Thirteen

Manchester suburbs, four days later, Boxing Day

The double bed had surrendered its duvet and most of its plump pillows to the floor, and a discarded white top sheet lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. Damp with perspiration, Mark laid his head down on Alex’s bare chest, his breathing still ragged. “That…was the best Christmas gift…ever.” His fingertips traced small circles over the slight slope of her breast.

Alex hugged him and wrapped one leg around his hips, pressing him closer. “Better than the signed George Best football when you were eleven?”

Mark looked up, eyebrows deep in thought. “Hmmm…okay, maybe not that good.”

“Ungrateful!” Alex pushed Mark off and onto his back. She climbed on top of him, straddling his abs, her mouth crushing his with a hard kiss. “Give it back, then.” She leaned back, leaving the dare between them.

“Oh, I will.” His hands slipped up her thighs. “Once I catch my breath…” He stretched upwards from the bed, kissing her just as hard.

Alex wrapped her arms around his neck. “We were a bit loud. God, I hope Dad didn’t hear, and we’ll have to hide the condoms in the trash again. I don’t want Dad seeing them.”

Mark played with her hair where it pooled over her shoulders. “I think your Dad knows we have sex…”

“I know, but still. I don’t want to draw him a picture. Let’s be quieter next time, okay?”

“Don’t tell me, tell the ancient springs in this bed. I think it’s older than Joan.” He leaned in closer, his gaze intense and wanting. “I’ll show you how quiet I can be.” His hands pulled her back down on top of him and then travelled up into her hair.

Bruno Mars burst into song from the floor.

Alex jumped, and Mark broke away mid-kiss. He sighed loudly, his hands taking flight.

“Leave it.” Alex returned to his lips and pinned his hands under hers, pressing them into the mattress.

“I can’t.” He eased himself out from underneath his girlfriend and followed “Locked Out of Heaven” to his jeans, lying in a heap on the floor. He squatted quickly and stood back up, rifling through the pockets and giving Alex an unobstructed view of his bare ass.

He was a bit leaner than the last time she saw him. A wolfish smile overtook her face. God, he was hot. Please be a wrong number. She was desperate to resume what he had started.

Mark looked back at her. “It’s Freds…Hey, mate! What’s up?”

Goose bumps tickled Alex’s arms and chest. Without Mark’s warmth against her skin, the room felt chilly. She pulled the duvet off the floor and wrapped it around her, flopping back down on her stomach, stretching out like a starfish on the bed.

An ear-to-ear smile rose in the midst of Mark’s stubble. “Bollocks are you! Up here? Should I alert the authorities…” He sat down on the bed, listening intently. “No worries, mate. I’ll let Alex and Michael know. Hold tight, see you soon!”

Alex stretched, scooping up a Quality Street orange cream from the bedside table, her crinkled brows wondering why Freddie was holding tight. “Everything okay?”

“Not sure. Something happened yesterday with Simon, and Freddie’s at the train station with Lucy right now.”

• • •

“I’m sorry for just showing up like this.” Freddie’s eyes darted from Alex to her dad, Michael. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Michael patted Freddie’s shoulder. “Our door is always open.”

“It was awful. Si’s parents flew over from Montréal to surprise him for Christmas. I answered the door in a bath towel, said I was his flatmate. I made up a story about meeting Si volunteering—there was no way I could tell them we met on Grindr.” Freddie slipped out of his slim wool coat as he ambled beside Mark, who was walking hand in hand with Alex.

“Sorry, mate. That must’ve been bloody awkward.” Mark gave Freddie a tight-lipped smile as his eyes followed framed images of local football legends David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and Gary Neville passing by. This corridor at Old Trafford, home to Manchester United, was carpeted, accessorized with potted plants, and buzzing with smartly dressed hospitality representatives and well-to-do football fans—no terrace chants, sloppy drinkers, or vulgar language here. Michael, Alex’s step-mum Helen, and her grandmother Joan walked closely behind, all agog at the foreign surroundings inside their favourite football ground. They had sat outside, shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow die-hard Reds in the Stretford End on occasion, but this…this posh experience was a world apart.

“Awkward, times a thousand.” Freddie hugged his coat against his chest. “Every time I opened my mouth, I worried I’d drop Simon in it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Lucy saved me.”

“That was the first and last time I pretend to be your girlfriend, Freds.” Lucy unzipped her puffer and threw Alex a fed-up look. “Worst Christmas ever. When I wasn’t fawning over my ‘boyfriend’, I was hiding photos—shots of them smooching, shirtless holiday snaps—”

“Yeah, all there on display for parental disapproval.” Freddie smiled at her.

“And to top it all off, just like Simon, they talked all the way through the Doctor Who Christmas special.” Lucy scowled.

