The Player's Promise

Book 0: London Hearts

by Tierney Page

Genres: Friendship; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

From TikTok sensation Tierney Page comes a spicy, forbidden romance about second chances, secrets and lies that’s perfect for fans of Ana Huang and Lauren Asher.    

Anna’s not looking for love. Fresh from a divorce, she needs an escape. One reckless night of fun—and the gorgeous Irishman who buys her a drink at the bar promises exactly that. No last names, no strings, just fireworks.   

Liam’s used to hiding behind a game face. But after a brutal betrayal and an even messier punch-up, he’s lost everything: his soccer career, his team, his reputation—and worst of all, his son’s trust. A one-night stand with a stranger? Just the distraction he needs. He never expected to see Anna again … until she turns out to be his son’s new teacher.   

Anna knows she shouldn’t get involved with a student’s father—especially not him. But Liam’s not the man the tabloids say he is. He’s so much worse.

 

Release date: May 26, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

No one prepared me for this. For today.

I plant my hands on my hips as I take in my new home. A one-bedroom, one-bath flat in Putney. It’s dated, small, and pokey. Then again, it is only me living here now.

I have a view of the River Thames right by Putney Bridge. I’m not too close to the Underground, but perhaps the short walk before and after work will do me some good.

I release a long exhale.

“This is it,” I mutter to myself.

Growing up, we’re spoon-fed fairy tales in which the girl meets her Prince Charming, birds sing, the couple get married, pop out a few spawns, and everyone’s farting rainbows and shitting sunshine forevermore.

But the glamorous tale spun by parents and educators doesn’t always translate to the real world.

We aren’t all guaranteed a happily ever after.

I’m thirty-four, live alone, and definitely don’t have a Prince Charming. I haven’t even got a bloody cat. However, I do have a stack of freshly signed divorce papers.

Don’t get me wrong, I have the best friends a woman could ask for: Gemma and April. But they’ve got their partners and their own lives. I can’t rely on them day in and day out. April has her rockstar husband James, while Gemma has my older brother Max.

I used to have Mason.

We were married for eight years. Eight happy years.

But somewhere along the way, Mason decided he didn’t want to have kids anymore. And for years, he didn’t bother to tell me he’d changed his mind.

“All right, that’s the final box,” Max says, clapping his hands together as he straightens, folding the collapsed cardboard under his armpit.

Now, I’m starting over. My biological clock feels more like a bomb, and I can’t shake the feeling that my thirties have been stolen from me. And while society loves to preach how your thirties are the new twenties, and women don’t need a man—girl power and all that—reality feels far less empowering.

When you’re in your thirties, childless, freshly single, and forced to include your brother on your new lease agreement to be accepted, that “independence” everyone raves about shrivels entirely.

When I divulged my marital status, the realtor pursed her lips and tilted her head, dragging her gaze from my messy hair down to my worn-in trainers. It was bloody demoralizing.

I felt about as welcome as a used tampon.

“Thanks. I really appreciate your help,” I say, shooting Max a crooked smile. I tug him in for a side-hug.

“What else are brothers for, right? Heavy lifting’s part of the deal.”

I peer around the small, dimly lit kitchen. Max has unpacked and organized the entire flat. He also accompanied me to property inspections, covered my legal fees, and even took care of moving costs. He’s been a lifesaver.

Mason bought me out of our red-bricked terrace home in Central London—the one I loved more than anything. I’d designed every inch of it: the lush green courtyard, the provincial interior décor, the fully renovated, state-of-the-art kitchen. But, on a teacher’s wage, I never stood a chance of keeping it. Alas, here I am.

It was supposed to be our forever home. Though I suppose rattling around in a large empty house would be depressing without the family I’d imagined.

“Gemma and April should be back any minute,” Max says, mussing my hair, “so I’ll leave you to it. Give me a buzz if you need anything, okay, Weasel?”

Gemma and April have called and texted every day. No matter how often I cancel our plans, they’ve never given up on me. After helping unpack my bedroom and bathroom, and arranging my bookshelf, they dashed off to grab supplies for tonight.

I swallow a lump, nodding. “Will do.”

“And Anna?”

I lift my brows. “Hmm?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to shower.” He winks.

“Oh, bugger off,” I say, giving him a light shove.

He chuckles. “Have fun tonight.”

Not likely.

He leans in to pop a quick kiss on the top of my head before leaving. I look around for something to keep me busy until the girls get back. I know: wine.

