Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read Online Free Page A

steep, narrow central staircase instead of taking the packed escalator. It’s a good workout, though not as good as running up the stairs.
    I wait on the Tube platform for the screeching arrival of my train. A rush of commuters pushes out, grumpy looks on their faces. I stand up near the door and check the map. I feel like a little boy, my mother holding my hand on a rare day into the city.
    Part of the reason I spent the last few nights in the City of London proper is because I wanted to relive some of those days. And I wanted a long Tube journey just to see if I could feel her presence.
    It’s sort of working.
    I go over my route in my head. The District Line at Embankment to South Kensington. Transfer to the Piccadilly line all the way to Hounslow Central. My mother used to make me repeat the stops on our journey until she was sure I had memorized them. She always wanted to make sure that if we got separated, I could find my way to our meetup point.
    I close my eyes as the train stirs into motion, bracing my feet and balancing as best as I can. I feel like Tube surfing should be its own national sport.
    Forty-three minutes later, I’m stepping back out into sunshine and walking to the club. It’s not far from the station, and I’m enjoying the weather. I walk up the rickety wooden steps to the clubhouse and open the door. It smells like beer, old carpet, and cigar smoke.
    I see a balding, round-bellied man sitting at a small table with a fresh batch of fish and chips near his left hand. In his right hand is a pen and a playbook.
    “You must be Ivan?” I ask. Ivan Maier is the manager of Hounslow.
    He doesn’t glance up at me right away, instead scribbling a bit more in his notebook. He puts his pen down and looks up at me. “And you must be our newest arrogant berker.”
    I hold out my hand. “Ryan Mackenzie. That’s right.”
    He takes my hand. “You going to behave here?”
    “I’ll do my best,” I say. I look around the room at the photos of teams over the years and the case of trophies. “Bit quieter here than where I’m used to.”
    “We don’t tend to let the players hang out at a bar early in the mornings. The team is already changed and waiting for you in the locker rooms.”
    I’m late. I feel like a fucking daft prick. “Sorry, I thought I’d be here early.”
    Ivan stands up and walks over to the door. It’s crooked on the hinges. Jesus, this place is utter shite. “Downstairs. We start at seven in the morning sharp. Don’t be late next time.”
    The locker room, all sweat and muggy air and masculinity, grinds to a halt when I walk inside. Everyone is glaring at me. I find an open locker and shove my bag into it, pulling out my trainers.
    “Hullo,” I say to the room at large.
    Everyone is sitting down except for the captain who is going over plays on a white board.
    “Right. Everyone, this is Ryan Mackenzie. You should know him from the gossip pages more than his work on the pitch. I think his crowning achievement at his last football club was six different drink driving penalties.”
    They all laugh.
    “Yeah, yeah,” I reply, finding a seat. “Let’s move on from that.”
    The captain crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the captain. I’ll be telling you when we move on from something.” He claps his hands together. “Starting with warmups. I think we’ll do thirty laps around the field to get started.” Everyone groans. “You can thank pretty boy here for that. Since he decided to be late on his first day, I think the whole team should be punished for that to really teach him a lesson.”
    Players bump into me roughly as we file out onto the pitch. I get my legs under me and start running. Immediately, the sunny day isn’t nearly as pleasant. Sweat pours from my hairline and into my eyes.
    I run to the front of the pack and make sure I stay there.
    I might just be a pretty boy to them, but I need to show them that I can play a mean game of football. If they’re