#Premier Boxing Champions
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"Plant (22-1, 13 KO) landed probably the best punch of his entire career, dropping Dirrell (34-3-2, 25 KO) with a left hook to the body and then one to the jaw that put Dirrell instantly down and out. The fight was immediately stopped." Source: SBNATION (Bad left hook) .
#boxing#plant vs dirrell#caleb plant#anthony dirrell#premier boxing champions#WBA#ko#tko#left hook#bad left hook#mma#combat#sports#fight#pbc on showtime#pbcboxing#referee#stoppage
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LAS VEGAS MEDIA WORKOUT QUOTES & PHOTOS FEATURING TIM TSZYU, SEBASTIAN FUNDORA & MORE
LAS VEGAS – March 22, 2024 – Unbeaten rising star Tim Tszyu and all-action super welterweight sensation Sebastian “The Towering Inferno” Fundora went face-to-face for the first time on Thursday at a media workout before they meet for Tszyu’s WBO and the vacant WBC 154-pound world titles headlining a PBC Pay-Per-View event available on Prime Video Saturday, March 30 from T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas.
The media workout also featured WBA Super Lightweight World Champion Rolando “Rolly” Romero, who takes on Mexican star Isaac “Pitbull” Cruz in the co-main event, plus WBA Middleweight World Champion Erislandy “The American Dream” Lara and No. 1 rated mandatory challenger Michael Zerafa, who meet in a 12-round pay-per-view attraction.
Tickets for the live event, which is promoted by TGB Promotions, are available now through AXS.com. The main event is promoted in association with No Limit Boxing.
Here is what the fighters had to say Thursday from Split T Boxing Club in Las Vegas:
TIM TSZYU
“I had sparring for the new opponent come in on Monday and I was grateful for the great work they gave me. This fight is all about awkwardness when you have someone that tall. But nothing phases me. It is what it is, and the show goes on.
“This is a unification now, so I’m very grateful for that. It’s a legacy-defining type of fight. I just have to keep doing what I’m doing, and one day, they’ll say that the Tszyu family is the best to ever step into this boxing world.
“I’ve met Fundora before, and I respect him and how he fights. I just have to find the right shots. Every great boxer finds the way to win, and we’ll find those keys on March 30.
“I talked to Brian Mendoza, and he talked about how Fundora is awkward with his style and that he uses his height to his advantage in different ways.
“My message to the fans is definitely don’t blink during this one.”
SEBASTIAN FUNDORA
“I’m just going to keep focusing on what I need to do. My original opponent, Serhii Bohachuk has a lot of similarities to Tim Tszyu, so it’s no difference for me. If I stick to my plan, I’ll be successful.
“I was in control of the Mendoza fight, so I don’t want to change too much because of the result, and it doesn’t really matter to me what he did against Tszyu. I’m just going to keep focusing on my game.
“I’ve been training hard all camp. We only had a little bit to fix after our last fight, but my dad and my sister kept my mind straight. My sister Gabriela just became a world champion, and now it’s my turn to do the same.
“A win puts me back at number one in the division. That’s where I want to be. I have my eyes on all of the big names. This is the first stone in the Fundora legacy.
“Having the right preparation is very important, of course. But I don’t think it’s really an advantage that I was preparing for someone similar to Tszyu already. It’s about what happens when you step into the ring. Of course, I believe I’m going to win this fight, but not because of an advantage like that.
“I want to win this fight, become unified champion and keep going from there. We want to keep moving up.”
ROLANDO ROMERO
“I think I’m a different Rolly in every fight, I learn a lot every camp I’m in. Ismael Salas is a tremendous trainer who trained me before I went pro, so I feel like I’m back at home.
“Cruz takes punches because he has to, it’s because he has no other option in his game. This fight is gonna be an explosion and a Mexican slugfest. I’m gonna beat him at his own game.
“My strength and conditioning coach has had me do a lot of explosive work, and honestly, I hate every single second of working with him, but it’s what I need. I already hit hard, and now it’s gonna be more of an explosion on fight night.
“Everyone is excited to see this fight. It doesn’t require too much talking because you’re gonna see it all in the ring on March 30.
ERISLANDY LARA
“I’ve had a great training camp for this fight. There are always new things you can learn when you put the time in at the gym. We’ve been really focused on our opponent and doing anything we can to win this fight. I feel spectacular and you’ll see it on March 30.
“I don’t pay attention to the rest of the middleweight division, I focus solely on me. It’s all about March 30 on pay-per-view. Tune in, and let’s make history.
“I’ve stayed focused on everything that’s in my control, and I’ve used my training camp to make sure there won’t be any rust when that bell rings.
“I don’t need to send a message to Michael Zerafa, he knows he has to be ready on March 30. We’ll be ready for him.”
MICHAEL ZERAFA
“I’m super excited to be here. I was a boy when I fought in the U.S. the first time, and now I’m a man. You’re gonna see a different Michael Zerafa. I’m a lot better fighter, and I’m ready to shock the world and make a statement.
“I’m better mentally, physically, and really in every way. I’m more experienced and just a better fighter. I was 21 when I fought Peter Quillin, I fell short, but I do believe that now it’s my time.
“I have a lot of respect for Lara, but I truly believe this fight is not going the distance. Everyone I’ve fought has said I have ridiculous power and I will show it on March 30.
“Lara has been in there with the best. It’s just another day for him. But this is my life and I truly believe this is my time. I’m ready to make a statement. This is more than a fight for me. My sister Michelle is battling cancer right now and her dream is to watch me win a world title. I’m thankful to have this opportunity to prove that whether you’re fighting for your life or fighting for a title, you can make it happen.”
Photo credits: Sean Michael Ham/TGB Promotions
#PBC#Premier Boxing Champions#MIchael Zerafa#Erislandy lara#Tim Tszyu#Sebastian Fundora#Rolando Romero
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Frank Warren: „Zhilei Zhang ist für seine nächsten Kämpfe mit mir vertraglich verbunden!“
Frank Warren: „Zhilei Zhang hat Kämpfe unter unserer Promotion unterschrieben, seid nicht besorgt.“
Es ist genauso wie es Boxen1 schon vor einigen Tagen berichtet hat, der chinesische WBO-Schwergewichts-Interims-Weltmeister, ist für weitere kommende Kämpfe an Frank Warrens Veranstaltungsunternehmen „Queenberry Promotion“ vertraglich gebunden.
Frank Warren spricht genau das aus, was Boxen1 schon…
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#Al Hayman#Bernad Hopkins#Eddie Hearn#Frank Warren#Golden Boy Promotions#Matchroom Boxing#Oscar De La Hoya#Premier Boxing Champions#Queensberry Promotens#Zhilei Zhang
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AB is more of a Minya level boxer these days anyway.
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10 mars 1888 : premier match officiel de boxe en France ➽ http://bit.ly/Premier-Match-Boxe Choisie comme terrain neutre pour organiser un combat entre l'Américain John Lawrence Sullivan, champion du monde des lourds, et le champion anglais Charley Mitchell, la France prohibait cependant de tels affrontements, et à l'issue d'une rencontre se déroulant en plein air, durant plus de trois heures, en présence de quarante témoins, et s’achevant sous des rafales de pluie et de vent, l’ensemble des protagonistes fut arrêté par la gendarmerie, les deux sportifs étant emprisonnés à Senlis
#CeJourLà#10Mars#premier#match#combat#boxe#Sullivan#Américain#Mitchell#Anglais#champions#Chantilly#histoire#france#history#passé#past#français#french#news#événement#newsfromthepast
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E48 | BAM Rodriguez vs Sor Rungvisai | MJ vs Rios | McCaskill vs Ibarra | More
#2022#boxing#champions#dazn#ego#fight#fights#highlights#knockouts#kos#matchroom#news#premier#rank#show#showtime#the#tips#top#training
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A Little Love
Part of my 900 Followers Celebration!
Request: Hiya 😊 Your Roy fics are THE BEST!! It was so hard narrowing down the prompts, but would you please write something for Roy from whichever one of these inspires you most? Thank you 💕 “You have NO IDEA how long I’ve wanted to do that” “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to do that”
Roy Kent x Reader
1.2k words
Warnings: Language, fluffy fluffy fluff
Rebecca’s assistant. Rebecca’s fucking assistant. If he wasn’t so damn lovesick, Roy would marvel at how almost funny it was that he kept falling for women who were close to his boss.
But he felt much too tortured for that. He had to watch you trail after Rebecca day after day, and, even worse, he had to make small talk with you whenever you came down to his office on some errand for Rebecca. He loved and hated it. The way you smiled radiantly at him. The way you held his eye confidently when he managed to speak. The way you laughed at the stupid shit he said, as if Roy Kent was capable of being funny. The way you sometimes swayed onto your tiptoes when you spoke to him, almost as if you were trying to get closer to him. The way your fingernails tap-tap-tapped on the shell of your tablet, something he didn’t realize was a nervous habit of yours.
The best and worst thing about match days was that he barely saw you. You were usually in Rebecca’s office before the game, and then you’d head to the owner’s box with Rebecca and Keeley, reminding Roy of a princess in a tower, far out of reach from a grumpy old knight like himself.
Today, however, he really, really wanted to see you. With a win, the Greyhounds would perform a miracle and be named the Premier League champions. And, for some reason, he felt sure that seeing your face- even just a glimpse- would be enough to ease his nerves.
“Good morning, Coach!”
Roy whirled around. There you were, adorable in your Richmond sweater and ponytail, beaming at him.
He cleared his throat, nearly dropping the playbook he held in his hands. “Morning,” he grunted.
You were undeterred by his gruff greeting; you were quite used to it by now. It was charming, in Roy’s grumpy way. You liked it. It probably helped that you thought he was ridiculously handsome, but no one needed to know that, least of all Roy Kent.
“I, er, just wanted to say good luck today.” Your hands fiddled with the cuff of your sweatshirt- another nervous habit. “Big day.”
No matter how the match went, Roy already felt really fucking lucky thanks to the way you gazed up at him. “Thanks,” he managed. “Means a lot.”
You looked as if you were about to say something more, but you stopped; instead you simply reached out and gave his hand a small squeeze. “I’ll see you later,” you chirped, not bothering to look at his reaction to your small touch.
