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beckettj · 11 months ago

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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.

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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

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

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