Objection

Chapter 9 - Marko

"Oh fuck off," Andrew muttered, his eyes firmly trained on the screen as the referee handed over a penalty to Atletico.

"Play fair next time." Marko chuckled, taking a sip of his beer.

"Yeah yeah..." Andrew said, rolling his eyes, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, watching the TV keenly. Marko watched with an easy, relaxed confidence as the score went from two nil to three.

He'd needed this. Work was as bad as ever, and Alan seemed to have noticed without him having to say anything; the invitations to hang out, do anything else, distract him from it, had been increasing week on week. When Alan had suggested they meet at his place to do nothing more than have a beer and watch the football he'd also made it somewhat clear that refusal wasn't an option.

Marko had given the guy an appreciative hug when he arrived, hoping it'd be enough to say thank you, and been surprised when Alan hurried him through to the living room, explaining something about Aoife and 'the girls' being on a warpath in the kitchen. Wedding planning, apparently, the kind that Alan wasn't allowed to be around for. He hadn't elaborated further, and Marko hadn't asked, assuming something along the lines of hen parties and dresses.

It meant the beer was warm, but he couldn't have cared less. It was nice just sitting there and occasionally teasing the other two about the state of Chelsea FC, feeling relaxed for the first time all week.

Just as Morata ran up to score, the door to the living room opened, and Marko looked up, missing what had to have been a goal if Alan and Andrew's groans were anything to go by. He didn't care.

Eliza peered around the door before stepping inside, glancing at the TV, barely seeming to see him. Marko blinked up at her, surprised to suddenly be faced with the woman he'd been thinking about for the past week, not having known she'd been in the house. Apparently Alan had included her in 'the girls,' and not thought to mention it. Although, why would he? He didn't know Marko had been obsessing over her since their first meeting. Did that mean Aoife had picked her to be a bridesmaid in the end?

She looked stunning, as per usual, that same slightly 60's style back again. What would have been a rather conservative black turtleneck for her was made unbelievably eye-catching to him simply by virtue of how thin it was, how it clung to her, how he could see the outline of her bra underneath it. Alan and Andrew barely registered her presence, like it was expected, like she wasn't the most beautiful fucking woman in the world.

"Who's winning?" She asked, and to his surprise, settled on the arm of the couch, right next to him, crossing her legs in his direction. He tried not to focus on it, but the way her white leather miniskirt rode up her thighs was already replaying in his mind. Her black tights weren't thick enough to hide the tattoos she had underneath, which peeked through, tantalising and intricate.

Focus on the football.

"Atletico." Alan muttered, sounding unhappy.

"Hang on, are you a Chelsea fan?" Eliza asked suddenly, incredulous as she stared at the screen, noticing the home team.

"For life." Alan said, taking a sip of his beer. Marko continued to stare at the TV, trying to ignore the scent of Eliza's perfume and the indignant way she laughed that seemed to really do it for him.

"Alan, I thought I could trust you! You know I can't let this wedding go through now." She said, and nudged Marko, finally looking at him. "What about you?" She asked, an amused smirk on those beautiful red lips.

"Atletico." He replied, looking up at her and holding up his hands in defence. "I'm with you on this."

"Good." She replied, pleased, and draped an arm along the back of the sofa behind him, stretching out and leaning over in a way that was probably more comfortable for her, but brought her chest closer to his face, the smoky scent of her perfume drifting nearer. Jesus Christ.