In this witty and heartfelt debut, a woman''s impulsive journey across the pond after a broken engagement leads her to a new love--and a new version of herself. Seeking a fresh start after leaving her cheating fiancé, Abby McIntyre makes a series of spontaneous decisions: She quits her job. She books a one-way flight to the UK. She even gets bangs! Newly arrived in Liverpool, she lands a job with the Mersey Football Club and meets Lachlan Ramsay, the recently recruited Scottish star midfielder. Both lonely in a new city, the pair bond quickly, and Abby finds it nearly impossible to deny their chemistry--despite the nagging guilt she feels about Lachlan’s mysterious wife who didn’t relocate with her husband. When Abby’s housing falls through, Lachlan insists she move into his massive penthouse. As they spend almost every waking moment together, Abby wonders if it’s possible that the world-famous footballer could be falling for her, too. But with her job and his marriage dependent on them staying firmly in the friend zone, can Abby risk being caught offside? Crackling with witty banter and page-turning sexual tension, <Abby Offsides< is at once a sizzling, slow-burn romance and a nuanced exploration of one woman’s journey to reclaim her own dreams and desires after years of living life on autopilot.

Autorentext

Anna McCallie was born in Boston and moved to the small town of Stilwell, Kansas, as a child. She has a B.A. in Arabic from Harvard University and an M.A. in international environmental policy from the Fletcher School, yet has never managed to have a job related to either of those subjects. She lives in London, and when she’s not writing, she can be found solving crossword puzzles, badgering her friends to go to pub quizzes, and watching a tremendous amount of football. Abby Offsides is her first novel.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Here’s the thing: Saying, “I’ve never really cared about soccer” is not a great way to kick off a job interview, especially when you’re applying for a job with a professional soccer team. Or when you’re in England, where it’s called football. Or when you’ve just been asked, “Why are you interested in working for this team?” And yet, those are the words that come out of my mouth as I wither under the formidable stare of Charlotte Collins, chief communications officer for the Mersey Football Club. Not a great start, even under the most generous interpretation—­and something about Ms. Collins’s frosty demeanor makes me think generosity is not foremost among her personality traits.

“You’ve never really cared about soccer?” It sounds so much worse repeated back to me, the “r” at the end of the offensive word disappearing into a mix of her posh accent and her equally posh disdain.

To make matters even more uncomfortable, the waistband of my dated polyester pantsuit is digging into my love handles, and I’m mildly concerned it’s cutting off my circulation. The stupid suit fit the last time I was at a job interview, but that was five years and a few more than five pounds ago. Charlotte Collins is immaculate in an outfit I’m pretty sure is actually one of Meryl Streep’s costumes from The Devil Wears Prada. Or maybe I’m projecting, given the very similar ice-­cold stare buffeting me from across the desk.

I can’t tell her the real answer to her question: I’m interested in working here because the club, in Liverpool, is 3,118 miles away from Boston and Steven and misery and heartbreak and the Dunkin’ Donuts where I have recently achieved the ignominy of being on a first-­name basis with the cashiers. No. This isn’t a Netflix movie where the heroine makes a passionate but slightly unhinged confession and the older, wiser woman across the desk raises an eyebrow and then, after an excruciating pause, says something like “Honey, I’ve been there” and pulls out a bottle of Malbec. I mean, Charlotte Collins will certainly be driven to drink after this train wreck, but I’ll be gone by then, slipping onto the next flight back to America with a hat pulled low over my face.

In the absence of an impassioned speech from me—­or any speech, period—­Charlotte steals a quick glance at her watch. “Well, Ms. McIntyre, unfortunately an interest in soccer is something of a prerequisite for this position. So . . .” It’s my first exposure to the legendary British talent for conflict avoidance wrapped up in passive-­aggression. The subtext is clear: Stop wasting my time, you stupid American.

I gulp, an impossible swallow as my mouth has gone totally dry. On the plane, I had silently wept over my tinfoil rectangle of chicken tikka masala while watching old rom-­coms, which felt like a good decision at the time. Now I’m realizing I probably should have spared a brain cell or two for interview prep. My hand shoots up to brush back the light-­brown bangs that wilt across my forehead, a new nervous tic that has come with the new hairstyle (another impulsive decision, though slightly less expensive than buying a flight to Liverpool on three days’ notice). I force a sound from my throat and a thought into my brain. “I completely understand, Ms. Collins. And I meant what I said: I’ve never really cared about soccer. But then I saw your grass.”

“My grass?” One dark, sculptured, skeptical brow arches.

I nod and scoot an inch forward on my chair. “The field. It was the first thing I noticed as I arrived. That smell, you know? That unmistakable smell of fresh-­cut grass. I stood at the wall, the little part of it there by the main road where it dips down and you can see onto the field. The grass is trampled down to dirt and the bricks have all lost their hard edges, I assume from generations of kids being hoisted up to get a glimpse of their heroes practicing. And I craned my neck over the wall and saw that perfect, meticulous green, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been a sports fan all my life: baseball, basketball, American football, you name it. But never soccer. And yet, when I saw that beautiful field, I realized something: Grass is grass is grass. Sports are sports are sports. We love them for what they provoke in us, for the memories they give us, for the fact that something as simple as an aroma can transport you to innumerable places, memories, emotions.” I exhale a deep breath. “So, yeah, I’ve never really cared about soccer—­but I think I might love football.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then: “Well, that’s a pitch.”

“Thank you.” I blush at the unexpected compliment. Maybe I’m closer to the Netflix movie than I thought.

“No, the field. It’s called a pitch.”

“Oh.” My blush slides from the high pink of flattery into the lurid red of embarrassment. Stupid American! “Okay, noted. I guess that’s step one on my journey to becoming a socc—football expert.”

The tiniest little hint of a smile cracks through Charlotte’s stern facade, but when she looks up at me, it’s gone. She folds her hands on top of my résumé. “Listen, Ms. McIntyre—­”

“Abby, please.”

“All right, Abby. I’m going to be honest with you: We’ve had hundreds of people apply for this position. Many of them were young women with no interest at all other than the outside chance they’d be able to land a footballer. Are you trying to become a wag?”

I shake my head, making a mental note to figure out what a “wag” is and hop…