If you had, however, you would have seen Roy Kent blush harder than he had in his entire life.
~
“Let’s go Greyhounds! Go Roy!”
Amused, Beard turned around, pushing his sunglasses down as his eyes scanned the owners’ box. “Sounds like you have a fan, Coach,” he hummed, raising his eyebrows at Roy.
Rolling his eyes, Roy glanced in the direction Beard had been looking in. Sure enough, there you were, your smile radiant even from the pitch. “She’s just being nice,” he grumbled. Still, he gave a little wave in your direction, which you returned with unashamed enthusiasm, ignoring the knowing looks Rebecca and Keeley shared.
“You should ask her out, Roy,” Nate murmured as the coaches watched the starting lineup take their places on the pitch. “She obviously likes you.”
“’m not asking her out,” he growled, trying to focus his attention on the pitch.
Beard tsked at him. “Guess we can let Jan Maas know he can go ahead and ask her out, then. Said something about it being more respectful to wait for you to get rejected first, since you’re his manager and all.”
“Fuck Jan Maas,” Roy spat, forgetting where he was for a moment.
“What, Coach?”
Oops. Right, Jan was on the bench. “Nothing,” he barked over his shoulder. He looked back at his fellow coaches. “I’m not asking her out,” he repeated. Still, he couldn’t help taking one last glance at the owner’s box before giving his full attention to the match unfolding in front of him.
~
Roy didn’t know the last time he felt so elated. He watched with glee- actual fucking glee- as his team shouted and jumped into each other’s arms, their mouths wide with joy. They’d done it. He’d done it. A.F.C. Richmond were the champions of the Premier League.
He had let Nate jump into his arms, and brought Beard into a tight embrace, and even squeezed Jamie Tartt around the waist. Now he was standing on the pitch, watching the celebrations around him, when he saw you practically skipping arm-in-arm with Keeley, eager to join the team in their reveling.
When your eyes found his, your entire face lit up. He couldn’t help but notice the way Keeley shoved you in his direction with a wink; there was something sweet and childish in the action, like kids on the schoolyard around Valentine’s Day.
And he felt just as nervous as a boy waiting for his crush, standing still as a statue as you walked through the throngs of jumping and hugging people, not stopping for anyone who tried to hug you. Your feet carried you straight to Roy.
“Congratulations,” you said, gazing up at him.
In the same moment you opened your arms for a hug, he stuck his hand out for a handshake. Fuck fuck fuck.
You stared down at his hand and gave a little twinkling laugh. “Feeling a bit formal?”
“Fuck, sorry.” Roy reached out and pulled you into a hug. Your hair smelled great. Of course your hair smelled great. It smelled like fucking lavender and sunshine and every good thing a prick like Roy didn’t deserve.
Although he released you from the hug, you still held onto his arms, nervousness crossing your expression, something Roy couldn’t remember ever seeing before.
“Should let you go,” you hummed, eyebrows knitted together. “Your girlfriend’ll probably want to come give you a big kiss on the pitch. Be all cute and romantic.”
Roy cleared his throat, wondering if his beard was doing anything to hide his blush. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh.” You gave his arm a squeeze. “So, who’s going to kiss you, then?”
“Jamie, if I fucking let him,” Roy snorted, rolling his eyes.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “Think he’d be mad if I beat him to it?”
Before Roy could ask what the fuck you meant, you pushed yourself on tiptoe and planted the smallest kiss to Roy’s lips. Instinctively, his hands returned to your waist, holding you still so he could properly return the kiss, unsurprised and overjoyed to discover that you had the softest lips he’d ever felt.
When you pulled back, your smile was somehow brighter than he’d ever seen it. Roy let out a dry chuckle. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he confessed, his thumb stroking the material of your sweatshirt gently.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to do that,” you countered with a giggle. “Think I could get another?”
He nodded and pulled you tight against himself. “Oh, definitely.”
#900 followers celebration#request ❤️#he's here he's there he's every fucking where#roy kent#roy kent x reader#roy kent fanfic#roy kent fic#roy kent fanfiction#roy kent fluff#ted lasso#ted lasso fic#ted lasso fanfic#ted lasso fanfiction
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M's newest column
Ive been thinking this week about Fifa’s plans to expand the Club World Cup and create a Women’s Club World Cup and wondering where the welfare of players ranks in their priorities.
At a time when we’re seeing so many serious injuries to top women players I found it alarming that they did not consult the leagues or the players. Instead, Fifa president Gianni Infantino just announced it out of the blue.
Fifpro, the players’ union, were right to complain about the lack of consultation. I’m all for new ideas but you have to think about the players. If you just add more and more games, there’ll come a time when it just becomes too much.
From my personal viewpoint, if Chelsea were to win the Champions League, I’d love to get the chance to play the best teams from other continents. I can also see the benefit of making the game less Eurocentric. However, you have to talk to the players’ union first.
As for a 32-team tournament for the men, the loading is already extreme for them and I’m intrigued to see how they cope when the Premier League returns on Boxing Day, just a week after the World Cup final and two weeks after England’s quarter-final exit.
When I think back to last summer after the Euro, it took me at least a week for my mind to stop playing back the images of all I’d experienced. For us, there was the trauma of losing a semi-final 4-0 and feeling humiliated. Emotionally that was tough and for three days I lay on a sunbed and tried to read a book but I just could not focus on the letters.
My head was still in the tournament, processing all I’d been through, and I needed at least 10 days to start feeling enthused about the new season. Then, when I went back into Chelsea, I had issues with tendinopathy – inflammation in my hamstring and achilles, which is the product of overloading. Every footballer has it somewhere once they reach a certain age, yet it was clear to me my body was struggling.
I’ve got friends in the Sweden national team who tell me they are still feeling fatigued from the Euro and the news this week about Vivianne Miedema’s ACL rupture – less than a month after Beth Mead suffered the same injury – only accentuates the need to give more serious thought to player welfare in the women’s game.
This isn’t just about Fifa either. We have so much to improve on regarding knowledge of women’s bodies and loading. At Chelsea we’re lucky as we have a big squad and they’re very good at monitoring load and thinking about physical and mental welfare.
However, only a handful of women’s clubs have it like this; few others can afford it. Before I came to Chelsea, I’d never worked with full-time physios, for example.
It’s just my hypothesis but I wonder whether women players might be less fragile if we’d received better medical attention early in our careers. It doesn’t help that all the research has been based on men’s bodies.
More women-specific research is required to understand how to train and load us. At Chelsea we’ve just taken part in a study by a woman who is scanning the feet of female footballers and collecting data about their foot shape, and this is what we need more of before Fifa start adding even more games.
I would also question the timing of women’s tournaments, which tend to run until late in the summer. Next year’s World Cup will start on 20 July and end on 20 August. It means you get a few weeks off before the tournament but you end up wanting to stay fit and doing some training on your own. It’s afterwards when you need the break and, as I’ve mentioned above, I don’t think two weeks is enough.
Ultimately, there are moments when your body says “enough” and I say this from personal experience. I look back to December last year when I suffered an ankle injury in a Champions League game at Wolfsburg, which ruled me out for three months.
In hindsight, I’m not surprised at all as I remember the way I felt in that period, just trying to get through games. With Sweden I’d got to the final of the Olympics the previous August but hadn’t had enough time to recover and then we had the challenge of the inaugural group stage of the Champions League, which meant more travel and more tough games.
I was tired and moody and just thinking, “When’s the break coming?”. I really feel my injury came as a result of that. I jumped and landed badly and damaged ligaments as well as sustaining bone bruising and a small fracture. It felt to me that my brain was simply too tired.
A year on, sadly, it’s my partner Pernille’s turn to be injured. Thankfully it wasn’t an ACL in her case but she had an operation on her hamstring last month and in the first few weeks afterwards needed help with everything, including putting on her socks and shoes. This is the personal cost that players face and it’s sad to see a loved one like that – yet another reason, therefore, why I feel so passionate about protecting my fellow players.
#this might be her best one yet#magdalena eriksson#swewnt article#pernille harder#chelsea fcw#vivianne miedema#beth mead#woso
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Within The Limits (Ben Chilwell x Jenson Button x OC)
Author's note: NEW SERIES BABES! I missed writing a full story, given that I always delete and redo my short fics, so this will be a probably 10-15 part story (if there's more, time will tell). This duo is very random, compared to the Mason x Carlos one I did last time, but I love these guys so much, so it was worth the shot. I hope you enjoy!
Summary: Chelsea Winster is a double working reporter for Sky sports F1 and the Premier League. At the ripe age of 25 she's surrounded herself with people who love and appreciate her (some more than others), that's how the former world champion Jenson Button got wrapped around her finger. But little does she know that an England senior and Chelsea player will step up his game just to see her smile. Who will she choose? Double trouble is fun but not when it comes to heart matters.
Warnings: nsfw content will be included, each chapter will get a warning so don’t worry, lots of swearing, intensity, age gap, fluff (of course)
next chapter
“Can you stop eye fucking Jenson for a minute? It’s as polite as I can ask you” Lissie nudges me with her elbow and I shake my head, coming back to reality.
“Sorry. Force of habit” I blurt out without realizing and Lissie slaps her hand on her mouth, shutting it.
“Oh my god. I don’t wanna know. Let’s just move on” she says and we focus back on the qualifying session that is currently taking place.
For some reason, qualifying for the British Grand Prix is always more thrilling than in any other race. Maybe neck to neck with Brazil but that’s because in both countries the weather is unpredictable, like the results.
Lissie works for the F1 network, while I for Sky Sports so most of the times at qualifying or free practice, I get to hang out with her since everyone else is in the comment box.
The one time I was in the commentary box with Crofty, Martin, Jenson and Nico, I almost confused Max with Checo and was about to announce Checo as the poleman instead of Max. That’s because I was heavily influenced by the way Jenson’s veins were showing around his muscled arms. Ever since that day, I refuse to step my foot inside there ever again.
Another reason why I try but fail to keep a distance from Jenson is that every time we are alone, we somehow end up in the back of a dark room, kissing like teenagers and making out until I can’t feel my legs anymore. Let’s just say that’s a detail no one knows. Not even Lissie. But I’m sure she’s suspected something given that in the space of an hour I showed up with a hickie on my neck.
