Sidelined Heart

Christian

My life is over.

My sixteen years soccer career has come to an end.

And it's all because of the infuriating jerk in front of me.

The annoyance coursing through my veins struggles to stand still when those chocolate brown eyes meet mine.

"Irresistible, Charming, & Downright sexy."

Those are the words the tabloids use to describe him.

"What do you say then, Thompson? Wanna get into this relationship with me?"

The way the formal words roll out of his sensual lips tighten my briefs, and I bite my lips in annoyance.

Why does he have to be so hot?

His eyes follow the movement, and a sexy smile stretches out his lips.

It's like he's speaking in an innuendo only both of us can understand.

"Only for the tabloids, Ryder." I manage to reply gruffly, taking his smooth smaller hands into my firmer ones.

They fit so perfectly.

"Anything for you, Thompson."

I want to laugh at this situation, because if there's one thing I expect from life, it's that it always fucks me over.

Only this time, I'm truly screwed, because I've just done the one thing I should never have done...

Making a deal with Ashford Ryder.

Quite possibly, the hottest man I've ever set my eyes on.

And the man I'm supposed to hate.

A relationship purely for the tabloids alone, and worst of all, not the kind of relationship I'd prefer.

I run my hands through my hair, and avoid staring at his impeccably perfect face.

I guess, with all things that get screwed up this badly, it has to start from somewhere, right?

My first encounter with Ashford Ryder.

An encounter that happened 3 months ago, on a day just like any other day.

Three Months Earlier...

"What time is your game, Chris?"

The soft voice floats over the receiver of the ear pods I have awkwardly placed in my ears.

I swear, the invention of these horrible tiny speaking objects has to be the start of an apocalyptic world.

They quite literally never stay in place, and every time I try to move them, I can't hear anything anymore.

But the young kids these days surprisingly love these.

And as my manager has said to me for the umpteenth time in the last month-"you have to come into the real world, Christian. Stop being so archaic."

I'm not some ancient man who doesn't know how to operate technology, I just rather prefer comfortable technology over this piece of crap.

"Chris? Are you still with me? Are you fidgeting with your ear pods again, old man?" Soph can barely hold her laugh as she speaks again.

I'm not old, damn it.

I grumble under my breathe, and quickly disconnect my speaker from the devices, and hold my phone to my ears.

"You're just a year younger than me." I reply, with an irritated tone.

Sophia Grant, my childhood best friend of nearly two decades, and the one person who can still stand me, lets out a wild laughter at my reply.

"I'm more up to date than you, so it doesn't count. Just give up the damn ear pods if they're such a hassle, Chris."

I sigh, and rub my temples.

She doesn't understand.

According to my manager, just being a soccer player isn't enough anymore, not even if once upon a time, I was the best striker the European league had ever seen.

Now, playing football isn't all there is to being a soccer player.

I actually have to do things like, wear brand deals, and show up to photo shoots.

Long gone is the time when scoring more goals than your opponent mattered.

My manager says I have to be hot and trending, and when he said that I couldn't tell if it was a jab to my physique, or not.

I mean, I think I look good.

I work out a lot, but I don't like to spend a lot of time at the gym either.

The men there-let's just say, a lot of people embrace nudity these days.

Still, I take care of myself a lot, and I know I'm easy on the eyes.

The issue is the trending-that seems to be the wave these days.

So I have to be hospitable.

I have to smile, and laugh it off when reporters ask impersonal questions, and I have to pretend like I enjoy taking numerous photo shoots.

I'm a soccer player, not a model. But no one seems to understand this.

"You're right. That's the last I'm going to see of them. I'm throwing them out." As I reply Soph, I throw the ear pods into the waste bin outside the stadium.

Good riddance!

"As I was saying, before you got distracted, what time is your game? I'm going to be watching from England. So sorry I can't attend mon Cherie!"

I swat away invisible hands like I can see her. "It's fine. No need. Just the same old anyway. How's your new line coming up? And my game is starting my 9, I'm almost there."

The rush into the stadium is massive, and I almost regret throwing out my ear pods.

I have to push through this crowd to get in?

Fans can be absolutely unbelievable some times.

This isn't even the fan entry. It's the door for the players, yet here they are, crowding it with no decorum!

How preposterous!

"Alright then, I can hear the fans going crazy around there. Later then, best of luck in your game. Love you!"

I throw back a hasty goodbye, before I steel myself to push into the little space I can see.

"Ashford, here!"

"Here, Ryder!!"

"Oh, so sexy!"

"I wanna have your babies Ashford!!!"

The last words make me turn so fast I nearly give myself a whiplash.

Who is this Ashford person they're going crazy over?

It's not surprising to see fans of the game lose their minds over their favorite players, but it's been a while a player has had this huge an impact on fans.

I'm pretty sure my manager would be jealous of whoever this person's manager is.