I pluck a bottle of chardonnay from a box of six, unscrew the cap, and pour myself a generous glass. Then, I take up position on my sofa with a packet of crisps and get stuck in.

I came to terms with the split a long time ago, but now that the Final Order has been granted, it’s official. Our marriage is legally dissolved. It’s strange to think that you can spend years loving someone, knowing someone, building and sharing a life together, only to become strangers again. You aren’t the first person they talk to about their day. The first person they say good morning to and the last person they see before they go to sleep. Slowly, they withdraw until eventually they’re gone and you’re left with nothing. Wondering if you could have done something different.

The newly signed papers mock me from the coffee table. Yesterday, on my way home from the lawyer’s office, I was feeling so morose I even stopped by a fertility clinic and grabbed a few brochures about egg freezing and donor sperm. I never would have predicted that—not that there’s anything wrong with it—I just thought I’d be experiencing parenthood with Mason.

I haven’t heard from him since the ink dried. Not a single I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, or maybe I should have been honest about my feelings sooner, or even I hope you have a happy life.

Instead, there was silence, which hurt even more.

Two glasses later, Gemma and April swan in, brandishing a bag of cosmetics and a fistful of coat hangers, a dress suspended from each one. Black, red, royal blue—you name it, they’ve bought it.

April’s totally out of breath, arching her back and pushing out her round belly. “Christ, those stairs are awful.”

“They aren’t that bad,” Gemma says with amusement in her voice.

“You haven’t been carrying a tiny human around in your uterus for six months,” April says.

“No, I haven’t.” Gemma shrugs. “But I am rather constipated.”

April huffs a laugh, shaking her head.

April and I have been best friends for over twenty-seven years. We met in Year 1, both new kids at school. I’d just moved back to Central London after living in Fiji. My family moved around a lot when I was younger because of my dad’s hotel work.

I met Gemma through April, in our mid-twenties, and the three of us have been inseparable ever since.

“All right,” Gemma says, snapping her fingers at me. “Put the glass down and get your arse in the shower.” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “We’re going out.”

“It’ll take a lot more than a shower and a case of makeup to polish this turd.”

“What turd?” April asks.

“Me, April,” I reply, jabbing a finger to my chest. “I’m the turd.”

Gemma’s lips twist into a half-smirk. “The most beautiful turd I ever did see.”

I shoot her a sarcastic smile.

I’m curled on the sofa in what I’ve been wearing almost every day since the separation: leggings and an oversized jumper.

“Come on! You said you’d go out with us,” April says, her voice gentle. She steps forward and drops to a crouch in front of me, her long auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders.

Gemma settles into the cushions next to me. “We need to do something to mark the occasion.”

Leveling her with a look, I toss a potato crisp in my mouth with an unladylike crunch. “What occasion? My divorce?”

April places her hand on my knee, her sapphire eyes sincere. “You haven’t been out in ages. You thought it was a good idea when we first mentioned it.”

She’s right, I haven’t been out in months. Seven, to be exact. And I really don’t feel like starting tonight.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m perfectly happy nesting in my butt-dent, thank you very much,” I reply, grabbing another crisp.

April rolls her eyes before darting her gaze to the papers on the coffee table. “Maybe I could put those away for you?”

I wave my hand. “Just leave them.”

“Come on, Anna,” Gemma says, pushing her wire-framed glasses further up her nose. “We could go to the fancy bar at Gray Hotel? There are usually hot rich men there. They’re always a bit of fun.” She pumps her eyebrows.

I scrunch my nose. “No, thanks. I really don’t feel like going out anymore.”

“It seemed like you were looking forward to it,” April presses.

“Yeah, because you two were.” I sigh. “Can we just order a takeaway and watch a movie? Please?”

Their eyes flick to each other briefly before returning to mine.

“You sure?” April asks, covering my hand with her own.

I nod. “I’m sure. I’m really not up to it.”

“Fine,” Gemma says, flicking her finger at me. “We can stay in this time. But it’s your birthday next month. We are going out for that, okay?”

I purse my lips. “Fine.”

Her mouth tilts up in a grin. “All right, pass me that wine.”

We huddle together under a pile of blankets, passing each other snacks and sipping on wine—or, in April’s case, sparkling water.

April snatches the crisps from my lap. “What do you want to watch?”

I roll my lips, thinking. “Hmm. Notting Hill.”

