walked backward for a few steps, then with one last little wave, turned and headed for the table where she thought she’d spotted her group.
That night with her friends, many words were said over copious cocktails about how completely idiotic, and self-centered, and thoughtless, and boring these fit, young, hot-shot footballers could be.
But, Keeley thought to herself as she sipped another drink—perhaps it was possible that they weren’t all so bad.