First Touch (Shot at Love) Read online

  First Touch

  Shot at Love

  Amanda Lista

  Published by Amanda Lista, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  FIRST TOUCH

  First edition. July 3, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Amanda Lista.

  Written by Amanda Lista.

  First Touch

  Book 1 in Shot at Love

  By Amanda Lista

  Copyright © 2020 Heath Schmalzried All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Amanda is a passionate author who loves to bring fun and joy to her audience through exciting and exhilarating romance novels. Amanda and her husband live in the Bay Area with their twin boys and super cute dog. She loves to take long walks, enjoys red wine and loves all things leopard print.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Note from the Author

  Chapter 1

  Adrian dos Santos’s legs were starting to get cramped as he sat in the small middle seat of an airplane bound for London, England. The passengers’ seat in front of him was nearly smacking him in the face. He hated how scrunched up his feet were. Shifting around, Adrian was careful not to nudge the older white gentleman by the window who was dead asleep. He hadn’t even said hello when Adrian walked up to his seat to say hello. Adrian feared he would be getting a lot of those in the coming months as he adjusted to life in London’s culture. The woman in the aisle seat next to him was dressed in formal business attire. A rose pin was secured to her jacket. Adrian raised an arm to turn on the air conditioning. He noticed the woman glancing at his taut, muscular arms out of the corner of her eye.

  “Ok?” asked Adrian.

  “Is what ok?” The woman’s cheek was flushed red. She had been caught staring at Adrian red-handed.

  “The...uh...” Adrian looked up at the nozzle.

  “Oh!” The woman laughed, lightly slapping Adrian on the arm. She blushed harder when she felt how every part of Adrian was in shape. “Of course it’s ok if you want to turn on the air conditioner.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adrian said, shaking his head. “My English is not good.”

  “It’s fine,” giggled the woman. “Air conditioner is such a weird word.”

  The woman’s stomach dropped. She realized how lame she sounded. The woman asked where Adrian was from.

  “Mexico City,” Adrian said. “Very different than London, I imagine.

  “Wow,” the woman said. “Exotic. For what exactly?”

  Memories of Tepito, a barrio located in Colonia Morelos in the Cuauhtemoc borough of Mexico City where Adrian grew up, entered his mind. Tepito was always considered one of the more dangerous neighborhoods, which is why Adrian’s parents, who were very poor warehouse workers, were forced to live there. Adrian, along with his three other siblings, all slept in the living room and one of the main reasons why he was never home. He could still taste the dust of the streets, hear the gunshots from gangs in the dead of night, and the hollering arguments from the drunken neighbors. It wasn’t all bad. There were the stars in the sky at night and occasionally, they could hear the live music at the bars if the musicians weren’t too drunk to play.

  Above all else, the one thing Adrian loved was the soccer field behind their apartment. He played the moment he got out of school. Since the neighborhood was so terrible, no one was ever there except the locals and his friend. Without that field, Adrian had no idea who he would be in life. Adrian loved nothing more than the smell of the grass after he watered it from the hose he taped up himself. He loved how his lungs and muscles burned as he ran for hours, kicking the soccer ball as hard as he could wherever it went. He loved imagining the sound of the fans cheering. Adrian loved the moments of independence and the comradery of being a part of a team.

  There was nothing better or more important in the world, other than his family, than soccer. The game, though it was much more than that to Adrian, was his life.

  “Soccer,” Adrian said. “I am a soccer player.”

  Chapter 2

  After a flurry of chauffeurs, taxi’s, phone calls, desk clerks, and delivery drivers, Adrian was finally settled in his temporary apartment given to him by the Football Club transition team. All around him were the frivolities of luxury: big screen TV’s; a giant basket of fruit; champagne on ice with three different types of flowers; a treasure chest of chocolates. The bathtub was equipped with spa jets and was running when he walked inside to use the toilet, making Adrian question if someone else was in the room with him. The bed was laced with the highest count of Egyptian sheets with an innumerable amount of pillows. The stereo, which was basically invisible except for a small black box fitted into the wall, boomed like a movie theater. Adrian had never experienced such treatment in all of his life.

  He felt what he imagined royalty felt like: comforted without the burden or the awkwardness of asking for it.

  All of that from a game Adrian loved and had been playing his whole life.

  After his plane landed and he said goodbye to the nice businesswoman (Adrian never did get her name). He was still stunned that only days ago, he had been a player for Cruz Azul of Mexico City, only to be picked up by Chelsea Football Club, one of the highest-profile teams in the world. Head coach Alfie Gilliam, coming through town on a scouting mission for Chelsea, watched their training session on a hot day in the sun.

  “I like how he moves,” Alfie said, a cigar in one hand and a plastic cup filled with scotch and ice in the other. “Let’s see what he can do with a real fútbol team.”

  “You sure you want to pick him up?” Ian asked, Alfie’s assistant coach. “I don’t think he’s quite the right fit for Chelsea...if you know what I mean?”

