The Sports Star at The Chatsfield. Melanie Milburne

eyes met mine I was surprised to find they weren’t the brown I was expecting but a deep and unusual shade of slate blue.

      He gave me a long appraising look that made every inch of my flesh lift up in goose bumps. His gaze had an intensity about it that made me feel as if he were picturing me naked. It wasn’t a sleazy look, not by any means. It was like an alpha wolf sighting a potential mate. I even saw his nostrils flare ever so slightly as if he were checking the air for my scent. I was glad I’d splurged last week on that bottle of Ellie Saab.

      I sat up straighter in my chair, every cell in my body on high alert when he left his friends and came towards me with a smile on his face. Now, I’m not one to be charmed by a smile, but I can tell you my pulse rate shot up like I’d just bolted up ten flights of stairs. I’m not the sort of girl guys walk over to in a bar. I could sit in a bar all night and no one but the waiter would speak to me. I’m like wallpaper. I fade into the background because that’s where I feel most comfortable. I glanced around behind me to see if he was coming to speak to someone else. Nope. I was sitting against the back wall.

      ‘Are you using this chair?’ he asked.

      I was about to say I was expecting my father to join me when I realised how pathetic that sounded. Nine-thirty on a Saturday night and the best I could do was a drink with my father? What if he went back to his friends and sniggered about the dowdy girl in the corner who couldn’t land herself a man? Believe me, it’s happened before. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ I said instead, with a little lift of my chin for emphasis. ‘He’ll be here any minute.’

      ‘No problem.’ He smiled again which made my heart rise and fall like it was strapped into a rollercoaster. ‘Have a good one.’

      I watched as he turned back to his friends who had by this time taken over most of the quieter area of the bar. They were lounging about like they owned the place. One even had his feet up on one of the tables. I rolled my eyes and picked up my drink, resettling in my chair like a broody hen settles on a clutch of eggs. I know. I can be petty at times but really. Some people.

      I made my second drink last another half an hour while I watched the blue-eyed man and his friends get more and more rowdy. They were telling bawdy jokes – which to tell you the truth were side-splittingly funny – but I wasn’t in the mood to laugh. My father still hadn’t shown up and he hadn’t responded to any of my texts. Also – and this was the part that was the most annoying – I kept seeing the blue-eyed man glancing from time to time at the vacant chair and lifting one of his dark eyebrows questioningly. I ignored him, of course.

      The waiter came over and took my glass off the table before I could snatch it back up and pretend I was still drinking it. ‘Would you like another, Ma’am?’ he asked.

      I know it’s been done to death but I really love that movie When Harry Met Sally so I said the immortal line (but I changed the gender) as I nodded in the blue-eyed man’s direction. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

      ‘Angus Knight?’ the waiter said.

      My stomach dropped like it had been kicked off the roof of The Chatsfield. ‘Kick’ being a pertinent word considering I had just realised who the blue-eyed man was. Angus Knight, the newly appointed captain of the Yeatswood United Football team. International playboy extraordinaire. He had so many followers on Twitter he made the Pied Piper look like a recluse. I hadn’t recognised him with his clothes on. Erm, I mean his street clothes. I was used to seeing him darting around a football field in shorts and a team shirt with the number seven on it. Did I happen to mention seven is my lucky number?

      ‘Ma’am?’

      I blinked at the waiter who was still waiting for my answer. ‘I’ll have a soda water. Thank you.’

      ‘Would you like me to ask him to autograph one of The Chatsfield’s coasters for you?’ the waiter said. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

      ‘No!’ I felt my face flush as my voice came out like a squeaky toy. ‘I mean, thank you, but I’m not an autograph hunter.’

      I have no time for groupies. What are they thinking trailing after sports stars as if they’re some sort of royalty? So what if Angus Knight can kick a football? So what if he earns millions of pounds every year and has done since the age of seventeen when he was plucked out of obscurity from a council estate and thrown onto the world’s stage?

      Fame has a bad effect on most people; even the most level headed ones. They nearly always end up with a sense of entitlement. They expect special treatment wherever they go. They don’t have time for ordinary people. They surround themselves with sycophants and status seekers and yes-men and women who worship them like a craven image.

      I’m way too sensible for that sort of nonsense. Whenever I feel the slightest bit intimidated by someone who’s famous I think of them in their underwear.

      But right then when Angus Knight turned and looked at me that tactic didn’t have quite the same effect. A vision came into my head of him in nothing but a pair of close-fitting briefs with every contour of his hard, toned body spectacularly outlined…

      I was so shocked at my X-rated thoughts I jerked back in my chair so forcefully it almost toppled over backwards. I gripped the arms to rebalance myself, my heart rate soaring, my cheeks furnace-hot at the thought of everyone in the bar seeing what I was wearing under my off the peg little black dress. I said I was sensible but that doesn’t mean I don’t like sexy underwear. Mind you, I guess there’s not a lot that’s sensible about a hot pink thong, but I hate VPL (visible panty line) so I always wear a thong under this particular dress.

      Angus left his mates to saunter over again. I didn’t care for the lazy smile that curled his lips upwards. It was as if he knew where my mind was straying. I could see it in the sparkle of his deep blue eyes as they meshed with mine. ‘Your date stood you up?’