I’m not afraid to admit that yes, I am into older men as well. Mostly the ones with brown hair and stupidly cute blue eyes, twice my age and 2009 world champion with Brawn, currently holding a microphone and analyzing how it’s impossible for the Ferrari’s to be on pole.
“I domt can’t tell whether you’re looking at the right side of the screen or left. Do you even pay attention to who is about to get eliminated?” Lissie snaps her fingers in front of my eyes.
“I can do multiple things at the same time. And yes, I’m looking both ways, what’s wrong with that?” I reply but now my attention turns to my friend.
“I seriously don’t get how you can be into older men instead of youngsters. Like, almost week in-week out in England, you’re surrounded by 44 handsome gentlemen and you’re telling me you only have eyes for Jenson?”
“Maybe. I mean, come on, look at him! He doesn’t compare to those boys in the Prem. Plus, half of them are perverts and others have girlfriends or wives. Jenson is single and I spend most of my time in the paddock with him”
“Have you at least told your loverboy that they are sending you for almost full-time at the Prem? He’ll miss you but not more than me” Lissie gives me a big smile and I hug her.
“He’ll find out when he sees me commenting alongside Micah Richards or Gary Neville. Plus, I think for some reason, they’ve assigned me to commentate most of Chelsea’s game and I don’t know if that has to do something with my name” oh the irony. My dad’s favorite team is Chelsea so when he and mum found out they were having a girl it was the perfect opportunity for him.
“Oh lucky! All of the hotties play for Chelsea. Well, used to, but some of them are still there. Like Ben Chilwell. A fine Englishman and champions league winner. What more than that?” She winks at my playfully and I roll my eyes with her comment.
"Not my cup of tea, L. Plus, all of them are arrogant assholes go just pose when the camera points at them." I do like football, I swear, it's the players that get on my nerves. Such divas.
"As if f1 drivers aren't snob and attention seekers?"
"Well, they have a sense of humanity and logicality. Driving the fastest cars alive, risking their lives, abandoning family and friends to travel the world just to entertain others. Footballers injure themselves and then take 2 months trip to the Bahamas."
"Remind me again why did they assign you to the Prem?" Lissie is amused with my ideas that she's been scratching her head the entire time.
"For banter, maybe?" I shrug
"Oh those poor boys, the things you will be telling them after the games."
____________________________________________________________
"Oh the way I knew that you couldn't get your eyes off the screen for even a second, satisfies me massively" Jenson whispers in my ear and I could faint right this instant moment.
"How can I? Especially when you are there. All bossy and classy simultaneously, explaining how the sport works better than anyone else" I smirk devilishly behind the crook of his neck.
"I still don't know for what reason you are attracted to me? My looks? My knowledge? Or my insanely good driving skills?" his hand lands on my thigh, caressing it up and down softly.
"All of the three" I sigh as I feel the hand going more upwards and uneasiness rushes over my body.
"Why so flushed darling? Does my hand on your thigh have this strong effect on you?" his lips kiss my jawline and a soft groan escapes my mouth.
"Oh I will miss this" I say as I hold on firmly to Jenson’s bicep and tighten my grasp around it.
“I’m not going anywhere dear, what are you talking about?” A small peck lands on my lips and I feel my lower lip being sucked by him.
I stop at my tracks and kiss Jenson sweetly before removing myself away from his lap, so I can tell him the truth about my job.
“I need you to be calm, m’kay?”
“I don’t understand. Is something wrong?” He looks worried and stressed.
“I’m being transferred. For the next two years I will be working full time in England.” I say out loud and it sounds like fake.
“Why? What? How? I mean, uh. Explain a bit further, please.”
“You know that I work for both the Premier League and F1. Well, Sky Sports decided to transfer me for two years back in England so I can commentate on the games and then they’ll decide where I will be permanently settled.”
“So that means I’m losing you? You’re not going to be around anymore?”
“Whenever there’s a weekend that I am free and F1 happens to be on, I will join you, just not as a commentator. I really hate that this has to happen”
I truly do hate it. For the past 4 years my life was about an airplane, no sleep, fast cars, statistics and Jenson. Now it will be 22 men kicking the ball for 90 minutes straight.
“I’ll come for visits too. Don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily baby” he hugs my waist and grabs me back onto his lap.
“I wasn’t planning on it JB. Trust me.”
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Devin's Dude Ranch: Episode One (Part One)
Venessa (voice over): "Welcome to Echo Valley Ranch in beautiful Chestnut Ridge, home of Grand Champion horse trainer, nectar magnate, and Bachelorette, Devin Delaney."
Venessa (continues): "I'm your host, Venessa Jeong and this is the premiere of Devin's Dude Ranch. Devin, how are you doing tonight?"
Devin: "Excited. And nervous, my palms are sweaty."
*Devin quickly swipes her hands across the back of her dress*
*Venessa smirks and tries to hide it*
Venessa: "I think that's understandable. I mean, you're about to potentially meet the love of your life for the first time."
Devin: "I suppose that's reason enough for a little perspiration, yes."
Venessa: "Yes, exactly. Alright, Devin. In just a minute, the first contestant will make his way right down your driveway and introduce himself. Are you ready to meet the five men who came here with the intention of winning your heart?"
*Devin draws in a deep breath as if summoning her courage*
Devin: I am.
*footsteps crunch along the dirt driveway as the first contestant makes his toward Devin*
*She cranes her neck to watch his approach as a smile begins to play at the corners of her mouth*
Contestant #1: "I can't believe I'm finally standing here in front of you. Hi, I'm Handra," *draws in a shaky breath then laughs* "I'm sorry, I'm really nervous. ...Watcher, you are...so beautiful."
Handra (in diary room): "I'm here because I'm ready to settle down. Marriage. Kids. The happily-ever-after. It's what I want, more than anything. And I'm excited to get to know Devin throughout this experience. Everything I know about her, on paper...she could be exactly what I've been looking for."
Devin: "Thank you; that's very sweet," *bites her lower lip and tucks her hair behind her ear, obviously blushing* "It's nice to meet you, Handra. And if it makes you feel better, I'm super nervous too."
*both laugh*
Handra: "I made you something," *he holds out the box he's been carrying so Devin can get a better look* "I know you said making pizza was your love language, and that's something we have in common, so..."
*Handra opens the box to reveal its contents*
Handra (in a playful tone): "Devin Delaney, you've stolen a pizza my heart."
*A grin spreads across Devin's face before a chorus of laughter escapes her throat*
Devin (teasingly): "Would you say this was made with love?"
*Handra smiles*
Handra: "Definitely."
*Devin is still smiling*
Devin: "Well then I can't wait to try it. Thank you. This is amazing. And my favorite type of gift, for the record."
*the two hug*
Handra: "You are very welcome. I look forward to getting to know you, Devin."
Devin: "The feeling is very mutual."
*after the pair separates, Handra makes his way into the house*
Devin: "Okay. You guys did good picking Handra. He's got a good sense of humor. He seems kind and considerate. And he's so cute I literally thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest the whole we were standing there. Did I mention he brought me pizza!? That he made!? With a heart on it!?"
NEXT
Handra submitted by @bloomingkyras
#devinsduderanch#devin delaney#venessa jeong#handra diaz#sims 4 bachelorette#sims 4 bachelorette challenge#echo valley ranch#chestnut ridge#sims 4 horse ranch#simblr#the sims 4#sims community#ts4#sims 4 love story#sims 4 story#sims 4 screenshots
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Prime Video Partners with Premier Boxing Champions for Exclusive Boxing Entertainment
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Rolando Romero vs. Ismael Barroso kämpfen um den vakanten WBA-Titel im Super-Leichtgewicht.
Rolando Romero vs. Ismael Barroso kämpfen am kommenden Samstag in Las Vegas, um den vakanten WBW-Titel im Super-Leichtgewicht.
Tripleheader im Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas am kommenden Samstag.
Der schlagkräftige Rolando „Rolly“ Romero wird an diesem Samstag, dem 13. Mai, live im „The Chelsea“ im „The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas“ gegen den Nr. 1 Anwärter Ismael Barroso um den vakanten…
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The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 2/5
Chapter Two - Operation Lion's Den
Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.
Words: 9536
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Killian enters the home changing room, the last to return due to his flirty grovelling at pitch side, and is met by jubilant chaos. Someone already has their victory playlist at full blast, blaring from their phone, and Will – ever the life and soul of a party – has stripped to his boxers, dancing around the place with his shorts on his head.
Will spots his arrival instantly and prances over, slinging an arm over his shoulder and dragging him centre-stage, to the middle of the room.
“Wahey, look who it is! The man of the hour, the captain of the century!” Will exclaims.
He grabs Killian by the wrist and flings his arm into the air, as if proclaiming him champion of a boxing match.
“It would appear that three points and a man of the match performance is not all our captain managed to secure,” Robin notes.
As appreciative as Killian is for Robin’s pinpoint accuracy on the pitch – a lot of his goals have come from getting on the end of a Locksley delivery – he’s not so fond of it off the pitch. Will jerks Killian’s arm down so to look for himself.
“Emma,” Will reads and looks up at him, “is that the bird whose kid you clobbered?”
“The woman,” Killian corrects pointedly. “And I’d hardly say clobbered.”
“Well, I’ve gotta hand it to ya, mate, it was one hell of a bold tactic,” Will comments. “Keep going with audacious tactics like that and you’ll give the gaffer a run for his money!”
Killian playfully shoves Will off him, knocking the shorts off his head in the same movement.
“Alright, that’s enough of that! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have yet to seal the deal,” the aforementioned gaffer strolls into the room.
His arrival changes the atmosphere instantaneously. The music is shut off, attentive silence fills the room and the entire team scramble to find their seats. They all know the drill after a victory; the gaffer gives them a small time to celebrate whilst he converses with his coaches and then it’s straight back to business.
He steps into the centre of the room and stands to take in his captive audience. He’s a young man for his role, mid-thirties and some of his players are a fraction older than him but his presence is a notable one, no matter what room he walks into. His presence alone demands respect and attention. He could walk into the away dressing room just next door and elicit the same response.
The gaffer’s accomplishments in the beautiful game deserve such worship, and earns awe from all those he meets for the first time.
