England's Finest
Eugene Dent scowled at the newest member of the English national team. She stared back at him with enormous gray eyes. It unsettled him. Which in turn annoyed him because he was the team captain. He was the one who was supposed to cause discomfort.
But this blonde-haired, pureblooded beauty made him incredibly uneasy and he didn’t know why.
Maybe it was the way she kept shifting back and forth on her feet. Heel to toe, toe to heel, heel to toe, toe to heel. He found himself rocking in the same rhythm and had to shake his head to steady himself.
Maybe it was whatever swam in the fathoms of her eyes. He kept glancing back to stare into them. He had once thought his own pale eyes could be considered gray. Until he saw hers. That was what gray eyes looked like.
Maybe it was just the fact that she was jaw-droppingly attractive.
That was going to cause some problems.
Jack Lament had promised him fresh blood for a Seeker. He just hadn’t been specific on what that entailed. Dent had hoped for his dream Seeker. Thin-build to be light on a broom and sharp eyes to be good at spotting things nobody else could.
He had certainly not been hoping for a Seeker that looked like his dream girlfriend. If Lament had told him he was going to serve up a gorgeous blonde with what looked like more chaotic energy than she could keep a hold on — Dent would have rescinded his contract and quit, Merlin be damned.
Well, maybe he wouldn’t have gone that far.
It wasn’t every year you got a shot at winning the Quidditch World Cup.
But still — he already knew exactly what kind of problems this would cause.
A glance over at the rest of his team reinforced his train of thoughts.
Leonard Cadwallader, one of his Beaters, was already drooling. Caddy, as Dent liked to call him, had been born and bred to play Quidditch. His brain was a Bludger, which made him good at hitting Bludgers and nothing else. The bloke was twenty-three years old, yet still looked like he was in his pimply-awkward-gangly-puberty phase and had done nothing besides hit Bludgers and fly on a broom his whole life. Dent had a suspicion he had never even held a girl’s hand, so the lovestruck look on his face wasn’t surprising.
What was surprising was the look on Ricky Webster’s face. His other Beater, “Pretty Ricky” Webster, could have been a poster boy for the now dead German Nazi party. Tall, blond, buff, sharp jawline, teeth whiter than pearls. He always had female fans swooning over him and had been in a “relationship” with a witch who was part veela for over a year now. But he still seemed to be sleeping with every girl who threw herself at him. Right now, his eyes were practically bulging out of his skull. Dent just wasn’t exactly sure why.
Dent wasn’t as worried about his Chasers. They were triplets, which he knew would cause a load of trouble for announcers during their games. What caused double — or in this case, triple — trouble was that Tommy, Ted, and Tucker Pottinger had married three redheaded Irish triplets. Which, in Dent’s opinion, must be horrible at family parties. He couldn’t tell the Pottingers apart and they always seemed to be doing, saying, and thinking the exact same thing, all the time. Dent reckoned they shared one brain and that was why they were so bloody good at Chasing.
But still — Tucker was gawking at the new Seeker with something that looked like fear in his eyes — but Dent couldn’t be sure if it was Tucker or if it was Ted. Or Tommy.
“Er, alright,” he cleared his throat, trying to prevent his team from making fools of themselves in front of a teenager. “Welcome to the team, Natalie-”
“-Malfoy,” she finished his sentence with a smile and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Natalie Malfoy. I assume you’re Eugene Dent?”
He took her hand in his with the intention to give her his customary bone-crushing, welcome-aboard handshake. But found his hand had gone limp.
Dent didn’t know how to describe it — like she had shocked him or cast some sort of spell. Crackling electricity seemed to shoot from her hand, up his arm and into his chest. He nearly choked. His mind spun in a thousand different directions, his skin crawled, his mouth went dry, his heart pounded so fast he was sure you could see it through his robes, and his ears hurt-
She released his hand and took a step back, almost looking apologetic. Dent was distinctly aware of the rest of his team gaping at him.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” he finally muttered, trying to look anywhere but his new Seeker. He had no bloody idea what happened but he felt woozy. Like he needed to sleep off a boatload of Firewhiskey. He could taste bile in the back of his throat and begged every famous wizard he knew that he would not vomit in front of the attractive new Seeker on their first scheduled practice.
“Right, er, I’ve been a bit. . . stressed. . . the past two weeks so, um, mind if we start practice?” asked the Seeker — her name was Natalie — he remembered that much, and Dent found himself furiously nodding.
He watched his new Seeker hop on her broom and hover in the air and a frenzied desire seized him. He wanted to shake her hand again — however intoxicated it had made him feel. And then maybe after practice they could. . . talk more. . . .
As if she felt his gaze on her, she snapped her head over to stare at him. Steeling himself, Dent jumped on his own broom and rose up to hover in the air beside her.
He quickly glanced at her left hand. Sometimes people got engaged right out of Hogwarts. Which he thought was crazy. But he didn’t see a ring. He didn’t see any jewelry, save a silver chain around her neck largely hidden by her Quidditch robes.
“Hey, uh, Malfoy, quick question,” began Dent, hoping his voice wasn’t actually wavering. “Just so I know — seeing as some matches are going to get pretty rowdy with fans and all, but, er, are you seeing anyone? Got a boyfriend at all?”
Dent immediately regretted asking this. The look on her face made him want to cry, much less how cold the air suddenly seemed to feel around them. He shivered and dropped his gaze. Bloody hell — he was twenty-two years old but he felt like a scared little boy. This was why having attractive witches on the team was a horrible idea.
“I do,” she said, voice so icy he was convinced her lips had frozen. “But I didn’t sign a contract for you to ask if I’m in a relationship, Dent.”
“Right, er, sorry,” he blurted out, “just, um, wanted to get that out of the way. You know how some blokes can be the instant they see any witch who’s even mildly fit. . . .”
“Like you?”
“What, er, no-”
“You can cut the shit, Dent,” she rolled her eyes and Eugene Dent slammed his jaw shut. “You’ve been hoping you’d have a shot since the second you saw me.”
He reddened, not quite sure how she knew that because he wasn’t sure he even knew that. Yes, she had everything he would ask for if he could design a girlfriend; blonde, incredibly good-looking, pureblood, athletic, into Quidditch-
Dent shook his head, clearing his thoughts and finding himself relieved she did have a boyfriend because now he wouldn’t be distracted by her — hopefully. Now, he could just obsess over her like any Quidditch captain did with their Seeker — they were the most important position; they could make or break a game, a season, even the entire team. And he had a feeling his Seeker was as mental about Quidditch as he was. Hell, to get signed to the national team right out of school meant you had to be mental about Quidditch. And being mental about Quidditch was a language Dent was fluent in.
“Anyway,” he coughed, “let’s start practice.”