Gemma’s hands link together over her heart. “Ugh, I love that movie. The part where Hugh Grant shows up to the press conference to win Julia Roberts back? Swoon!”

“I love that scene,” I murmur, shoving another handful of junk food in my mouth.

We spend the rest of the evening watching ’90s rom-coms and chatting about books. And when they eventually leave, returning home to their happy lives, I close the door and look around my empty flat.

Only then do I crawl into bed and let myself fall apart.

I​’ve just run my arse off and the cold April air still chills me to the bone.

“Well done, lads!” Coach Miller says as we jog off the training pitch.

“Murphy!” he says.

I stall, lagging behind the others as they head inside. “What’s up, Coach?”

He jerks his chin toward his office. “A word.”

Ah, shite.

Danielle, my new agent, scrambled to get me another contract outside of Dublin shortly after I was dropped, which brought me and Finn to London. A fresh start. And I’ve gone and blown it already. I can’t catch a bloody break.

Tash was gone by the time I returned from the training grounds after knocking the living daylights out of Keogh. The only communication I’ve had with her since has been via email—sorting out the sale of the house, dividing assets, securing full custody—cowardly, if you ask me. She won’t answer her bleedin’ phone. Not even for Finn.

While she was living it up with Adam, I hit an all-time low. Each night for the first two weeks, after Finn had gone to bed, I’d get on the drink. I thought I lost everything until Danielle flew out to Dublin and somehow swindled me a second chance. And now… here I am.

Chiswick Park United brought me over at the end of December, once I was released by Emerald Rovers. With the early arrival, I could play through winter and early spring with the other transfers. I needed to put down roots and make a few allies. Especially with the reputation that followed me across the Irish Sea. Adam-fucking-Keogh made sure of that. The piece of shite.

Finn spends his days at my cousin Roman’s place while I train. Roman’s wife, Zoey, is a godsend—keeping Finn busy, helping him settle. Their daughter, Melody, is the same age as Finn, so he’s had company while I’ve had to work. The move’s been hard on him. To let him adjust, we’re waiting until late April, a couple of weeks from now, before sending him to his new school in Richmond. Finn’s a lively and happy-go-lucky kid—there’s not much that stirs him up or gets him down—but Tash’s absence has been rough. He’s usually bursting with energy, speeding around the house, singing, dancing, playing. He keeps me on my toes with his cheek. But, in the four months since the move, he’s been hiding himself away in his room and barely speaks unless spoken to. Even then, his response is an unenthused murmur.

Tash and I were de facto, so she’s come after half of everything—including the house I purchased under my name. The house I bought for our family to grow in. So, yeah, I want the money from my new team. Not for anything flash. Just to keep us afloat. For safety. I follow Coach inside and take a seat at his desk, trying to gauge his expression. My body automatically tenses for a scolding. The last time I was called into a coach’s office, I was released from the Emerald Rovers. I’m not expecting anything good.

In football years, I’m approaching retirement age and I need to hold out as long as I can. I can’t mess up this new contract. I need to make sure I can take care of Finn. I don’t ever want him to feel that pang of panic at opening an empty fridge. So many nights I went to bed hungry—not because there wasn’t food, but because my da wanted to teach me a lesson. I swore Finn would never know that feeling.

Coach Miller’s red and yellow club tracksuit rustles as he sinks into his chair, his hands steepled in his lap as he studies me. “That was some play back there.”

My eyebrows lift in surprise and my shoulders settle. “Thanks.”

“I mean it, Murphy. Spring training’s gone well, ahead of preseason. I’m impressed, and I don’t say that lightly.” He smooths a hand over his salt-and-pepper mustache. “But heading into the season, I need you to keep your nose clean. That means no brawling. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach,” I reply.

“You seem to be getting on well with the other lads.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. This is the first positive feedback I’ve had from authority in months.

He adjusts his cap. “Some of the board weren’t thrilled when I signed you on as a striker. Word travels fast in this league, Murphy, and people weren’t impressed when they heard you’d beaten up a teammate. I knew it was a risk bringing you in, but I see potential. I see hunger. Keep proving them wrong, and we’ll get along just fine.”

I know I screwed up in Dublin. I was well known in Ireland, and I expected that recognition to follow me over to England. It has, somewhat. I hear the whispers when I’m shopping at my local Tesco. I see strangers on the street pull their phones out to snap pictures as I walk by. So I need to keep my head down. Every mistake I make is magnified. Every move is scrutinized. One slip, and I’m the tabloids’ favorite headline again.