Killian remembers the gaffer’s first day, being called into his office at the training ground first thing to be warned that the new gaffer wasn’t adverse to switching things up, to stripping him of his captaincy and giving it to another player if he deemed it to be in the best interests of the team. Had the previous gaffer made such a proposal to him, Killian would have been outraged, diving into an argument of how such an action would be unjust and potentially dent his reputation, yet with the new gaffer he’d done nothing but nod dumbly as he stared, astonished, at the legend before him.
A Premier League footballing legend; he’d broken into the Manchester United first team at just nineteen years old, setting the midfield ablaze, raking in the goals and assists. At only twenty-five years of age, the gaffer’s career came to a tragically premature end when a mistimed tackle in a pre-season friendly broke his leg in two places, but not before he had won five Premier League titles, two EFL cups, the FIFA Club World Cup, and the best of the best; the Champions League. A mind-boggling achievement for only seven seasons in the senior game.
Killian’s own career – coming towards the end of his eleventh professional season – feels trivial in comparison; his highest accomplishments of note being a Championship Play-off final victory and runner-up in an EFL cup final.
So he’d lapped up every word the gaffer had spoken, followed every instruction, gratefully grasped every piece of advice the legend had for him. His efforts retained him his captaincy and the entire team’s belief in the manager’s structural changes, tactics and formations had the team preforming miracles.
With the gaffer being a former Manchester United player, the media had taken to facetiously questioning whether the Aston Villa manager has sold his soul to the devil to elicit such fantastical results in transforming a relegation battling team into one competing for a top four spot on the other end of the Premier League table.
It's somewhat ironic, Killian muses, as the gaffer clears his throat, preparing for a speech, that in the three times Aston Villa have faced up to Manchester United since their new manager’s appointment, the Villans had beaten the Red Devils all three times.
Football is a fickle sport. A man once hailed as a hero for bringing such success to the Devils since transforming into the Villan responsible for pilfering nine points from them.
“As of this moment, we sit in fourth. You all know as well as I do what that means; it’s a Champions League spot but the fat lady has not yet sung!” the gaffer proclaims. “There are still eleven games left of the season and we’re sitting on the brink of success. They believed we’d drop off by Christmas. Did we?”
“No!” comes the charged, unison response.
“And nor will we! But victory comes with a price,” the gaffer continues.
It’s his long old mantra, one Killian’s heard countless times during the gaffer’s thirteen month reign at the club.
“Victory requires focus, it requires determination, it requires grit and it requires hard-work. I have demanded a lot from you lads in the last year and I’d like to think the results speak for themselves, but there’s no time to rest yet. I want Champions League, you want Champions League, the fans want Champions league. Eleven more games, one final push; double the focus, double the determination, double the grit, double the hard-work and we put Aston Villa back where it belongs; back amongst the top clubs of Europe. Are you ready for that?”
“Yeah!” the teams roars, together once more.
The gaffer nods, satisfied, “Enjoy today’s victory. Enjoy your day off tomorrow. You’ve earned it. We go again Monday.”
As quickly as he’d arrived, the gaffer leaves, off to meticulously review the game’s footage ahead of the team’s Monday morning briefing.
--
Killian releases a leisurely sigh as he leans back, his elbows resting on the tiled edge of the recovery pool, the cold water tranquil and peaceful, as his muscles relax.
“Cannonball!”
The scream comes from Will, moments before he leaps from poolside into the water, sending waves crashing into the faces of Killian and Robin; the only two inhabitants of the pool.
“Watch it!” Killian growls.
“Careful,” Robin speaks simultaneously, a light warning as if he were speaking to his eight-year-old son.
The rest of the team has long left, leaving ‘The Three Fragilities’, as the trio were often mockingly referred to as, to their longer post-match recovery routines. Will, at the mere age of twenty-two, has already torn his ACL twice, spotlighting him, to the club’s physios, as one to watch and take extra care with. Killian has suffered with a weakened Achilles since childhood, subjecting him to the longer recovery processes throughout the entire course of his career. As for Robin, well…
“It’s not my fault you two are old and boring,” Will defends his actions.
“Hey, speak for him, mate,” Killian nods towards Robin, “I’m still in me twenties.”
Will scoffs, “Yeah, and barely clinging on! When’s the big three-oh?”
“Bloody cheek!” Killian huffs. “I’m barely more than a month into twenty-nine!”
“Like I said, clinging on,” Will jokes. “Fighting against the pull of retirement age.”
“Bugger off,” Killian returns and is adamant, “I’ve got at least six years of top-flight in me still.”
“Wonderboy’s eyeing up your captain’s armband already,” Robin observes, amused.
“Wonderboy can bloody dream on,” Killian remarks.
Will settles down in the water, sitting on the submerged seating. The trio promptly dive into a game of ‘Would You Rather’, their usual way of passing the time, and Killian gets splashed by both Will and Robin on multiple occurrences, whenever the other men don’t agree with his responses. Killian gives as good as he gets, particularly dousing Robin when he comes out with the nonsense of preferring to sign for Birmingham City over Derby County.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?” Killian questions, appalled. “You can’t sign for Birmingham from Villa!”
“Says who?” Robin questions.
“Says the universe! It’s an unwritten rule,” Killian reminds him. “City fans won’t want you and Villa fans would be calling for your head! Going to City is like… Luke turning to the Dark Side!”
“As a Forest fan from birth, signing for Derby is turning to the Dark Side,” Robin returns. “I may play in claret and blue and for the lion on the badge, but my heart will always lie with Nottingham Forest.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten your allegiance to Forest,” Killian admits.
“Hence the ‘would you rather’, they’re not meant to be easy questions,” Will speaks pointedly. “Where the bloody hell did you think I’d pulled Derby County out of?”
“I learned not to question your mind within your first week at Villa,” Killian retorts.
Further would you rather questions leads to more splashing and before any of them know it, Robin’s alarm is ringing on his phone, calling the end to their recovery time. Will jumps up faster than a diving player whose just won his team a penalty.
“Time to go home, stick on fifa, and relax!” Will grins at the prospect of his evening’s freedom.
Killian and Robin follow him out of the pool.
“I remember those days,” Robin reminisces. “Now I’m going home to an excitable eight-year-old and a newborn who’s vastly opposed to sleep.”
Will pulls a face at the mere thought and comments, “Kids. Who’d have them?”
Emma… Killian thinks wistfully and catches himself just before her name can escape his lips.
He freezes and pretends to busy himself with selecting a towel, allowing Robin and Will to go on ahead, both so deep in conversation that they fail to acknowledge his lingering behind. His eyes are wide at his own mind’s thoughts.
What the bloody hell was that?
He recalls the initial incident leading to their meeting vividly.
The opposition players broke out of nowhere, forcing him to bust a gut sprinting back towards his own goal, throwing in a last minute, desperate slide tackle to block his fellow number nine’s slot. He lay on the grass, watching the flight of the ball, time slowing down as it hurtled towards a young boy. He remembered hoping for the boy, or the woman beside him, to look up in time to react to the oncoming ball. When it became apparent they were both too drawn into their hotdogs, he hoped a member of the crowd would pull out a world class save, diving to parry the ball away.
Hope was useless. The ball hit the boy square in the face.
Shit.
Killian threw himself into PR mode, well-versed from previous escapades. He went over straight away, was the one to attract the attention of the first aiders, apologised, briefly checked in upon their return from the first aid station, dedicated his winning goal to the lad, gave the lad his shirt, signed some things and then he had turned to the best trick up his sleeve and subtly responded to the woman’s flirting.
It had gotten him out of trouble on multiple occasions. A few years back he’d crashed his car into another person’s vehicle. The driver – a woman by the name of Eloise Gardner – had been enraged when she’d climbed out of her car, her fury increasing more upon inspecting the damage. Then she had recognised him and things had taken a turn for the worse when it became clear she was a Blues fan and timing was not on his side; he’d only scored the winner in the Second City Derby the day before, causing him to be a very unpopular man from the eyes of Blues supporters. She’d cursed at him and threatened to go to the police so he’d turned to his charm and talked his way out of trouble and straight into her bedsheets. He’d awoken the next morning to coffee in a Birmingham City mug, a cruel joke, and before he really knew it, Eloise Gardner had gone from angry woman to friend with benefits. And they were regular benefits. Just as there were also regular acts of sabotage, Eloise taking her chances to try and throw him off his game, turning off his alarms, making him late for training, team meetings and matchday coaches, and yet he kept seeing her. There was something of a thrill to it; to fornicating with the enemy, to being challenged by her, and it had pulled him in.
Then the new gaffer had arrived at the club, pulled him up on recent dips in performance and unprofessional behaviours, and threatened to take away his captaincy. Killian dived headfirst into proving himself; spent every waking hour focused on his career, on the pitch, in the gym, or reviewing footage of previous matches. There was no time for the distraction of Eloise Gardner and once he’d made sure his captaincy was secured, she never replied to his texts or answered his calls.
He didn’t care. It had been nothing serious. Just a way to get out of trouble and have some fun in the meantime.
And that’s all it was with Emma. Charming his way out of trouble. But then he’d done something he hadn’t intended to do; he’d invited her and her kid to dinner.
And then his thoughts had gone straight to her the first moment someone mentioned something which even remotely referenced to her.
And he’s still thinking about her.
She’s nestled into his brain and there’s no shaking her.
He absent-mindedly plays with the red towel in his hand, noting the similarity of the red of the towel to the jacket she had worn. He wonders what she’s up to back at her hotel. He can clearly picture her lad bouncing on the bed, chatting enthusiastically to his mates on the other end of a phone call. He imagines Emma sat at the table, taking in the view of Birmingham out her window, a soft smile on her face as she listens to Henry’s excited recount of the day’s events and her eyes drop to her own phone, lying on the table, as she waits patiently for his call-
Wait.
He drops the towel. His heart pounds as a horrific thought swirls around his head. He recalls the light touch of her soft skin against his sweaty, warm arm as she’d written her name and number on his hand. The same hand which had been submerged in water, splashing and being splashed. He dares not look but he has to. His eyes reluctantly drop to his hand and his heart sinks. There’s faint scratching of ink, some stronger, some more faded, most of it gone all together. What remains is purely there to taunt him, to remind him of what he’d almost had, of what he had lost.
