Page 6 of Come Fly With Me

“Aye, in your dreams.” Flynn put his hands on his hips to keep from striking out. “Golf. Next Saturday. Loser buys the beer.”

“Good job you’re loaded. You’ll be needing the money to cover the bar tab I run up when I win.” With a smug smile, the bastard sauntered away.

Claire came bouncing up to Flynn. “I scored seventeen goals! Can you believe it?”

Before he could tell her exactly what he thought of those goals, Grunt appeared behind her.

“Aye,” Flynn said, his gaze on Grunt. “I can totally believe you scored seventeen bloody goals.” He pointed at his useless goalie. “You’re fired.”

Grunt grunted. Which Flynn took to mean he didn’t give a crap about anything other than his wife’s happy smile.

As Flynn watched his dejected team drag themselves off the pitch, his five-year-old soon-to-be-adopted daughter came to stand beside him. Katy folded her arms and gave him a look of utter disappointment.

“I told you this would happen,” she said primly.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Did too.” She stuck her chin in the air.

“Did not. You said you should be the referee because Archie would probably die.”

“Aaaaaaand I told you that not letting Auntie Jena and Auntie Megan and Auntie Claire on the team was a big mistake. Just because they’re girls doesn’t mean they can’t play football better than the boys.”

“Which I know, because I’m the one who told you that. I’m also the one who told you that having those particular women on our team would cause chaos. I didn’t realize they’d sign up for the opposing side and ruin the damn match anyway.”

Katy shook her head in disgust. “If Auntie Claire had been on our side, Uncle Grunt would have made sure her goals got past the other team.”

“Which isn’t how this game’s played,” he pointed out. “That wasn’t football. It was twenty players being held hostage by an overgrown American so his wife wouldn’t break a nail while he pandered to her.”

Katy blinked at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

He heaved a sigh. “It means Grunt’s off the team, and we’re never playing the Invertary Invaders ever again.”

She slipped her hand into his. “Let’s go get ice cream. It always makes me feel better when I lose at games.”

“I didn’t lose.”

The look she gave him was filled with pity. “Okaaaaay. You didn’t lose.” She patted his arm. “Maybe next time, the other team will let you win.”

Flynn groaned. “If I buy you a double scoop cone, will you stop talking?”

“With a flake? And sprinkles?”

“Bloody extortionist,” Flynn grumbled as they headed to the high street, where he not only had to buy lunch for the opposition but also ice cream for The Terrorist.

The only thing he was thankful for was that David Beckham hadn’t been there to witness his humiliation.

Wrapped Around His Little Finger

This story takes place not long after Bad Boy.

Flynn’s six-year-old stepdaughter stood waiting for him when he returned from his morning run. He slowed the last few steps up to the front of the Victorian house he shared with Katy and her mother, Abby—his very pregnant new wife. It was never a good sign to find Katy waiting for him at the crack of dawn. It usually meant she was about to blackmail him for something her mother had already refused to give her.

“You’re not getting a pony,” Flynn said as he came to a halt in front of her.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yes, I am. Somebody will giveyoua pony, and you’ll bring it home, andI’llget to keep it. It’s how we end up with all our animals.”

She had a point.