“I literally screamed when you appeared on screen.” Freddie leaned into Mark.

“Yeah, that didn’t help,” said Lucy.

“You should talk,” said Freddie. “You practically wet yourself.”

“Yeah, well—our Keegs with The Doctor!”

Mark glanced down at Alex and a proud smile lit up her face. She swung his hand, giving it a squeeze.

The group stopped just short of an open door. The roar of seventy-five thousand football fans mixed with “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division—an Old Trafford favourite—echoed into the hallway atop a frosty midday breeze.

“Mr. Keegan, hello.” A suited and booted United hospitality employee appeared in the doorway and extended his hand. “Welcome to your private box.”

“Thank you.” Mark shook his hand warmly and turned to Alex’s father. “Happy Christmas, Michael.” He stepped back, allowing Michael to enter the east stand executive box first.

Michael gasped and nudged his eyeglasses up his nose. The sight of United’s vibrant green pitch outside the window left him dizzy with delight. “Jesus, Mark. If you were thinking of asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage, now’s the time. If she says no, I’ll marry ya…”

“Dad!” Alex squeaked, her face sizzling, no doubt as red as the United shirts Mark, Joan, and Michael wore. Don’t look at Mark. Don’t look at him! She winced and scrunched her eyes as her throat tightened, threatening to strangle her. If only Harry Potter would magically appear with an invisibility cloak. Freddie burst out with a laugh while Joan and Helen exchanged glances, horrified. Lucy froze on the spot and swallowed heavily, cringing for her best friend.

“Um…well…” Mark stammered and scratched his head, an uncomfortable grin raising his cheeks. He quickly looked sideways at Alex and then at her dad.

“Michael Sinclair, what are you like? Leave the boy alone.” Helen folded her coat defiantly over her forearm.

He squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “I’m just teasing him, honey.” He smiled at Mark, sheepishly. “Seriously, Mark, you shouldn’t have spent so much. I feel guilty, like I’m taking advantage.”

“It’s me taking advantage, more like.” Mark pulled Alex close. “You’ve been like a dad to me these past two years…it’s the least I could do.”

“Well, it’s appreciated by all of us, son.” He slapped Mark on the back then grasped Helen’s hand and they walked out with Joan to the private outdoor balcony to wait for the players’ warm-up on the grass below. Joan proudly removed her winter coat, revealing her United shirt from the legendary 1998-99 season. Freddie wandered over and threw his arm around her shoulder, covering up BECKHAM spelled out in white letters.

Alex hid in the nook of Mark’s neck, refusing to meet his eyes. “Sorry about that.” Her voice cracked.

“I’m just happy he’s happy.” He smiled. “Hey, look at me.” He nudged her chin upwards with his finger and looked her into the eyes. “I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I love you, too.” Alex didn’t know what more to say, so she kissed him.

“Hey…” Lucy shuffled over.

“I’m gonna pop to the loo before it starts.” Mark gave Alex a peck on the top of her head, dropped his coat on a chair then slipped away, his United shirt bearing the name of his favourite midfielder as a kid—KEANE.

Lucy waited, making sure he was gone. “What is he waiting for?”

Alex shrugged, unzipping her coat.

Lucy’s eyebrows raised the alarm, even if her voice didn’t. “What did he give you for Christmas, then? I knew it wasn’t the ring when you didn’t text.”

“A designer dress. It’s pretty, but so bodycon—panty line is guaranteed—and…” She opened her jacket. “…this necklace from Tiffany.”

Lucy leaned in. The silver scooter charm dangled from a delicate chain. “Super cute, but…it’s not THE ring.”

“Lucy, shhhh,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “It threw me for a second when he brought out the little blue gift bag…I thought he had swapped his mum’s ring for Tiffany. I thought it’s all happening. Even Joan thought so. She elbowed me and said ‘Oooh, am I gonna need a new hat?”’

“Fuck. What did you say?”

“I ignored Joan, opened it, and said, ‘It’s gorgeous, thank you!’—what else was I supposed to say after that? It was awkward. Mark fidgeted with his tie and wouldn’t look at me.” Alex’s eyes stung. “Shit. I don’t want to cry again.” She ducked her head just as Mark bounded through the doorway. His hand trailed over her back as he strode past, heading to the outside balcony. Alex grasped Lucy’s arm and guided her closer to the suite’s entrance, where Irish ears couldn’t listen in.

“You cried in front of him?” Lucy whispered, handing Alex a tissue.

“No, later in my room. They went to the pub after lunch. Mark begged me to go, but I wasn’t in the mood so I lied about calling Robbie. Mark doesn’t know I started those anxiety pills. He would’ve asked why I wasn’t drinking.”

Lucy turned her back to the balcony. “And Joan might have asked if you were pregnant.”