I can’t mess this up. I have to get it right. For Finn. By some miracle, I’ve been given another opportunity and now I have to prove I deserve it.

“Will do, Coach.”

“Go get changed. Enjoy your weekend and I’ll see you Monday.”

“Aye,” I say, getting up and making my way to the locker room, feeling the calmest I have in a long time.

Jack, one of the other new transfers, claps me on the shoulder as he passes, grinning. “Nice work, Murphy.”

“Cheers,” I reply, still getting used to hearing praise.

He sheds his training shirt, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “The lads and I are heading out for a few drinks. You coming?”

I peer around the room, taking in my teammates’ expressions. A few of them shoot me a nod and a smile of encouragement.

My mouth twitches, just shy of a smile. “Yeah, all right. Why not?”

“You know what your problem is?” Gemma says, rubbing lotion over her fair skin. “You need to get laid. You’ve barely left this flat since you moved in! All you’ve done is work and mope around.”

I watch as her diamond engagement ring twinkles under my bedroom light. A little over a year ago, Gemma was assigned to work with Max on the prestigious launch campaign for the new Gray Hotel in Mayfair. What started as a business relationship turned into something more. They fell in love, moved into a stunning new apartment in Kensington, and were engaged shortly after. They can’t keep their bloody hands off each other.

It’s funny, really. Two years ago, my best friends were single and I was the one dreaming up baby names. Now, Gemma’s marrying my brother, and April is expecting her first child with James.

I’m the fifth wheel.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely stoked for them. They’re both glowing with happiness and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for my best friends. Still, sometimes it’s hard not to feel like I’m being left behind.

“Give me a break,” I say, adding a wing to my eyeliner.

Tonight, I’ve finally agreed to go out. We’re headed to the Mayfair Lounge, a glitzy bar in the heart of Mayfair, for my thirty-fifth birthday. Coincidentally, it’s the same place April hooked up with her now-husband and baby daddy, James, the bass guitarist for Atlas Veil.

“Ease up on her, Gem,” April says. She’s kicked back on the bed, arms folded over the curve of her stomach. She looks ethereal with her blue eyes smoked out against her porcelain skin, red tresses curled.

“Thank you,” I say, glaring at Gemma before eyeing April’s baby bump. “Besides, should you even be going out in your condition?”

Her mouth drops. “My condition? What is this? The eighteen hundreds?”

“What if you shake the baby loose?” I ask, pointing at her belly.

April’s eyes turn to saucers as she stares at me, horrified. “Holy crap, that can’t happen… can it?”

“No, April. Your baby isn’t going to fall out your vagina,” Gemma says, mussing her blonde locks before shifting her eyes to me. “It’s your birthday, Anna. You’re about to start the summer term. You’ve had two weeks off teaching and done nothing. We’re going out.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one deciding what I do for my birthday?” I ask. The last thing I want is to get sloshed and pretend everything’s fine, when turning thirty-five feels more like a funeral than a celebration. Gemma and April share a look I don’t quite understand. “What was that look for?”

April studies me with those soft, concerned eyes. “Hon, you’ve been holed up in your flat since you moved in a month ago. You’ve barely stepped outside, apart from going to work. I understand you’re hurting and going through a lot, but we’ve left you to your grief long enough.” Her eyes slide to Gemma. “I won’t let you wallow. We’re starting to get a little worried.”

“That’s not true,” I say, mashing my brows together. “We still have brunch on weekends and wines together after work.”

“No, Anna. You cancelled the last few brunch dates,” April says.

“Oh.” Did I? Crap. I didn’t realize.

“You don’t even go to yoga anymore,” Gemma says. “You loved yoga.”

I point at her. “In my defense, you stuck an amethyst crystal up my yoga instructor’s rectum.”

“Oh, please.” She guffaws. “That was one date and it was ages ago. He told me he could handle it!”

“How was I ever supposed to show my face in his studio after that?”

She shrugs. “Find a new class.”

I fix her with a hard look. “I liked Rafael’s class.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “All I’m hearing are excuses.”

I must admit, they have a point. I haven’t been very social this last year. And she’s right—I did stop yoga classes. When things with Mason were falling apart, I lost enthusiasm for everything. The spark. The joy. All of it.

I’ve been as flat as my mother’s arse.

