GOAL!

Buy Caught Offside HERE

GOAL!

By Liz Crowe

Soccer is a game most people have fairly strong feelings about. Sort of like Hockey.  It’s not like American football, or basketball, or even baseball which you can typically take or leave, given how much all of those sports permeate our collective consciousness coast to coast.

No, with soccer, most folks are either “LOVE IT” or “hate it.”

I come at it from an interesting perspective, having lived in a couple of countries in Europe that are completely mad about it (translation: They Love It.). I was introduced to it then, and when we returned to the U.S. and my daughter hit second grade, she strapped on a tiny pair of (pink) soccer cleats and grabbed a (pink) soccer ball, and put on a (pink) soccer uniform shirt. She has not looked back since.

We live and breathe this sport at least from a female perspective. She has played for three “travel teams” which means I pay a sh*t ton of money so she can get good coaching and training and I get to drive her to and from practices that are not located in my town, and (now) to tournaments that are so far away we have to fly to get there. She’s been in Olympic Development training camp twice and now is a member of a club (“travel team”) that won the “State cup” in October and we “get” to go to Iowa for Regionals the week after school gets out in June. If they win there we go to Nationals which I think are in Florida.

She is the only Freshman on her high school varsity team right now as well and starts every game. She’s pretty good. But trust me, I paid for it. She claims she wants to play in college. So we are hiring a videographer, getting her more extra training and targeting camps this summer at school she would like to attend.

Mind you, as a girl, her options after college as far as “soccer” is concerned pretty much involve coaching, although most high level coaches are men, or …well…nothing. If you are lucky and very (Very, Very) good you could play on the women’s national team which wins gold medals left and right in an increasingly talented league. But the 90% of the millions of little girls who love to play will never do anything related to soccer once they grab their college degree.

In my 1Night Stand CAUGHT OFFSIDE, I introduce a woman, Gillian Winter, who was one of the lucky ones—she played as goal keeper for the national team, until an ill-timed romance forced her to “retire.” But she was happy, until that romance ended in tragedy.  Now she has more than a bit a chip on her shoulder, but a beautiful son and a good job in Las Vegas.

Enter Ramon Castillo, the womanizing one-time super star who has had his skyrocketing career interrupted by a terrible injury. He is an unhappy, resentful guy.

They meet, and the ever-popular Madame Eve works her magic.

I’m in the “LOVE IT” category on the soccer debate. And I really enjoyed crafting this story around that world, but from both the male and female perspective.

I hope you enjoy it!

Blurb: Ramon Castillo, world famous soccer player and international playboy has been brought low by a career-ending injury. After the humiliation of a shattered leg at the World Cup final, he has spent a year enduring surgeries and painful therapies, the last three months of which are at the Castillo resort in Las Vegas under the watchful eye of his cousin, Jackson Castillo and owner of the Castillo hotel chain. But Ramon’s lack of interest in soccer, women, or in anything besides the blackjack tables has Jackson worried.

Gillian Winter, catering and banquet manager for the MGM Grand Hotel is nurturing her own deep wounds. Her beloved husband has died unexpectedly, leaving her with a young son whose one dream is to meet his hero: Number 17 on the American National Soccer team, Ramon Castillo. When an apparent chance encounter in the lobby of the MGM reveals Ramon's presence in their midst, everyone's lives are changed forever.

Can Madame Eve work her magic and bring true healing to Ramon and Gillian? Or is it too late?

Excerpt:

Ramon Castillo limped into the lobby of the MGM Grand Casino hotel, mind closed and dark with frustration. His leg ached from knee to ankle, although it had been a short walk down the Strip from his cousin’s resort where he’d been mending—and hiding—forthe last three months. His jaw already clenched in irritation at his apparent inability to walk a few blocks without sitting down.

He eased himself onto the bench at the huge lion fountain, stretching the bum leg out beside him. He glanced up, brain fuzzy with pain. Managing to accomplish the usual blanket ignore of the human sea that ebbed and flowed around him, his eyes lit on a striking woman as she ripped the desk clerk a new asshole.

Dressed in a black pencil skirt and killer high heels, her auburn hair fell in waves halfway down the back of her crisp, cream blouse. She held a tablet computer in one arm and gestured wildly around with her other while the employee on the receiving end looked chastened. Ramon’s eyes traveled along the pleasant landscape of her curves, his hands gripping the bench’s edge with suppressed lust. He could almost feel thecomfortable swell of her hip and ass under his palm. He tore his gaze away, shifting on the hard surface as his cock swelled under the loose training pants. He winced, conjuring Inge, the torturous bitch who pummeled him to keep his muscles from losing their tone.
When a hand gripped his bicep, he nearly fell backward into the fountain. A small voice yelped in his ear.

“Wow, is that really you? Mom! Mom! Hey, Mom! Oh, my gosh, Mooooooom!”
The small, redheaded boy continued jumping up and down and screeching, his little hand clutching Ramon’s sleeve. His gut clenched at the sight of the boy’s shirt—a dark blue replica of his national soccer team jersey—and he’d be willing to bet the number seventeen adorned the back. He sighed, forcing away the nightmare memory of himself, lying on the pitch during the final game of the World Cup championship, his shin a white-hot center of utter agony. A compound fracture from a cleats-high, red-card foul had ended his career in a matter of seconds.

To his surprise, the woman who had provided him with the tent pole in his sweatpants appeared right in front of him, the toe of her black patent leather shoe tapping with impatience. He looked up, straight into a pair of the most beautiful deep green eyes he’d ever seen. But they weren’t happy to see him. She yanked the boy’s hand away and bent her knees to meet his eager face. He couldn’t help but grin as the kid kept staring, ignoring his mother in the way unique to small boys.
“Harrison Joseph Winter, leave the guests alone.” She gave him a nudge then finally gripped his chin and pulled his face to hers. “How many times….” She sighed when he wiggled out of her grasp and sat back down, short legs swinging.

When she drew up to her full height, the vision was stunning. He barely heard her speak at first, and had to consciously clamp his mouth shut. He hoped to hell he hadn’t drooled. The woman must be a former athlete of some sort. Easily six feet plus in four inch heels, with a classically feminine shape, her toned legs, arms, and shoulders undisguised by the suit.

“I’m sorry, can you hear me?” He realized he’d been ignoring her as blatantly as the kid, who at that moment had climbed up into his lap in excitement. He registered her tone as one usually reserved for small children or deaf uncles.

“Uh, sorry.” He winced, trying to get to his feet and ease the boy off. “It’s okay. I, um, needed to rest a minute before….” She put a hand on his shoulder to indicate he should stay seated. The spark that flew from her touch made him blink. He sat quickly to hide the embarrassing bulge in his crotch.

“Harrison, come here,” the lovely creature snapped. The boy jumped down. “Mr. Castillo, I am so sorry. I know you’re here to recuperate anonymously. He won’t bother you again. Please let me know if you need any help from our staff.” She tugged the boy beside her before he could get the, but mom…out, turned and gave him an incredible rear view. He groaned under his breath.
Info on all my books here:  http://www.lizcrowe.com