Bad Boy Brit (A British Bad Boy Romance) Read Online Free Page A

anticipation, edged with nervousness and with a robust head of gung-ho confidence. There was nothing like it, and a Premiership Football match generated it to at least the equal of any other sport.
    Somewhere between love and fanaticism lay the fans of English football, decked out in their team colors—scarves, hats, T shirts and even body paint proclaiming to the world who they supported, as if they weren’t already shouting loud enough for everyone within a mile radius to be left in any doubt. Though there was inevitably friction, name-calling, and even the occasional scuffle between the supporters of the opposing teams, the ugly days of hooliganism—which so plagued the sport in the eighties and got the English such a thoroughly bad reputation—were thankfully gone. The competitive animosity was simply part of the experience, part of the heady cocktail that hung in the air.
    For a while, I gazed wistfully at the entrances to the stadium through which the massed crowds poured, and I wished that I was down there with them. That would the real way in which to enjoy my first British football match: alongside the real supporters, drinking in the atmosphere and enthusiasm—the highs, the lows, the thrill and the despair. But I had a job to do, and I wasn’t even going to be able to watch the whole match.
    With a parting glance towards the excited fans, I turned away and headed for the media entrance, through which a throng of reporters made their way, business-like but still eager, which I was pleased to see. I liked sports journalists who retained their enthusiasm for sport.
    Up a winding staircase we traveled, exchanging pleasantries— ‘Are you new here?’ ‘What did you think of such-and-such or so-in-so?’—until we arrived at the media lounge, a large, comfortable room high above the stadium, which provided a birds-eye view of the pitch. The sound of the fans outside was muted by the thick glass to a dull hum, and the air of excitement, so palpable outside, was lost to bland professionalism. Against one wall, a bank of TV monitors guaranteed that not a moment of action would be missed. That was nice, although I couldn’t help thinking that if I’d wanted to watch the match on a screen then I could’ve just stayed at the hotel.
    I was just settling down to watch the game when one reporter amongst the crowd caught my eye. The woman in question was hard to miss; brilliant honey-blonde hair topping a tall, willowy frame, and stunning green eyes. She seemed to pass easily through the crush of journalists like a hot knife through butter, even in the five-inch heels she was wearing. Her name was Lauren Bilson, and my boss Granger would’ve immediately identified her as the stick-thin blonde who knew about football for whom he’d been searching—before going on to add some flattering comments about the length of her legs and pertness of her ass, of course.
    Lauren spotted me, and her beautiful face lit up with a smile. That only served to make her look even more stunningly beautiful, and I felt a little drab in comparison, although I knew I wasn’t exactly some sort of hideous swamp creature.
    “Ally!”
    Lauren strode towards me, and I gave her a tentative smile. “Hi, Lauren. How’s it going?”
    It wasn’t that I disliked Lauren—she was a surprisingly hard woman to dislike—but actually liking her could be a bit difficult too. We’d attended college together, and when I’d first seen her and heard her trilling, high-pitched voice, my first thought had been ‘dumb blonde’, as awful as that was. I regretted thinking in such a bitchy way now, but I still remembered exactly why I’d thought it. People as stunning as Lauren Bilson were rarely ambitious because they never had any need to be; they simply sailed through life, relying on their good looks and allowing men to do everything for them without the slightest idea that this was unusual. I’d assumed Lauren was just like that.
    That initial