I push forward and blinding light floods my vision.

For a moment, I can't see anything but the camera lights.

Before I can regain my momentum, I bump into someone, and nearly lose my balance.

"Ouch," the gentle voice of the person I've just bumped into reaches my ears and I freeze.

Not because the voice is familiar or anything, but because when I look up at the person who has his arms around me, preventing me from falling I don't believe what I see.

H-how?

Christian

It's not someone I know.

No.

The man I bump into who has his arms wrapped around me is a complete and absolute stranger.

Messy blond hair, falling around his face flawlessly.

Dark chocolate eyes that stare so deeply at me, I fear they can see my soul.

And an impossibly ripped figure.

The latter, I'm conscious of because my arm is still holding those slightly bulging biceps, while he holds onto me.

It takes me more than a moment to regain myself, and pull away from the gaze of this stranger.

But thankfully, I'm back on my feet at some point.

The second thing I notice about him is that he's shorter than me.

A good five or so inches shorter than me if I do my calculations well, but that's not it.

I'm 6ft3, so a shorter soccer player won't be all that surprising.

What had me taking a breathe to actually pause and look at this guy is his face.

It's impossible.

That's the only one I can use for it at first, but I'm sure later in my room, when I stare at my bed more words will come.

Like, breathtaking.

Devastatingly gorgeous.

Impeccable.

Flawless.

I nearly have to slap myself to bring myself back to reality, because that's just how taken aback I am by him.

The man in front of me has a lean face, like God couldn't decide what to make of him.

His chocolate eyes are round, and fit perfectly in said face.

The straight line of his lips are so full and sensual, that I can tell they'll produce the most magnificent smile ever.

A single dimple is already popping at one side of his face, and he isn't even smiling yet.

And his nose is so perfectly straight, that it's hard to believe he's ever been punched in his life.

To sum it up-he is very handsome.

"I'm very sorry, are you alright?"

Damn, even his voice is perfect.

Not too soft while bothering on masculine, and not too firm it overrides it.

An unwanted image immediately feels my head of this young man, panting, while arching those-

"Ashford, OMG!!! Please marry me!"

Another fan lets out a deluded chant, and I force my eyes away from the man in front of me.

Light embarrassment burns my face when I realize I've been staring at him a lot.

But imagine my shock when he actually waves at the fan who just called.

"Thank you so much for the support, but the match will soon be starting. You should head up and get your seats now."

He speaks so clearly, and in control that I almost forget I'm not a fan, and start listening to him.

The fans still stare at him dreamily, as I manage to finally walk inside the stadium.

It's not until I step in that I realize one thing-not one of them even looked at me.

***

My eyes move quickly to the timer on the top side, and trepidation fills me.

The second half has just three minutes left, and it's been an absolute mess.

1:1.

Our score was even a miracle.

Frankly, everything is beyond a mess, but I don't have a better word for it.

Worst of all, I'm absolutely pissed.

The game started of all wrong to begin with-I'm normally the major striker, or at least the midfielder, but today I'm the defender.

I don't know why coach decided to set us up like this, but not only is it ruining the game, it's shitting on my mood.

As if trying to piss me off some more, I watch as he runs towards me.

The ball in tow, while he dribbles to avoid the players trying to take the ball.

If I wasn't so focused on making sure he didn't score that goal, I'd have been impressed by his dribbling skills.

One leg forward,

Another back,

A triple move they barely catch,

And just when they think they can snatch the ball, he shoots the ball with the heel of his left leg.

I'm almost too surprised to catch the ball headed at me, but I do.

Somehow, he's kicked the ball at the perfect trajectory where he can score.

Too bad, I won't let that happen.

Just as I see the ball flying, I jump as high as I can, kicking my leg out midair, and aiming for the ball.

But my plans crumble before my very eyes.

The leg I see in front of me, isn't just mine, but someone else's.

Him?

How did he get here so fast?

His legs shoot out before my eyes, and just grazes the ball barely, but that's all it takes.

One minute, I'm watching his movement, the next minute my ear drums feel like they're going to explode with the loud shouts that fill the stadium.

I barely catch the number 2:1 on the screen.

The guy I'd just been watching is lifted high into the air by his teammates, and I watch as sweat trickles down his face.

His hair is damp and sticks to his face, but his smile is brighter than ever.

Bastard.

That's the first thing I think.

It's shameful but I can't help it.

The adoring fans don't stop screaming his name, and his teammates look at him like he's the golden star.

The perfect striker.

I'm so absorbed in these thoughts that I don't see my teammates coming towards me.

Some of them pat my back in sympathy, while others just walk away, probably to get changed.

Yet, what I feel at the moment isn't disappointment that we lost the game but another feeling.

It's so dark and consuming, that I can't immediately tell what it is.

Ashford Ryder.

The name on everybody's lips.

The star player.

At that moment, I pick a side.