  Alfie tapped his cigar, tipped back half the scotch, and lowered one eye to stare at Ian.

  “Chap,” Alfie bit. “I don’t think I do, and I don’t care to.”

  Ian fell silent.

  “Sign him for a year,” reaffirmed Alfie. “My intuition tells me Adrian’s got something Chelsea, fit or no fit, he has got something.”

  Now, there Adrian was, taking a shower with free shampoos, soaps, and conditioners with names he could barely read to meet the team for a night on the town.

  As Adrian dried his thick, black hair, spritzing a little cologne called Veritas gifted to him from the front desk, the room’s phone rang.

  “Hola?” Asked Adrian, immediately stuttering. “Hello?”

  “Hola mate,” a voice chuckled, “But here in London, here at the Chelsea team, we say hello or cheerio if you want to get really into our scene.”

  “Sorry,” Adrian stammered. “My English is still very bad.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect you to learn the whole lot of it on the fuckin’ plane mate. You even know who this is?”

  “No,” said Adrian.

  “Well, I’m your winger mate,” they laughed. “Peter.”

  “Peter the...winger?”

  “Sure! And you’re coming out with us, mate. Come on now, we’re downstairs with the whole team.”

  Adrian looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. There was only a towel tied around his waist. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Mate?” Peter asked. “You there?”

  Adrian said the first English phrase he could remember hearing.

  “I’ll be down there in a jiffy!”

  Chapter 3

  Adrian threw on the nicest pair of jeans he packed, a sleek pair of black dress shoes given to his by his grandmother (before leaving, Adrian begged not to be given anything to which his family said tranquilo!), and a simple white dress shirt that he tucked in. Never having been to London before, Adrian was nervous about what he was about to get into. Are we going to a bar? A club? Was he going to have to dance? Adrian shuddered. Though quick on his feet, he was a horrible dancer. As the elevator dinged and Adrian saw himself in the mirror, he saw that he hadn’t even done his hair.

  “Dios mío,” Adrian sighed and then immediately stopped himself. “Speak English man. English. These gringos over here don’t know Spanish.”

  The elevator door slid open. Adrian was in front of four lean men. Their faces were void of any fat. Their physique was thin, muscular, their backs straight as an arrow. Puny was the last word one would use describing them. Adrian's gaze panned down, observing the shape of their legs through their tight dress pants and jeans. They were the shape of tree trunks and could have been hard as marble. Adrian could tell none of them weighed more than 170 pounds. They were definitely soccer players.

  “There’s our new guy!” One of the teammates boomed coming up to Adrian. “I”m Peter. The chap you were talking on the phone with. Nice to finally meet you.”

  Peter put out his hand as the other three players hung back, eyeing him. One of the players, most likely from Spain with a distinct jawline, thick cu
rly mulato hair, tanned, hazelnut skin, and thin lips, whispered to another player who looked like he could have just graduated high school. Both of them snickered.

  "Hello," said Adrian. "Sorry I am late."

  “No worries!” Peter smiled. He was warm and already felt like an old friend. "Your English isn't that bad, mate! Right, boys?" Peter urged the other three to join in.

  The two that had been trading whispers hung back, leaving the West African man to say hello. He smiled and stepped forward as he put out his hand.

  “Hello,” he said in a heavy French accent. “My name is Zane, but everyone calls me Z for short."

  Adrian knew who Z was. He had won 35 of 38 games that recaptured the Premier title for Chelsea. He was a superstar in his own right. After shaking his hand, Adrian felt a sudden urge to say something.

  “Could I have your autograph?”

  The entire team paused for a second, then burst into laughter.

  "That's a good one," Z chuckled, pointing at him, "But I should be asking for yours. Your work at Club Azul has been the talk of the team lately."

  "Don't flatter the kid too much," the Spanish man snickered. "You don't want to get him too big-headed before he's even out on the field..."

  "Come, say hi, you two and stop being weird," ordered Peter. "Athletes are supposed to be outgoing and friendly. Come on!”

  The pair sauntered up and shook hands.

  “Marco,” the Spanish man said. “And this little guy is Willy.”

  Willy flicked his soft brown hair back and managed a meek smile, but said nothing.

  “He’s a wee bit shy,” explained Peter.

  “Are you even allowed in bars yet?” Adrian joked.

  Silence fell over the team as Willy blushed, at a loss of what to say, yet again everyone exploded into laughter.

  "You may not know the language that well, Adrian," Z said. "But you have some trés bon jokes.”

  “Speaking of bars,” Peter grinned sheepishly. “Shall we?”

  Chapter 4

  The summer weather in London was balmy and humid. Adrian’s white dress shirt stuck to his body from the sweat. His feet felt like they were swimming in his dress shoes. This heat was different. Maybe it was the pollution or just the amount of bodies moving about that night. Either way, Adrian – already out of his element with these new friends, new city, and customs – was just trying to hang on and enjoy the ride.