He's a bloody fool.
--
Killian has no idea what has gotten into him. The subtle, nonsense flirting and the offer of dinner had been for one purpose and one purpose only; to stop Emma from going to the press, claiming her five minutes of fame and allowing the newspapers to spin a tale which makes him look bad. The gaffer was big on no distractions and, as they had found out when Will crashed his car into the gates of a primary school, any news story proves a distraction.
Killian had been relieved to discover the morning paper contained no news story about a young lad requiring medical attention at the Villa game, determining himself in the clear.
And yet he finds himself sat in his car outside Villa Park on his day off, clinging to the only knowledge – beside her name – that he had; Emma and her lad had a stadium tour booked. He needs to see her again, if only to explain he hadn’t intentionally ghosted her, and this is his only chance.
A quick search on the Villa website had informed him that stadium tours were scheduled at ten-thirty in the morning and one in the afternoon. He’d arrived at Villa Park at nine sharp, in case her lad had been keen to explore the Villa store before the tour – the big store, not the half-arsed matchday one – when it opened at nine-thirty. He hadn’t. Those going on the morning tour had started arriving in dribs and drabs around ten-fifteen. He searched the group, both upon entering and leaving, for Emma and her lad; nothing.
By the time vehicles finally beginning pulling into the car park for the second, and final, tour of the day, he’s been sat in his car for three-hours-and-forty minutes. He sits up straighter in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes to focus on the people getting out of their cars.
Nothing.
He remains hopeful. The lad said they were coming and Killian doubts, from the impressive knowledge of Villa history that the boy had spouted at him, he would ever let his mother forget about the tour. Unless they haven’t forgotten. Maybe something’s happened; maybe the lad’s fallen ill, or has suffered complications from the impact of the ball. Maybe the lad’s wound up in hospital. Maybe his chances of ever meeting Emma again washed away with her number. Maybe he should start searching the local hospitals; he can start with Birmingham Children’s Hospital, he has a little pull there, visiting at least once a year with the rest of the Villa team.
As his mind spirals, he very nearly misses a grey taxi pull into the car park, only noticing it when it parks in the bay directly in front of his own. The back door opens the very moment the taxi stops and Killian breathes a sigh of relief when Emma’s young lad leaps out; he isn’t in hospital, he looks well in himself (except for the heavy bruising forming around his nose and left eye) and is full of energy, leaping excitedly as he eagerly coaxes his mother out of the taxi.
Killian has to stop himself from emulating the lad’s enthusiasm, very nearly leaping out of his own car when he sees Emma exit the taxi. He glances around the car park, taking in the growing number of people arriving for the stadium tour; he doesn’t want to cause a scene. He’s deep in Villa territory; there’s no chance of him not being recognised. A frenzy of picture and signing requests may well scare Emma off and he wants to speak with her, needs to speak with her, one-on-one (plus the kid).
He dons a black baseball cap and some dark sunglasses – it works in the movies – then slowly gets out of his car and follows after Emma and her lad, both on the move towards the stadium.
“Emma!” he softly calls out.
She turns, looking surprised to hear her name. Her head tilts slightly when she sees him and then her eyes widen with recognition before a cold stare falls over them and she straightens, standing tall and folding her arms across her chest.
“Jones,” she states coolly, hiding her initial surprise.
“She thinks you’re a jackass,” her lad speaks up conversationally.
Killian’s head has never turned so fast, snapping to stare at the boy; she what? Not a good first impression, work to do.
“Henry!” Emma exclaims.
“I don’t! You’re still my favourite player,” Henry covers quickly at Killian’s look then looks to his mother, “But I heard you on the phone to Grandpa. You said he was a jackass and that all professional sports players are egotistical jocks and that you never should have-”
“Okay, Henry,” Emma cuts him off and turns to Killian, “I was mad.”
That’s promising. Mad means she cares.
Cares! For a man she exchanged a few sentences with? She’s mad about her son being let down.
Or it’s a mixture of both.
The side of his mind fighting his corner dares to have hope. He takes a small breath. He’ll never know unless he shoots his shot.
“I would have called but I lost your number,” he starts to explain.
Her eyes shift to his side.
“Did you lose your hand too?” she remarks sceptically.
“The ink washed off,” he expands. “I was a bloody fool and didn’t save your details on my phone before– let me make it up to you. Lunch?”
He’s too eager, not even finishing his explanation before diving into his question. He’s mentally kicking himself.
What the bloody hell is he playing at?
“We’ve eaten already,” Emma tells him outright.
“I can still show you the city?” he offers immediately.
He wants the ground to swallow him up. He’s acting desperate.
“Henry’s been talking about this tour all morning,” she tells him.
It like taking a boot to the face, studs first; using her lad to let him down gently after her first attempt failed to dissuade him. He takes a resigning step back. He’s missed his shot; took too long, invited pressure, put it out wide. She’s taken possession, took her goal kick, and blasted the ball deep into the other half.
“Mom, he can come on the tour with us.”
The young lad dives in with a heroic save to keep the game alive.
Henry looks to his mother with big, brown puppy-dog eyes, seemingly eager to see his idea come to fruition. Killian looks to Emma and raises an eyebrow. If she agrees, there could still be hope.
“I guess he could,” she shrugs.
It wasn’t a no. He had a chance.
“Yes!” Henry cheers. “This is going to be so cool!”
“Aye, lad,” Killian agrees, glad that at least one of them is thrilled about his presence. “But let’s keep my presence between the three of us, okay? The club charges double the price for tours with ex-players present. I doubt they’d be too happy to learn that a current one spontaneously popped up at a standard tour.”
Whilst everything he says is strictly true, he’s talking utter nonsense. In truth, he has the duration of the tour to win Emma on side and he’s not going to be able to achieve such a feat if he’s having to share his time equally with the rest of the people on the tour. As much appreciation as he has for the support that Villa fans show him, they were not the reason he’s wasted half his day off sat in his bloody car; Emma is, and he sure as hell is not going to let those four hours become a waste of his time without a fight.
Henry gasps, “So it’s like a spy movie! You’re going in undercover. You’ve got to get in and out without being recognised!”
“That’s the aim,” Killian nods.
“The hat and shades are a good start,” Henry says, “but we need to name this mission.”
“Name it?” Killian questions.
“An operation name,” Emma expands, amused. “The kid loves his spy movies almost as much as soccer. He turns his aims into missions and names them. For example, Operation Cobra is his mission to get me to like your sport and refer to it as ‘football’.”
“Cobra? Why cobra?” Killian asks.
“Grandma says snakes are a symbol of rebirth and transformation because of the way they can shred their skin. The aim of Operation Cobra is to transform Mom into a football fan,” Henry explains then declares, “But right now we have another op to focus on, and this will be Operation Lion’s Den.”
Henry turns to take in the stadium before them and beams.
“Okay then,” Killian agrees. “Into the lion’s den we go.”
Killian steps towards the stadium entrance, aware that time is not on their side, the tour due to start any moment.
“Wait!” Henry yells urgently.
Killian freezes.
“Have you got an alias?” Henry asks him. “We can’t call you Killian. People might clock on.”
“Fair point, lad,” Killian concedes and considers, “How about Alex? Alex Rogers.”
“Okay Alex,” Henry agrees. “Now, Operation Lion’s Den can commence.”
--
Operation Lion’s Den was very nearly called off the very moment they had stepped into reception and approached the front desk. The booking under David Nolan had only two tickets to its name and the tour was fully booked. Killian dived in to save Operation Lion’s Den, revealing his true identity to the woman at the front desk, talking his way in and urging her to keep his presence discreet.
They had all received their passes, a claret lanyard on which holds a small claret square complete with the Villa badge and the lettering ‘STADIUM TOUR’, and entered into the Gas Lamp Longue just in time for the commencement of the tour.
Their tour guide is a young yet knowledgeable Australian woman named Belle who is such a fountain of Aston Villa facts – both present and historic – that even Killian finds himself learning new things about his club as they are shown around the hospitality areas within the North Stand.
Henry soaks it all up, chatting enthusiastically with Belle as she leads the way through corridors and up stairways, before the lad runs off to take photos of the view of the pitch from the latest hospitality area they are shown.
Emma lingers at the back of the group, keeping her distance from the avid Villa discussions being held amongst the friendly group, and Killian notices the way her gaze keeps lingering on the view of the stadium, staring longingly at the Holte End opposite, as if wishing to go back to the previous evening’s game.
Belle launches into a tale about the club’s late charge for promotion into the Premier League a few years back, and Killian leans towards Emma.
“You can’t fool me, you know,” he tells her, his voice low and hushed.
“Fool you how, Alex?” she returns pointedly.
“I saw you yesterday, after I scored,” his voice remains a low murmur, right into her ear, purely for the purposes of keeping his secret identity intact, and not because he longed to breathe in every bit of her enticing scent. “I saw the grin creeping onto your face, I saw your eyes alight with adrenaline, I know your heart was pounding in your chest as the roar of the crowd encompassed you.”
Her eyes flick once more towards the Holte End then back onto Belle.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” she challenges.
“It means that you let it in, maybe not consciously, maybe only for the briefest of seconds, but you let the claret and blue of Aston Villa touch your heart,” he tells her.
“Or maybe I was glad to finally see some kind of action in what was looking to be a goalless game,” she returns.
“Hmm, sure,” he replies, unconvinced. “You know, I remember watching my first Villa game. I was eight years old. I wasn’t sure about coming but my dad told me there was no pressure for me to be drawn into the club the same way he was. He said, ‘You don’t choose Aston Villa, Aston Villa chooses you.’. And for some people, that’s from birth, it’s all they ever know. For others, like me, like your lad, it’s more complicated; you find your own way to it, and it fills this gap you never even realised you had until one day you can’t remember there ever being a time in which Aston Villa didn’t hold a place in your heart.”
“That won’t ever be me,” Emma responds assuredly.
“We’ll see, love,” Killian shrugs. “We’ll see…”
--
Belle leads them into the heart of the Trinity Road stand, through hallways and up more stairways, until they finally enter the press room. Henry is at the front of the group with Belle, allowing him to claim front row seats and reserve two for Killian and Emma who maintain their pattern of lingering at the back of the group. With Henry’s enthusiasm, they can hide at the back no longer and are forced to take the seats right at the front.