“You love yoga, Anna. I think booking in some classes would be great for you. You deserve to do something that brings you peace, especially after everything you’ve been through,” April says, reaching for a glass of water from my bedside.

I sigh.

“Listen here, you sorry sack of shit—” Gemma starts.

Water shoots out of April’s nose, splattering across my bed as she chokes on a laugh. My mouth twitches. Despite currently being a pain in my arse, I’ve always loved Gemma’s sense of humor.

“If April is willing to take her bump out, you can at least muster some enthusiasm for tonight,” she finishes.

“Gemma!” April says.

“No, April. She needs some tough love.” Her stare slices into me. “Keeping your space tidy is a nonnegotiable, and frankly, Anna, your flat looks like a scene from 28 Weeks Later.”

“The zombie movie?” April asks.

“Precisely,” Gemma says.

My eyes scan my bedroom. I suppose I could have found a more productive way to deal with heartache than burying myself under unwashed clothes, takeout bags, and tubs of half-eaten ice cream. On my nightstand I think I spot a large takeaway cup of Coke from a week ago.

I wave a hand. “I’ll clean up later.”

“You need to pick yourself up and get yourself back out there, starting tonight,” Gemma says.

“I would be just as happy watching a movie with you guys,” I reply.

“Boring. It’s your birthday, Anna. You should celebrate it the proper way,” Gemma says.

I cross my arms. “And what constitutes proper to you, Gemma?” I already know I’m going to regret asking her.

She lifts her chin. “With a decent shagging.”

Yes, I immediately regret it.

I snap my eyeliner lid shut and toss it aside, uncrossing my legs to stand. “I just don’t think I’m ready yet.” I make my way to the wardrobe, fling open the doors, and begin rummaging through my options.

“You know what they say,” Gemma says, with a wink. “The best way to get over a man is to get under another.”

“How insightful,” I deadpan, pulling out a little black number and holding it against my body. Gemma nods in approval.

April giggles. “No one is pressuring you into doing anything except getting dressed up and having a good time.”

“And spreading your legs. Anna,” Gemma says, her voice low. “How long has it been since you’ve had sex?”

I stare into the distance, trying to remember. Shit, was it really that long ago?

Before Mason and I officially announced our split, we’d decided to sleep in separate rooms. My wanting a baby made him feel like that was the only reason we were having sex, so our marriage very quickly lost its flare. And once that pull toward each other weakened, the final embers of our marriage extinguished. Where love once blazed, there was only coal and ash. Mason wouldn’t touch me, not where it mattered most, and that was crushing.

“It’s been a little over a year,” I reply.

Gemma’s hand flies to her mouth. “She’s joined a nunnery.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” April says, smacking Gemma with a throw cushion.

“What? She’s practically a virgin! Her poor vagina has probably stitched itself back together by now,” Gemma says.

“I’m still in the room,” I say, waving my hand.

Gemma’s expression sobers. “I’m serious, Anna. You can’t stay locked up in this flat forever, pining over what’s-his-face.”

“Mason. The man I was married to for eight years. The man who was one of your best friends,” I say.

“Not anymore, he’s not. He kept his feelings from you for four rudding years. I’ll never forgive him.”

I sigh. “It’s complicated, Gem.”

April offers me a small smile, but it flickers, turning sympathetic.

I shake my head. I respect Gemma’s loyalty, but her anger is misplaced. Mason isn’t the villain in this story. Yes, he broke my heart and shattered dreams of motherhood, but our marriage ended as amicably as it could have. We didn’t throw dishes or scream at each other. There were no nasty words or final blows. We sat at our dining table, cried together, and agreed that splitting up was the right thing. For both of us.

I don’t blame him for not wanting kids—how can I? That’s his decision.

I don’t blame him for the hurt either. I know he felt it too.

What I do hold against him is the silence. The years he hid his change of heart. Years I spent dreaming about a future he’d already decided he didn’t want. If someone who shaped your happiness for eight years could hide something so monumental, how do you trust again? How do you believe anyone who says they love you, when they might be quietly pulling away at the same time?

The thought tugs at my frayed edges.

So, no. I definitely won’t be looking to sleep with anyone tonight. In fact, I’d rather stay as far away from men as possible.

April watches me with her big, kind eyes and hopeful expression—the same look she gave when she begged me not to tell Gemma that she took too much magnesium and shat her pants at work.