  Everything around Adrian appeared as if there was a thick veneer of butter or Crisco smeared on it: the mailboxes; the shop and bar windows; the people holding hands; the people alone; even the jet black night sky above. Orange lamppost lights spread across the busy sidewalks and streets of the bustling, almost violent city of London. Adrian was used to the hustle and bustle of a major city but not on this level of wealth and privilege before. Remember, Adrian grew up in the poor borough of Tepito, where one would just as soon get a drink than get their wallet stolen or worse. As the five Chelsea players made their way down a block of stumbling people and bleating Bobby’s, Adrian asked in his broken English where they were going.

  “You’ll see mate,” Peter grinned. “You’ll see.”

  Willy, the small kid with wavy brown hair, was already sipping on a can of beer along with Marco. Z had a big bottle of water. He noticed Adrian staring.

  “Don’t drink,” said Z. “I get terrible hangovers and an awful gut.”

  Willy took a long drink of his beer. “The only fat you have on your body is on your mouth. You’ll be alright! One drink!”

  Z waved him off as he pulled Adrian close. “Don’t worry about those two. They’re crazy but warriors on the field.”

  Adrian nodded. “Ok.”

  “You ready to meet the rest of the team?”

  Peter ran ahead, his body like a flash amongst the slow inattentive bodies roaming in front of the bar sign that read – The Carlsberg Sports Bar at The Empire Casino.

  “Here we are, gentleman!” Peter shouted. “The beginning of Adrian’s end!”

  Inside was a circus of alcohol, gambling, manic laughter, cigarette smoke, and sports. Adrian had never been to a place like this. Back home, all he had ever focused on was soccer. It was his only way out, which was ironic seeing he had worked so hard to get to where he was, only to get to where he shouldn’t be. Life’s that way sometimes.

  As Adrian and the rest of the team walked along the floor of the bar, he noticed that everything was laced with green neon. Everyone turned their heads to look at them as they were lead to something called the “VIP BOX”. For the first time in his life, Adrian felt like royalty, yet he didn’t know why. Since the plane ride, he had only been stared at because of the way he looked. Now, it was because of who he was with.

  After they settled in their booth with buckets of Heineken beer and a few bottles of fine scotch Adrian had never seen before on the table, everyone relaxed.

  “You must be wondering where the rest of the team is,” Z grinned.

  Adrian shrugged. “Sure.”

  “They’re around here,” Peter reassured Adrian. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”

  “Ok,” Adrian said. He honestly didn’t know how many more people he could me and remember. His brain felt full.

  “You don’t talk a bunch, do you?” Willy asked a sheen of venom on every word.

  “He’s learning, mate!” Peter yelled at him. “Here’s to our new teammate, our new warrior, our new brother!”

  Marco looked restless in the corner as he texted something on his phone.

  “What’re you doing over there?” Z asked.

  “Texting a lady,” Marco shrugged. “A few ladies.”

  “Marco’s one of the biggest dogs on this team,” Peter informed Adrian. “Take his lead on the field but not in a relationship.”

  “Ladies love me,” Marco said indifferently. “It’s not my fault.”

  “Should we play a game?” Willy suggested.

  “Stump?” Z asked.

  Adrian had never heard of this game before, and he was in no position to say no or chicken out. Whatever the game was, he would be saying yes.

  Adrian nodded. “Sure.”

  “Sure, ok, yes, sure,” Willy laughed. “This guy’s a one-word jukebox!”

  “I can drink,” Adrian said sternly. “That’s all that matters, right?”

  A whoop of whoaaa’s roared around their circle.

  “Alright then, new guy,” Willy said with Marco backing him up. “Let’s see what you got on our turf.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Peter said, butting in. “Does Adrian even know how to play?”

  Everyone looked at Adrian for an answer. He shook his head no.”

  “It’s simple,” Peter advised. “Players circle around a tree stump, taking turns flipping a hammer and slamming it down on a nail in front of another player. If the nail goes in, the other player drinks. If the hammering player misses, they drink. Got it?”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Adrian said, picking at the beer’s label.

  “That’s because it is!” Z roared. “But we are men, and we drink and play dangerous games! You’ll be fine, friend.”

  Around and around they went, tossing the hammer up into the air then slamming it down onto the stump and nail. Adrian was in awe that this was something people actually played inside. It seemed dangerous, reckless, but it was so much fun. Adrian was making everybody drink. He was surprisingly adaptable. While Peter readied himself to toss, Adrian’s gaze wandered to one of the many televisions. Soccer was on. It was an older game against a French and Brazil. Immediately, Adrian’s reality came rushing at him. The weight of leaving his former team at Vera Cruz, all of his friends and teammates, everything he had ever known, and especially his family hit him like soccer ball to the head.

  “Mexico!” Willy shouted. “You’re up, mate.”

  Adrian could barely hear him. All he could feel was the heaviness of the hammer in his hand and the bar’s roving crowd. A wave of anxiety continued to roll over him.

  “I need air,” Adrian managed to say. “I need some air.”