When Belle asks for a volunteer to take centre-stage, Emma finds it funny to offer Killian for it and, since they’re seated at the front, Belle spots her right away, urging him up.
Henry looks utterly horrified at the prospect of Operation Lion’s Den being blown whilst Emma all but pushes Killian off his chair, leaving him with little choice but to join Belle behind the desk situated on the raised platform at the front of the room. She lowers her voice to exchange greetings, ask his name, and question whether he wants to take his sunglasses off and he responds with a hasty lie about light sensitivity.
Belle proceeds to lead the group into a fake press conference, introducing him as new signing Alex Rogers, unaware of how incredibly difficult she was making it for him to maintain his cover. To aid his jeopardised cover, Killian naturally slips into an Irish accent as he proceeds to face a bunch of questions from the fake journalists who play their parts well. Emma is stifling a laugh whilst he has to really concentrate on providing answers in the way a standard Villa fan would, and not submit to his years of media training instinctively screaming a standard, scripted answer at him. It’s only five minutes of questions but it feels like the longest five minutes of his life and when he finally escapes the unwanted spotlight, fake Irish Alex Rogers persona somehow intact, he’s sweating.
Belle offers the opportunity for photos behind the desk and light conversation soon floods the room as families take it in turns to have their picture taken at the press desk.
“That was awesome!” Henry exclaims, just about managing to keep his voice down. “They were interviewing Killian Jones and they didn’t even have a clue!”
“Mmm, someone almost blew Operation Lion’s Den,” Killian says, shooting a good-humoured glare at Emma.
She smiles and confesses, “I just wanted to see how you fared under pressure.”
“Because you didn’t see enough of that yesterday?” Killian shoots back.
“Maybe I liked what I saw yesterday,” Emma shrugs.
Henry promptly pulls Emma away to get his own picture at the press desk and Killian stares after her, taking the moment to collect his temporarily scrambled thoughts. It was a return to the previous day’s playfulness, a stark contrast to the cool, withdrawn woman in the car park.
He’s pushed her back into her own half, finally gaining a bit of possession for himself, making progress up the pitch.
He considers what must be left on the tour; the private boxes, the dressing rooms, the pitch and the dugouts. He’s got the better part of the second half of the game to go. He can still pull it back. He can still win it.
There’s time yet.
--
“We have private boxes available to buy for a game. If you’re interested in this possibility, you can get in contact with our hospitality department via our phone lines or through our website. Many of our players and sponsors also have their own private boxes, whether in this stand or the Doug Ellis on the other side of the stadium. Players’ friends and family will use the boxes during the games,” Belle tells the group as they walk along a hallway, closed doors on the left leading into said boxes.
“Grandpa looked into these,” Henry tells Emma. “They’re about three-thousand pounds per matchday! That’s not far off four-thousand dollars!”
“That’s obscene,” Emma remarks.
“Welcome to the world of top-level English football, love. The money in it is bloody ridiculous,” Killian acknowledges disdainfully for, whilst he benefits substantially from it, he doesn’t wholly agree with it.
Belle brings the group to a stop outside a door which Killian knows well.
“Club Captain Killian Jones kindly permits us entry into his box during these tours,” Belle informs the group, “enabling us to be able to show you the view from such luxurious viewing spaces.”
Henry grins knowingly at Killian as Belle leads the group into the box. Killian lingers somewhat awkwardly in the doorway as he watches the large group explore the space. He’s not used to seeing so many unfamiliar people in his usually remote, private spot. Upon entering after a game, he’s usually met by familiar faces and not the sight of people taking selfies with the view of the pitch behind them. As willing as he is to let the tours into his box – it seems the least he can do after all the support the Villa fans have given him over the years – it feels strange to actually see it happen.
“A whole range of people have watched matches from up here,” Belle tells the group and Killian can but wonder exactly where she’s going to go with her examples. “From family members and close friends to Hollywood actors and royalty. But Killian has also been known to regularly invite local foster families to games and host them here too.”
Emma looks surprised as she turns to him, an awe in her eyes as she murmurs, “Foster families?”
“I’m aware of the privilege I’m fortunate enough to have. If I can make even the smallest difference in the lives of those in less fortunate positions, it only seems right to do so,” he explains seriously and then smirks as he seizes the opportunity to call her out, “You see, not all professional sportsmen are egotistical jocks.”
“We’ll see,” she shrugs, nudging him playfully in the side then asks the burning question, “And royalty?”
“Oh, aye,” he confirms with a nod. “Didn’t you know the future king’s a villan?”
“Until yesterday, I didn’t know a villain was anything more than the bad guy in a movie,” Emma points out. “So, you’re telling me that you mix with royalty?”
“From time to time.”
She laughs.
“What’s so funny about that?” he questions, bemused by the reaction.
“I just can’t imagine you all… fancy and proper,” she tells him.
“I scrub up quite well, I’ll have you know,” he insists. “It’s not all sportswear and sweat.”
There’s a spark in her eyes as she returns, “Pity.”
--
“And now, the Villa dressing room,” Belle announces as she leads them through the double doors and into the room that, in the entirety of the stadium, Killian is most familiar with. “I’d like to direct your attention to the tactic board up here.”
She brings the group to a large whiteboard, positioned on the only wall not lined with player’s lockers and seats. Scrawls of the gaffer’s tactics remains in place from the previous day’s game.
“Now, as most of you are aware, past Villa managers have used similar tactics for every game which meant they’d furiously remove any signs of their tactics from this board before we’d have even a chance of stepping foot in here,” Belle addresses her attentive audience. “Adam Gold, however, we have all very quickly learned is just as world-class a manager as he was as a player. He’s a tactical genius; his tactics vary significantly from game to game, adapting to the slightest whiff of a weakness he assesses in opposition players, and so he’s more willing to leave us little insights into his great mind.”
She gestures to the board, a combination of circles and numbers to represent players, complete with arrows of various lengths and intensities.
“You can see his half time talk during yesterday’s game partly comprised of urging his front three to apply intense pressure to the back line, to not give them a second on the ball, forcing them to go long despite their forward players not boasting much height and preferring to receive the ball to feet,” Belle interprets the squiggles for those struggling to decipher.
Killian notes her use of the word ‘urging’ as soft. He recalls the gaffer’s instructions as a demand, an unspoken threat of being substituted if they failed to match the intensity he expected.
“And up here,” she points to slightly more legible writing in the top corner of the board, “is his mantra. It’s been here every week without fail since Gold took charge of the club last year. It’s rather inspiring and applicable outside football so I invite you all to take the opportunity to take in the wise words of Adam Gold.”
They’re words Killian has heard countless times since the gaffer’s arrival. Words he could recount in his sleep;
Victory comes at a price;
Focus
Determination
Grit
Hard-work
“Now feel free to explore and take photos,” Belle tells them.
The group immediately disperses around the room, taking photos on the seats beneath various players’ lockers and Belle throws further facts and information at them as they do so. Henry’s the first one to claim the seat beneath Killian’s name, shirt and locker, and Killian watches on amused as the lad flat-out refuses to budge for anyone until Emma catches up with him and takes his picture.
Even then, he’s not done.
“Kil-uh, Alex!” he calls, catching himself, a hint of panic flaring in his eyes, but he quickly continues, “I need one with you.”
Killian ducks his head as he crosses the room, sitting next to Henry and silently urging Emma to move fast as she takes the photo, well aware of the growing number of people waiting. The second he hears the click of the picture, he’s up and guiding the young lad away.
“What about Humbert or Booth?” he suggests to Henry.
The boy nods eagerly and hurries over to their lockers, positioned side by side, roping Emma into continuing to be his photographer. He ends up going around the entire changing room, taking photos under each player’s name and replica shirt. Killian even coaxes Emma to get into some of them with Henry, taking over her duties as photographer.
They eventually make it to the final player in the squad. Killian has Henry and Emma getting ready for a photo in front of Robin’s station when another member of the group steps into his shot and offers his hand out for the phone.
“Here, I’ll take it for you,” the man says. “You get in. As good as place as any to get an update for the family photo album.”
“Oooh,” Killian draws out, immediately noting the assumption. He points dumbly towards Emma and Henry, stumbling over his words, “I’m- he’s- she’s-”
“He’s just a friend,” Emma steps in to clarify.
Friend. He bloody hates the sound of that word on her lips.
But it is better than jackass, or egotistical sportsman.
Small victories.
One step at a time.
Killian refocuses, snapping the photo and returning the phone to Henry who proclaims he’s sending all the photos to Nicholas immediately.
“Okay, we are running short on time so can everyone follow me, and we’ll head out to the tunnel,” Belle announces.
The group are rather prompt in wrapping up on their various photos and following Belle out of the door. Killian sticks an arm out, successfully holding Henry back from being the first one out the door after Belle. As the door swings shut behind the final member of the group, leaving just him, Emma and Henry in the emptied out dressing room, Killian drops his arm back to his side.
“What are you doing?” Henry questions.
“I figured you’d want a proper photo,” Killian explains.
He removes his hat and sunglasses, chucking them onto Robin’s seat. By the time he gets to his seat, Henry’s already there – as eager as always - so Killian ends up to the side, just as he had been in the first picture they’d taken. Emma takes the picture, just as the door swings open again and Belle returns.
“I do require everyone to stick togeth-”
She cuts herself off as the door swings shut behind her, staring at Killian and laughing in disbelief.
“Alex. Rogers.” Belle says the name with a light shake of her head. “I should have known something was up. Wha- What are you doing here, Killian?”
“Trying to keep a low profile,” Killian tells her, grabbing his hat and sunglasses, putting them back on. He nods to Henry, “The lad wanted to go on the tour as planned so I’m tagging along.”
Belle has quickly recovered from her surprise and tells it how it is, “Well, you’re doing a good job of disrupting the planned tour by not keeping up.”
The trio choose not to hang around any longer.
--
Killian stands staring at the European Cup in the display stand proudly situated in the centre of the tunnel. It’s a reminder every single home game, every time he comes and goes from the pitch, of where the club had once been, how far it had fallen, and what it was striving for once more.
Emma steps up beside him and reads the display tag, “European Champions, nineteen-eighty-two.”