She bats her beautiful lashes at me.

For fuck’s sake. I can’t say no to that face. I never could.

“Fine. I’ll go out and be social. But,” I say, pointing to Gemma, “I’m not sleeping with anyone. I’m simply having a couple of birthday drinks with my best friends. I will not partake in any one-night stands. I’m thirty-five now.”

“Exactly. You’re thirty-five, not bloody dead. You have a working vagina. Do something useful with it,” Gemma says, snatching her purse off the tallboy.

I throw Gemma a scandalized look and turn to April for support, who holds her hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me! She has a point. It might make you feel better.”

My shoulders drop and I jab a finger at the pair of strappy gold heels beside my bed. “Pass me those bloody shoes.”

“Another one?” Jack asks as I slam my empty shot glass on the bar. I wince as the tequila burns its way down my throat, leaving a trail of fire. I blow out a breath and shake my head. “I’m too old to be downing this shite.”

He slaps me on the back and grins. “You’re never too old, mate. Besides, you’re what, twenty-eight?”

“Thirty-two,” I correct him.

Jack whistles. “Ooft. That’s pretty ancient, actually.”

“I’ve still got a bit of juice left in me,” I say.

I let out a rough laugh, the first genuine one in ages. Around me, the other new guys are halfway to pissed already. This is the first time the guys have invited me anywhere. I’ve been in England about a little over three months now, and keeping my head down and giving it my all has finally earned me a bit of acceptance.

“Loosen up and have a bit of fun. You’ve been working hard,” Jack says.

Jack, Omar, and Ravi go out most weekends, but I’ve kept my distance. I can’t risk the wrong photo or headline when I’m trying to start over. My focus must stay on Finn and on proving myself here, not on pints.

I look around the bar and concede defeat. “All right. Hit me with another.”

“Attaboy,” Jack says with a wink, flagging down the bartender for another round.

Screw it. Roman’s got Finn for the night—the first time I’ve felt comfortable letting him stay over. When everything fell apart back home with Tash, Roman and Zoey were the first to reach out, offering Finn and me a place to crash until I could sort myself out. Roman’s been a lifesaver.

Finn still hasn’t heard from his mother, and I’m bloody livid. Months have gone by, and not so much as a phone call to check in. She actually did it—she packed her bags and ran off with Keogh without a backward glance.

I stop the spiraling: that’s not why I’m here tonight. Tonight’s about building bonds with my new teammates. About letting off some steam.

Some of the guys know my full story—why I lost control and beat Keogh to a pulp. Others heard a version from someone who knows someone else and made up their minds before I even landed in London. But the guys who actually listened? Who gave me a chance to explain myself? I need them to see there’s more to me than the Irish brute who almost destroyed his career over a woman. That I can be trusted on and off the pitch.

Jack hands me a fresh shot, and I knock it back, followed by a lick of salt and a bite of lemon. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I slide it out, swiping the screen.

Danielle. My agent.

I roll my eyes. Christ, here we go. I really stitched myself up after Tash left. When Emerald Rovers gave me the flick, Danielle flew in from London for damage control. One night drowning my sorrows in a bottle of Jameson, and I woke up to find her in my bed. And I don’t remember a damn thing.

I’m a bleedin’ idiot.

She hasn’t left me alone since. I have a feeling she thinks that night meant something. The only reason I haven’t given her the arse is because she’s one of the best in the business. She got me this deal with Chiswick Park United. When every club in Ireland had written me off—when I was almost blacklisted—Danielle worked her contacts in England and opened the door to a new team. She’s the reason I’m able to keep playing.

New city. New people. New spot on a Championship team. New memories that aren’t tarnished by Tash’s betrayal.

So, yeah, I was stupid enough to sleep with her. But she saved my career when no one else would touch me. That has to count for something, even if I spend half my time dodging her advances and pretending that night never happened.

I just want to forget about the past tonight and be a normal bloke having some drinks with his mates.

Danielle: Hey, you. How was your day? What are you doing tonight?

I ignore it, slipping my phone back in my pocket.

“You good, Murphy?” Jack asks, noticing the shift in mood.

I force a smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Excellent, because there’s a group of extremely good-looking women over there, and the brunette can’t stop looking at you.”

I follow his gaze across the bar to where he’s gesturing. There’s a group of three women at a high table near the windows. A blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. The brunette catches my eye immediately, and I do a double take. She takes a slow sip of someth. . .