Alex blotted her nose quickly with the tissue, her eyes unwavering from the big white 16 on Mark’s back. Don’t turn around. Don’t catch us…

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She played with the charm. “I absolutely adore this. It symbolizes our first date, Mark’s Vespa rules—‘hop on, hold tight, and remember to enjoy the ride’. I love it, I really do—”

“But it’s not what you expected.” Lucy frowned.

“Am I fooling myself? I’ve been so stupid. Mark’s already spoken for—he’s married to his job, not me.”

“Oh, babe.”

“I’m holding on, making sacrifices…for what? Every time commitment—a proper commitment—is mentioned, he chokes.” Alex’s eyes bounced to Lucy. “You’ve just seen it.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for your anniversary.”

“I’m getting tired of waiting. Nothing’s going to change.”

“It’s only a few days away, Lex.”

“I’m tired of missing out on normal couple stuff, you know, everyday things? Waking up together, quick kisses in the kitchen, making each other laugh after a tough day. I even miss going to yoga class with him, and I hate yoga.” Alex winced, watching the balcony again. “And after weeks apart, we’re back together—briefly. Our reunions are always so bittersweet, so fleeting, like there’s a stopwatch on us, counting the minutes we’ve got left before he has to leave again. It doesn’t play nicely with my anxiety. I worry if I bend any more, I’ll break.”

“It’s like you only get to borrow him for a little while and then have to give him back whenever showbiz calls.”

“He says yes to everyone but me, Lucy. I’m starting to feel like I’m wasting my time, living like this, with him half in, half out. I’m not happy.”

The white 16 turned around. Mark rushed through the sliding door, a toothy grin growing brighter with each step closer. Alex’s stomach rolled. This conversation had to end—stat.

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe you should tell Mar—”

“Tell Mark what?” He playfully cocked his head. “Mouse, take your parka off—stay a while.” He whisked her coat from her bowed shoulders and hung it on the back of a chair. Alex tugged on the hem of her blouse where it stuck out from underneath her sweater.

Lucy jumped in—rescuing her friends this holiday season had become her new M.O. “I was saying to Lex that she should tell you how much she loves her new dress. All she can talk about is that scooter charm. It’s lovely.” Lucy winked. “Most blokes are clueless, but you know her so well.”

Alex nodded, the desire to give Lucy a huge kiss, top of mind.

“Well, I thought I did,” said Mark with a sly smile. “Recently, I’ve been having doubts.”

Doubts? Alex swallowed.

Mark curled his arm around her waist. “Living together, I’ve realized there’s a ton of stuff I don’t know about her. Every once in a while, something sneaks out.”

“Oh, I could add to this list…” Lucy played along.

“There’s a list?” Alex raised her eyebrows.

Lucy winked. “You are a freak, seriously.”

“I’m a freak?” The knots in Alex’s shoulders began to loosen.

Mark leaned into Lucy. “You know her Paddington Bear? She doesn’t just hug him, she sniffs him—deeply. He smells like morning breath.”

Alex frowned in protest. “He doesn’t. He smells like home.”

“If home is a dumpster.”

“Well, sometimes I think you grew up in a barn, Keegan. You wear your boots around the flat, never wash out your mug, and…you eat and shower at the same time.”

Lucy’s eyes bulged. “How?”

He shrugged. “Only on weekends.”

Alex jutted out a hip. “He goes for a long shower with a plate of toast and raspberry jam. Gets crumbs all over my loofa. Weirdo. And he has freaky nightmares sometimes. He jolts up in bed, mumbling about football. Oh, and he’s scared of flowers! If he buys me snapdragons, they have to be covered in cellophane. He can’t bear to touch them.”

“Lex hates Thai food. How can anyone hate the happiness that is a pad thai takeaway? And she has an unhealthy infatuation with Tower Bridge.” Mark scratched his stubble.

“That I do know,” said Lucy.

“What’s not to like?” Alex shrugged. “It opens its arms to welcome big boats…”

“And how have you not watched the entire run of Friends?” The actor waved his hands defiantly in the air. “Could that show be any more awesome?”

Lucy burst out laughing.

“The last scene in the finale gets him…every…time.” Alex brushed her bangs from her forehead. “You know, the one where they leave the keys behind? Cries like a baby.”

He tickled Alex’s waist. “Yeah, well, you’re a sleep farter.”

“Mark!” Alex squealed with a half-laugh, shimmying out of his grasp.

“Well! You’ve exposed all my secrets.” Mark laughed. “Fair is fair.”

“All of them? Yeah, right. I bet there are some skeletons in your closet I’ve heard nothing about, mister!”

Mark adopted a look of angelic innocence as a roar went up behind him from the Old Trafford faithful. “Come on, it’s about to kick off.”