WOSO Imagines

The Bet (Katie McCabe)

People watching Katie play football probably think she is equally aggressive and hotheaded out of uniform as she can be on the pitch. That is a lie. Off the pitch, she's the goofiest person I've ever met, always cracking jokes and smiling, not taking anything seriously. She randomly breaks into song and dance several times a day.

Our friends say I'm the tough one in the relationship. I have picked a fight with a grown man when he decided to comment on Katie's ass during a game. I almost got kicked out of Meadow Park for threatening to rip his tongue out through his teeth. I blame it on being a rugby player. Katie doesn't mind though; she says my protectiveness is hot.

Today is a big day for them: the North London Derby. I get up early to make Katie breakfast, which I do when my day off coincides with her game day. The radio plays Abba as I scramble some eggs, softly singing along. "Voulez-vous, uh-huh. Take it now or leave it, now is all we get. Nothing promised, no regrets."

A pair of arms snakes around my waist. "Morning, babygirl," Katie says sleepily.

"Morning, love. Sleep well?"

She hums, burying her face in my neck, her lashes tickling me.

"Your food's almost ready if you wanna go sit at the table. I'll bring it to you."

"What'd you make?" she asks, peeking over my shoulder.

"Eggs, whole grain toast with peanut butter, and a fruit salad."

"You did all that and just let me sleep?"

I turn my head to kiss her cheek. "It was nothing, and you looked so peaceful."

"I'll make it up to you later."

"How about you score a goal for me, and we'll call it even?"

"Deal."

"Good, now go sit down."

"Yes, ma'am."

We enjoy breakfast together, predicting what will happen during the game today. I think they'll win 3-1, with Beth England scoring the only Spurs' goal, and she says they'll win 5-0.

"How about a little wager, babe?" I suggest, standing at the sink washing dishes.

"Fifty quid."

I consider her offer, setting the last glass on the drying rack. "Okay. Fifty quid says Beth England scores before Foordy."

"Fifty quid says they don't score at all." She sticks her hand out for me to shake.

I grip it tightly, not breaking eye contact. "You're on, McCabe. And when I win, I'll spend that fifty quid on a Beth England shirt."

Her jaw tenses. "Like hell, you will. If you bring a Tottenham shirt into this house, you'll be sleeping on the couch."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "You really think you have that kind of authority?"

She takes a step forward, trapping me against the counter. "Babygirl, the only name I should ever see on your shirt is mine. The world needs to know you're mine. Are you trying to make me jealous?" Her tone is teasing, yet stern, and as she's talking, she leans closer, hands planted on the counter, arm muscles flexing.

I bite my lip, clasping my hands behind my back to keep from grabbing her and starting something we wouldn't have time to finish. Despite my better judgment, I decide to tease her a bit more. "Gotta root for the home team at the World Cup, and what's more patriotic than the name England?" I smirk. Pushing Katie's buttons was always fun.

She laughs humorlessly. "You're enjoying this."

"Maybe just a little."

In one quick movement, she manages to lift me up and onto the counter. I grab her shoulders to steady myself, and, although I'm looking down at her, I shrink under her gaze. Her hands rest on my thighs, squeezing slightly.