SEAL's Goal:The Beautiful Game

By: Sharon Hamilton
Chapter 1



Patrick Harrington was looking out the bus window at the bevy of pretty ladies who always congregated at the player entrance. The Seattle facility wasn’t nearly as bad as it was in Europe where women frequently were in and out of the locker room. In the States, only female sports reporters were allowed in.

Several of the guys on his team were looking forward to a session with the local female newscaster, who liked to interview them naked. Her sultry voice gave them commando hard-ons. Patrick always figured she had a serious kinky streak, but she really wasn’t his style.

The girls who hung around the bus today looked a bit haggard. He liked his women athletic, but not too skinny. He liked wholesome girls who enjoyed sex and were quiet about it. Well, they didn’t have to be quiet in bed, just quiet as far as not blabbing to the press.

The Tottenham squad strutted their stuff, ambling through the gauntlet of women, carrying their more important personal gear while the team handlers carried all the heavy equipment. Patrick always carried his gloves, and his backup gloves, and the ones that could be back up to the backup ones. And he was never without the red, white, and blue American flag duct tape he used to hold up his kneepads and tape his gloves in place. His Brit coach didn’t like it, and, because he’d been so vocal in the rebukes aimed at Patrick, the rest of the team, consisting of mostly African and Eastern European players, adopted the duct tape too, just for spite. Patrick was not the team captain, but he was the team leader, especially when it came to minding stupid rules.

Duct tape was essential because Velcro could be ripped with a set of cleats…but duct tape? Duct tape was the bomb. Not only was it good for the game, it was good for other antics, and since he bought it by the case and had it shipped from the United States, he always had lots of it on hand.

Phone numbers were being exchanged between the players and fangirls behind him while the rest of Tottenham first team descended the ramp, way down into the bowels of the Seattle Sounders stadium. A few VIP fans had been allowed to wait for them outside the changing room, to applaud the team’s arrival. The British Ambassador and his wife had flown up from San Francisco to watch the game, and they and several other dignitaries and friends of the Sounders’ ownership, as well as major investors in the Tottenham franchise, were there to shake hands and wish them well.

From the small crowd of VIPs emerged the sexy, lithe body of Gayle Bingaman, the babe from Fox who liked to conduct naked interviews. She was dressed in a very proper navy blue suit with an impossibly tight, thigh-hugging skirt that stopped five inches above her knees. She had the right kind of body to pour herself into that suit, with the little bit of ruffle showing along the low-cut frilly blouse looking like it was on the verge of a major clothing malfunction. He didn’t understand quite why he was on her radar today, but there was no mistaking he was. He’d seen it happen before, and so he decided to play along. He heard whistles behind him as a way of warning.

Which he hadn’t needed.

Her athletic body summoned him almost as if he’d been ensorcelled by some dark angel inside her. His Veeger, the childhood nickname he and Ryan had invented for his pecker, was liking the play and stood to attention right on cue. He didn’t have a problem with that, either.

“Hello, Patrick.” She examined his face for a trace of embarrassment, which he would not give her. If he wanted to be harassed for the next ten days while on the team “Friendlies” road trip, he better be stronger than the poor Tottenham Hotspur last year who got his spurs tangled with his tongue and started stuttering. She’d moved on to a bank executive, they were told.

“Hello, Gayle.” He cocked his head to see if he could figure her out, searching for any hesitation.

She stared back at him without flinching and then slowly perused the length of his upper torso, as well as the length of the tent in his pants. That’s when she finally smiled. To Veeger she said, “Some days I just love my job.”

Yeah, some days I do, too. I have a fuckin’ soccer game to win. Although he suspected her timing was perfect, right now it was going to give him a few problems.

He glanced at his coach, who was having a heart attack, eyes wide and worried his keeper would end up spending the day in the locker room shower or a bathroom stall. Patrick did consider it, but shook himself mentally, and reminded himself they paid him nearly a million dollars a year to chase a little ball around in a box and make sure it didn’t score.

But he sure was going to score, just not right now.

The rest of the squad wandered past him. The VIPs got autographs and mothers sheltered their children and teenage daughters while Patrick invited Gayle into the locker room.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she whispered with all the buttered rum she could manage. Her perfume made him sneeze, but her voice made him want to put something inside her mouth. Veeger agreed.

Ronnie, Patrick’s roommate on road trips and team best friend, opened the door while whistling a casual tune. This allowed Gayle to sashay her hips into Patrick’s thigh. It was a neat trick and got the effect she was obviously looking for.

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