“European Champion,” Killian breathes out dreamily. “Every footballer’s dream. That’s my ultimate goal, right there.”
“Does that mean the rumours are true?” a worried Henry pops up out of nowhere, appearing between Emma and Killian. “The ones about you going to Manchester City in the summer?”
“Off the record?” Killian checks, not that he can envision the boy to go running to the press, but the media training in him demands it. “I could go to City. Might very well go on and lift the trophy my first season there. Certainly a higher chance of it than if I were to stay here. But what does that really achieve? There’s almost an expectation on City to win it. Going to City, well, that just feels like bloody cheating. I want a story, an underdog story. My first season with Villa, we finished in the middle of the Championship. Eight hard years later and we’re pushing to be in competing in the Champions League next season. It’s a big, big ask but there’s every chance I could be lifting that trophy as a Villa player in just over a year’s time, and if there’s a chance of that, even a very, very slim one, I can’t possibly leave. From Championship mediocrity to Champions League winners; proving that focus, hard work and determination pays off, that’s the true dream.”
“So you are staying!” Henry grins.
“No definitive promises, lad,” Killian returns. “We’ll see.”
--
“And here we are. The conclusion of our tour, the dugouts,” Belle gestures to the team dugouts at pitch side. “Unfortunately, we can not go on the pitch today. We’re nearing the end of a long season and endured a horrendous winter so the groundskeeping team have been working tirelessly to keep the pitch at a top notch condition and have requested minimal disturbance to the playing surface. You are more than welcome to take your pictures in the dugouts and at the side of the pitch right here.”
On Henry’s disappointed look, Killian catches his eye and gives him a small nod – he’ll sort it.
The lad grins and rushes off to get his pictures in the home dugout, diving into the crowd of people doing similarly. Emma is back to playing photographer as Killian wanders over to Belle.
“This is the final part of the tour, right?” he strikes up conversationally.
“That’s right,” she confirms.
“So, you don’t mind if I stay back with two of your guests to give my own personal tour?” he checks.
“By that, you mean take them on to the pitch, which we’re under strict instructions not to allow,” Belle’s onto him in a flash.
“You’re under strict instructions not to allow,” Killian corrects, “and I shall neither confirm nor deny your accusation, that way you are not a willing accomplice in whatever I may or may not be up to.”
“Killian.”
“Come on, it’s not like I’m going to do anything to severely piss off Nathaniel, am I?” he remains persistent. “I’ll let you into a little known fact; us players are just as wary of pissing off that man as any member of the club staff.”
Nathaniel, the head groundskeeper, has a notorious reputation for getting severely pissed off with anyone who dares to touch a single blade of his grass on non-matchdays. Even on matchdays, players opting for a knee slide celebration upon scoring risked the incoming wrath of Nathaniel when bypassing him in the tunnel at half-time or full-time as he’s on his way out to tend to his precious grass. If the man had it his way, the matches wouldn’t even be played on the hallowed turf of Villa Park. There are very few people who dare to cross him; even the gaffer tends to give the man a wide berth.
“Fine!” Belle huffs reluctantly and points an accusing finger at him. “But I had no part in this, understood?”
“Crystal clear, love,” Killian confirms with a nod.
--
Killian has no bloody idea what he’s playing at.
He and Emma are finally alone. At least alone, if not for her lad. For the first time, there’s isn’t a crowd of people around, or a demand for him to be elsewhere. It’s just them in a completely empty stadium, an opportunity to get to know each other better, and things are great. Except for the fact that Emma doesn’t share the same love for football or Villa as he and Henry do. She’s probably longing to be in the group Belle had led to the exit of the stadium, the doors of freedom from the world of football, and he’s kept her from them.
He had promised her dinner. Instead, he’s given her an extended sentence imprisoned within Villa Park.
He’s a bloody fool. First the ink, next the stadium. He can only marvel at how his brain fails to function properly where Emma is involved.
“Are we going on the pitch?” Henry questions eagerly.
Making Henry happy is easy. Impressing football fans is easy. He has no clue where he stands with non-football fans. He needs to figure it out and fast. Until then, he can only stick to what he’s good at.
“We’re doing more than that, lad,” Killian manages a smile. “What’s the one thing every Villa fan wants to do?”
Henry’s eyes shift towards the goal in front of the Holte End and he dares to believe, “Score in the Holte?”
Killian nods, “Score in the Holte.”
He instructs Henry to hold fire, and his eyes linger for a fraction too long on Emma, sat in the dugouts with an unreadable expression on her face, before he jogs down the tunnel and fetches one of the balls they keep stored in the dressing room. He returns to find Henry exactly where he’d left him and the young boy’s eyes light up at the sight of the football.
Henry doesn’t just score in the Holte, he scores a whole series of goals in the Holte; left foot, right foot, headers, and volleys. He even attempts a bicycle kick which goes soaring into row Z and sends Killian clambering into the stand to fetch the ball. On his return to the pitch, Killian glances to the dugouts where Emma still sits, perched on one of the claret and blue seats, watching with a small smile on her face. He rolls the ball to Henry, who’s quite content scoring in an open goal, as Killian jogs over to the dugouts.
“Well, this won’t do,” he states as he stops in front of Emma, holding out a hand towards her, “I can’t have my best player languishing on the bench.”
She takes his hand, perhaps a little reluctantly, and he helps her to her feet, pulling her along with him onto the pitch and into the penalty box at the Holte End.
“Hey, lad, how about we let your mother have a go?” he suggests.
Henry collects the ball from the net of his latest goal and nods eagerly, “Can I be the keeper?”
Killian agrees and chuckles at the sight of young Henry, barely more than a dot when stood in the centre of the mammoth net. He places the ball Henry chucks at him onto the penalty spot and turns back to Emma.
“I’ve never kicked a soccer ball in my life,” Emma tells him, staring at the ball as if it were going to attack her.
“There’s for a first time for everything,” Killian returns. “All you have to do is kick it twelve yards. Anywhere but at the keeper and you’re pretty much guaranteed a goal, given his size.”
Emma gives a short nod, her eyes fixed on the ball, a hard determination fuelling her gaze, as if determined to prove herself. She steps up to the ball and pulls back her right leg.
“Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah!” Killian calls out, halting her actions just as she’s about to kick.
He moves over to her, placing his hands softly onto her shoulders and guiding her a few steps back from the ball. He stands behind her, his chest just inches from being pressed against her back, as he coaches her.
“You need to give yourself a run-up,” he explains his intervention. “Now, the temptation’s going to be to kick the ball with your toe; don’t do that. You have two options, you can either use the inside of your foot or get under it and hit it with your laces. For now, let’s keep things simple with the side of your foot. Statistically, most penalties are scored in the bottom left of the goal so my technique is to place it in that corner but, for now, just focus on getting it on target. Okay, so run up, generate power, hit with the side of your foot and direct goalwards.”
He releases his hands from her shoulders, encouraging her to take her shot. She charges forward, strikes the ball with the inside of her right foot and it nestles into the back of the net towards the bottom left. It’s not perfectly placed in the corner but it’s a very promising start and Killian is pleasantly surprised by the amount of power she had rifled into the ball; she’s either a good student or beginner’s luck is in play,
She cheers and he high-fives her before Henry charges over, diving onto his mum to celebrate with her.
They break into a mini game, pulling off their jackets and placing them on the ground to make small goals either side of the width of the penalty area; taking Killian back to the many hours spent playing football on school playgrounds and parks in his youth. Henry and Emma team up against him and Killian initially takes it easy, allowing the lad to score and doing very little as Emma dribbles the ball around him and slots it home.
There are wild celebrations as Henry and Emma go two-nil up and break into a teasing chant of ‘we’re beating the pro’ which sets Killian’s competitive side ablaze. He drives forward with the ball at his feet, knocking it through Henry’s legs as the lad makes a step in to block. He powers around Henry, taking a touch of the ball to knock it towards goal, just Emma to beat. He feigns a move left then swiftly knocks the ball to Emma’s right and he’s past her, sprinting goalbound, the ball at his feet. He’s in the clear, goal dead certain and is preparing himself to slot it home when contact is made with the back of his right leg. He loses his balance, barrelling over onto the grass, landing on his back in time to see a stumbling Emma following behind him, crashing down on top of him.
She puts her hands out quickly, onto the grass either side of his head, taking her weight off him, but she remains above him, looking down on him. He dumbly stares up at her, taken by surprise by both her sudden challenge and the position they since find themselves in. His mind’s scrambled, overcome by the light woody scent radiating from her, the faintest hint of cinnamon, and her warm breath tickling his temple.
“Can’t get past me that easily,” she tells him triumphantly.
“I did get past you!” he argues. “I was through on goal, and you took me out. That’s a dead cert red!”
“I have no idea what that means,” she confesses.
“It means your team are down a player, you’re off the pitch, headed for an early bath,” he explains.
“Do I get to take you with me?”
A faint gasp escapes his lips at her suggestive tone and her gleaming earthy eyes only draws him in closer, his head lifting off the grass, his elbows propping against the ground, lifting his upper body against hers. There’s barely anything between them and yet he still desires her closer, needs her closer. Her soft, red lips part; an open goal, inviting his forward move.
His lips brush faintly against hers.
“Mom!” Henry calls.
She’s gone instantly. Killian lets out a shaky breath and throws himself into the grass, squeezing his eyes shut. Bloody kids.
“Uh, Killian, this guy does not look too impressed. He’s actually carrying a pitchfork,” Emma’s comment pulls him from his sulking.
He jumps to his feet, looking towards the tunnel to see head groundskeeper Nathaniel stalking towards them, a thunderous look on his face.
“Killian Jones! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nathaniel bellows from the halfway line.
“Funnily enough, mate, I’ve been asking myself the same question all day,” Killian attempts to keep things light.
The groundskeeper does not see the funny side, a deep scowl piercing into Killian’s soul. If looks could kill, he would be flat out on the ground.
Killian throws his hands up into a surrender.
“Don’t worry, mate, your pitch is intact,” Killian tells him then glances at the scuff marks inflicted by Emma’s challenge and their subsequent falls, and amends, “mostly. My bad. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll be on our way now.”