And as if he can read my thoughts, the young star's eyes surprisingly meet mine, and they widen by a fraction.

But I've already decided.

I hate him.

Ashford

I wish they'd stop.

"Ashford!"

"Ashford, over here!

"Ashford Ryder!"

The name on everybody's lips.

I force a smile that barely reaches my eyes, but at least matches my rapid heartbeat, as I'm led out of the stadium.

Everywhere still feels a little hazy, and I'm not sure if it's the lights, or the headache from the match that just ended.

The hair sticking to my face feels gross, and while everyone around me is screaming for the win, I transport myself somewhere else.

Somewhere I can take a col luxurious bathe.

The thought is almost so good, that I forget where I actually am, until I feel a hand on my shoulders.

That can't happen if I'm in a bath tub right?

I blink rapidly as I'm forced back to reality.

"Ash, you need to head to the west wing. Some reporters have already paid for an exclusive, so remember don't talk to anyone here. They need the first words from you."

My manager, Pierce's word are sharp and brisk, and I nod stiffly.

Of course, the bath is far from a reality for now.

Still, before I leave, I can't stop my eyes from trailing over to the field again.

The other team, England's Egos-one of the top best teams in the country-if I remember correctly, had a rather downcast expression.

It's expected, considering they just lost to us, but my eyes catch the eyes of one player in particular.

I don't know how I even managed to meet his eyes, but he's looking at me different from the rest.

He's not looking at me like some sad player who just lost to an opposing team.

No, he's looking at me with-

"Gosh, you're always in your head, Ash. Earth to Ashford!" Cole, one of my closest friends on the team bumps my shoulders with his.

The smile I give him this time is a little more genuine.

"I'm just exhausted." My voice sounds scratchy. Hm.

"What? That was such a goal, Ash! I don't even know what to say. The other team are still talking about it. One minute you were dribbling the ball, the next minute you were right beside that defender. It was phenomenal."

But I only take one word from what Cole's just said.

That defender?

Yes, he's the one I took the ball from. Is that why he's looking at me that way?

I remember he's also the guy I bumped into outside, before I came in.

Then, he'd be staring at me like I was some creature who just landed on earth-it'd been a bit creepy.

"Are you even listening to me, Ash?" Cole gets in my face this time, and I bump into him and come to a stop.

My eyes finally meet that of the 5ft11 player's in front of me. Cole Brackman. Something else is shining in his eyes.

Want.

Need.

As if he can read my eyes, he tilts his head slowly to the side, and watches me with doe like eyes.

My favorite feature of his.

"Wanna go cool off?" His tone is smooth and sexy.

Just what I need.

I don't know why, but the heated look in the eyes of that defender is creating such an abnormal reaction in me.

I need to cool off, so I nod at the beautiful man in front of me. "Sure."

***

The 'cool off' Cole is talking about, isn't just the regular hang out between best bros enjoying a cool air.

No.

It's rougher, and dirtier than that.

Simply put, it's this.

I yank my shorts down, and watch as Cole's eyes grow comically wide while he takes me in.

But I'm not feeling too patient right now. I need this hard and fast.

I quickly shove my cock into his mouth, and my eyes nearly roll to the back of my head, as I let out a low whiny sound.

This is perfect.

I should be having that interview at the west wing, but I don't care.

All I care about right now, is the warm, wet and willing mouth in front of me, practically begging me to take me deeper.

Before I can help myself, I'm thrusting in and out of his mouth, overwhelming need raging inside my body.

Cole makes a sudden movement with his tongue, that's followed by a moan, and I nearly come right on the spot.

I'm already at the brink of the action, when I hear voices filtering this way.

I freeze, and Cole freezes too.

His eyes meet mine, and he seems to ask, "what the hell?"

But I don't know.

Thankfully, we're in a toilet stall, so no one can really invade our privacy.

I try to stay as still as I can, at least until whoever just came in leaves, but then I hear their voices louder.

"Did you see that, Chris? That was amazing. It was like watching you on the field all over again. You used to be that cool you know."

The person is speaking in an animated manner.

Whoever he's talking to just grunts a reply, like he's not interested, and somehow that low grunt nearly brings me to finish.

What the hell is wrong with me today?

"And the way you went at him? I really thought you were gonna stop that ball. Too bad the kid's faster."

Are they talking about me?

I internally will them to hurry up and leave so I can get back to my business with Cole.

"Wanna meet at the pub? The after game party would be such a drag anyway since we lost. And that Ashford kid would be all they'll be talking about."

I hear the sound of the tap opening. "Can't blame them though. He's good." The speaker adds.

Immediately I hear those words, I sense the change in the atmosphere. It's silent for a bit, before the words I don't expect to hear are uttered.

"I don't think he's that good. Looks more like a show baby to me."

Even Cole who's still down on his knees in front of me widens his eyes at this confession.

I wonder who it is.