probably thought talking about kids would scare me away, but she’s wrong. Admittedly, I haven’t given them much thought, but the image of her as a mother would be a fearsome sight to behold.
“How many?” she asks, lifting her chin to look down at me.
“As many as you want,” I reply boldly, and can’t help the smug grin that spreads across my face.
She crosses her arms over her chest, and a small frown ghosts her lips as if a sad memory runs through her. “I grew up an only child and watched my mum try to have more children and fail over and over again. She was clinically depressed and withdrawn, even from me, the one thing she was desperate to have. A child. Her child. Me. Therefore, I’ve always known my whole life that a big family means a happy mummy. So, I want lots of children, footballer. What do you say to that?” she asks quietly.
Her eyes look a little insecure, like she fears she’s shared too much. I don’t want her to withdraw, so I choose to defuse the situation by attempting to make a heavy conversation a little lighter. “As it happens, I have a lot of super sperm that are ready to find a loving home in a woman’s womb…so lots of children are all right by me.”
Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and a lightness resembling appreciation creeps into her features. But she furrows her brow and continues to soldier on. “I want at least four. An even number—that way, all my children have a mate.”
“Perfect,” I quip. It’s obvious she has thought a lot about her future. But I wonder if she’s ever shared her ideas in such detail with anyone, let alone a bloke she just met. “That’s the exact number of children I want as well.”
She presses her lips together and tries not to smile. “But I want one set to be twins so I don’t have to give birth so many times.”
She’s giving me every chance to back down in this conversation, but bloody hell if I’m not more attracted to her tenacity with each new admission she shares.
“Excellent.” I prop my arms on the table. “Twins run in my family on account of our super sperm, so I’ll have no problem fulfilling this request for you. In fact, our similarities are getting a bit creepy now, don’t you think?”
She pins me with an unamused look. “It was creepy when me kicking another man in the balls caused you to profess your love for me.”
I smile victoriously. “What can I say? I’m a man who knows what I want. And you were very agile the way you floored him like that…very sexy. I bet you’d make an excellent footballer.” I can’t decide what I want to see her as more: pregnant with a child, or playing football on a pitch. Christ, who the hell am I ever right now?
She laughs, and her hair falls into her face, so I reach forward to tuck a strand behind her ear. Before I can retreat a safe distance, she grabs my hand and turns it over to inspect my palm, dragging her delicate fingertips over all my calluses. “You are a professional footballer, and you want me to take your name and give you children even though I called one of your biggest passions in life dull? How is this possible?”
I can only shrug. How has any part of this night been possible? How have I gone from a lonely professional footballer to meeting the woman of my dreams in a dreary pub? It doesn’t matter. Everything in my body tells me that this woman is a keeper.
“If you loved football, then you’d be too good to be true…and Vilma, there is no way what I feel when I look into your eyes can be a lie.” My answer is chock full of brutal honesty and I can only pray she feels the same way.
• • •
Two hours later, I’m walking down a London street, holding Vilma’s hand. I haven’t been able to stop touching her. Her skin is soft, like a memory. As though I’ve held her a million times, and we were lovers in another life or something. I know it sounds utterly mad, but it’s the only thing I can come up with for why I’m so easily breaking the team curfew. Football is important to me, my top priority even, and staying out late will certainly result in a