Killian navigates Emma and Henry around the fuming groundskeeper, an onslaught of curses following his every move as they hastily leave the pitch behind them.
--
“So, how about that dinner?” Killian proposes.
They stand on the car park outside Villa Park, a safe distance from the fury of Nathaniel. Things have changed since she turned him down the just a few hours ago, and he’s fuelled with confidence for her coming response.
“I’m sorry.”
The response is unexpected and he clenches his jaw in an effort to hide his crushing disappointment.
“We’re due on a train back to London,” she explains.
He comes crashing down to reality. He’d forgotten they were tourists, forgotten they lived thousands of miles away, forgotten that things were much more complicated than winning over a non-football fan when his whole life is football.
“Ah, of course,” he nods. “How long are you in the country for?”
“We leave for Boston next Sunday,” Emma answers.
“I have a game in London next Saturday,” Killian tells her. “I can sort tickets for your whole family?”
“That’d be awesome!” Henry exclaims.
Killian grins at the lad then looks to Emma hopefully, “And maybe we can finally get that dinner after? Just me and you?”
Emma glances at Henry, falls deep in thought as she considers, as if a debate is raging in her head. They’d both gotten caught up in the moment on the pitch, they were both firmly back in reality where any long-term future is especially unlikely. She knows what he’s suggesting; a one-time thing.
“What the hell,” she throws any caution to the wind. “I’m on vacation. Let’s do it.”
“And this time I have my phone to hand so you can put your number directly into it.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it over to her.
“Make sure you don’t drop this down the toilet,” she tells him warningly as she inputs her number.
He takes the phone back from her, holding it tightly.
“I’m an attacker by trade but this I will defend with my life,” he promises.
As she gets into the taxi waiting for her, Killian’s eyes drop to the new contact in his phone; Emma Nolan. He clicks on the edit button, adding one red heart emoji to her contact name.
For all the talk of her letting the claret and blue of Aston Villa touch her heart, he had well and truly let her touch his.
--
Tags: @teamhook @laianely @booksteaandtoomuchtv @exhaustedpirate @anmylica @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @undercaffinatednightmare @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @motherkatereloyshipper @soniccat @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic @myfearless-love
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Mac I think it’s this: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/formulaone/article-12640341/amp/Travis-Kelce-latest-high-profile-investor-Alpine-F1-team-joining-teammate-Patrick-Mahomes-Anthony-Joshua-Rory-McIlroy-Ryan-Reynolds-Rob-McElhenney-board.html
Travis Kelce becomes the latest high-profile investor in Alpine's F1 team - joining teammate Patrick Mahomes as well as Rory McIlroy and more... with Ryan Reynonds and Rob McElhenney already in
Travis Kelce and five other top athletes have become the latest high-profile names to invest in Formula One team Alpine.
Kelce, the Kansas City Chiefs player currently in a relationship with pop sensation Taylor Swift, has joined teammate Patrick
Mahomes and a host of sports stars in a $211million strategic investment into Alpine Racing Ltd through private investment firm Otro Capital.
Former world heavyweight boxing champion Anthony Joshua, four-time golf major championship winner Rory McIlroy, Liverpool soccer star Trent Alexander-Arnold and ex-Premier League player Juan Mata are also on board.
... However, Mail Sport reported back in July that Reynolds and McElhenney's stake actually cost them nothing, with the pair expected to generate revenues through their storytelling prowess, and perhaps a documentary series.
The F1 team are hoping their profile will rise as rapidly as that of Reynolds and McElhenney's football club Wrexham. The pair plus Jordan co-own an investment company, Maximum Effort Investments, which will reportedly own around one tenth of the 24 per cent stake, or between two and three per cent of Alpine.
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Omid Scobies Unapologetic Media Extravaganza by u/Oakthrees
Omid Scobie’s Unapologetic Media Extravaganza
Welcome to the latest chapter in the saga of Oh-My Scabies, the notorious scribe of royal whispers, who’s currently whipping through the media landscape like a tempest in a teapot. 😮🖋️👑🌪️🍵 Imagine our author, not so much a knight in shining armor, more a rogue in dented tin, caught in the whirlwind of his own making, spinning faster than a fidget spinner in the eager hands of an imaginary royal child.Visualize Scabies, our modern-day literary Houdini, wriggling in the straitjacket of scrutiny. He’s tossing words around with the flair of a pizza chef in overdrive, aiming for a concoction that looks vaguely like innocence. He’s in the middle of a game of “pin the tail on the royal scandal,” blindfolded, spun around, and handed a floor plan of Buckingham Palace 🏰as his only guide.Dancing through this waltz of denial, Scabies seems to have the grace of a ballet dancer 🕺who’s just realized he’s accidentally crashed the Royal Variety Performance. He’s out there, playing the misunderstood author, fervently insisting that the ‘name game’ in his book was more of an accidental spill than a strategic move. “I didn’t do it!” seems to be his mantra, echoed in interview after interview. “It wasn't me!" 😅 he repeats, channeling a bit of Shaggy 🎶, as he claims that the inclusion of those controversial names were inserted by Dutch translators gone rogue!Firm in his stance, he declares with Shakespearean drama, "I won't apologize!" He’s swearing on his family’s lives that the naming fiasco was as inadvertent as a Brit forgetting to put the teabag in their tea. Let the people in the back hear it loud and clear: Scabies has no plans to apologize, and yes, he’s really dragging his family into this.In this tempest of denial, Scabies thinks he has transformed into the Houdini of the literary scene, masterfully sidestepping the chains of controversy with a blend of bravado and disbelief. Each interview becomes another episode in this unfolding drama, filled with suspense, unexpected turns, and a protagonist as stubbornly insistent on his innocence as a cookie-thieving toddler.The media, perched eagerly in the front row, are devouring this spectacle like it’s the last box of popcorn at a blockbuster premiere. They’re hanging on every word, every denial, every steadfast refusal to apologize, with the enthusiasm of a royal corgi at a lavish tea party. Scabies is at the center of this feast, both the master chef and the main dish.Enter Megain Markle 😈 though not literally, since she’s reportedly lounging in sunny California, likely far removed from this Shakespearean tragedy. Yet, her spectral presence looms large. Denials are flying left, right and centre. Her camp are batting away at the rumors with the grace of a Wimbledon champion holding the might of a royal decree. “Megain? Leaking information? Preposterous!” they cry. The plot thickens, but our enigmatic duchless, is probably mulling over whether to watch “Suits” reruns or start her own podcast on…‘How to Accidentally Become the Center of a Global Media Frenzy’
post link: https://ift.tt/Yhn0GdR
author: Oakthrees
submitted: December 01, 2023 at 09:24PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit
#SaintMeghanMarkle#harry and meghan#meghan markle#prince harry#voetsek meghan#sussexes#markled#archewell#megxit#duke and duchess of sussex#duchess of sussex#duchess meghan#duke of sussex#harry and meghan smollett#walmart wallis#harkles#megain#spare by prince harry#fucking grifters#meghan and harry#Heart Of Invictus#Invictus Games#finding freedom#doria ragland#WAAAGH#Oakthrees
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Match Review: Manchester United 1-0 Luton
The Iceman cometh: Victor Lindelöf struck in the 59th minute to give United the three points at home to Premier League strugglers Luton at Old Trafford, in yet another game that United should have scored several more goals...
United started with Garnacho on the left wing and Rashford out right following a woeful showing in the previous game from Antony, and it almost paid off early on with a deflected cross from the right looping into Højlund's path, only to go directly at the keeper for a crucial save.
Luton had their chances too, with a poor Lindelof headed clearance leading to a cross straight back in at Morris - who headed on goal unchallenged by the Swede mere seconds later. An excellent save from Onana kept the visitors at bay, but his confidence won't be helped by silly mistakes like that from his defence.
A flank switch mid half saw Garnacho presented with a beautiful chance 1 on 1 with the keeper thanks to Rasmus Højlund, only for the Argentinian to cut onto his right and lose the advantage. Had he stayed on his left, rounded the keeper out wide, there was no defender to close him or stop an easy finish to give United the lead. A mistake, and an experience to learn from, but a frustration for United at a time where goals are in desperately short supply.
The second half was more of the same: Højlund glanced a header wide from a Bruno Fernandes free kick, United did get their goal thanks to Victor Lindelöf and a deflection off Scott McTominay to lay him off, and Rashford hit a late chance directly at keeper ))))))) that really should have gone either side of the stopper. Still, a win's a win, and a clean sheet is also incredibly valuable against a stubborn, strong team containing ex-United prospects such as Tahith Chong (pictured above) and Teden Mengi.
United's game notably improved with the introduction of Mason Mount and Scott McTominay dropping deeper. The Scot might be valued for his goal contributions this season but his traits suit being a bruising ball-winner type. He's not a stereotypical "6" but neither is he a CAM. He's too poor with his passing and positioning to suit such a role, but with Casemiro's poor form there's a huge chance for a Mount/McTominay partnership to blossom. Mount is a box-to-box creator, McTominay is a strong duellist. Both have high stamina and an eye for goal, as does Bruno Fernandes ahead of them, making this a midfield that could do good work.
As a personal aside I prefer the metronomic passing of Sofian Amrabat over McTominay, but there are enough games for both to play - even together - and to control the middle of the pitch.
Remarkably, United's win lifts them into 6th Place in the Premier League also means that despite the seemingly disjointed and misfiring form, the Red Devils are currently THE form side in the EPL. This will provide some solace to Erik Ten Hag who is very slowly getting injured players back for selection, but will perplex fans given the sub-par showings we've seen so far this season.
There's also the Højlund conundrum. The Dane is joint top scorer in the Champions League, but yet to find a goal for United in the Premier League - despite his consistently good showings up front. A goal will come, and hopefully be the first of many, but again the waiting game is tough for the fans keen to see United flex their muscles.
Yet another international break is upon us, meaning United's next game is away to Everton on Sunday November 26; a potentially sticky fixture given Everton seem to be finding their feet again under Sean Dyche, but also a good time to have a break and disrupt that rhythm.
#manchester united#man u#man united#manchester reds#man utd#erik ten hag#old trafford#casemiro#marcus rashford#scott mctominay#mason mount#alejandro garnacho#rasmus højlund#tahith chong#teden mengi#victor lindelof
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