Page 12

The first time he walked through the doors of the pub where I work on weekends, I’d stared at him until the beer I was pulling overflowed onto my hands and snapped me out of it. His body reminded me of the yew trees that are native to Stow-on-the-Wold, where I grew up. They’re muscular, strong trees. Perfect for climbing—you never had to worry if their branches could hold your weight. There were a few ancient ones that soared so high they appeared topless. I knew they weren’t, and when my father fell asleep after lunch, I’d climb and climb, even when I was afraid of how high it was—because I knew the view from up there would be worth the risk.

Some Sunday afternoons at the pub, he sports a stubble that’s a shade darker than his dark brown hair. But tonight, he’s clean shaven. His broad, sculpted face isn’t what most would call handsome, but it’s intensely compelling. He has high cheekbones I’d kill for and highlight the shit out of if they were mine. And he’s got a strong jawline and chin that don’t need a beard to make them look that way. He wears no jewelry but a bracelet—a surprisingly delicate and feminine string of small black and white pearls that looks like it was made to be worn on his warlord-sized wrist.

In general, he always looks like he’s on the cusp of a growl. His mouth is set in a straight line that makes his upper lip appear less full than the bottom. But when he speaks, that misconception is cleared up. There’s also no hint of the dimples, so deep I could fit the tip of my finger in them, that punctuate his rare and beautiful smile.

In the dark wood paneled cavern of the pub, the color of his eyes was hard to see. But the lining of thick and dark lashes accentuated the almond shape of them. Set deep on either side of his unapologetically prominent nose, they always remind me of the wolf I saw at a conservatory in Reading when I was ten.

The animal stared at everyone like it was trying to read minds or find weaknesses. Tonight, in the overbright light of the room, his gleaming hazel irises are impossible to mistake for the brown I’d thought they’d be.

The one time we made and held eye contact was on a Saturday night two or three months ago, in the badly lit pub. His eyes narrowed, and his lips parted, and I was sure he was going to speak. But he just kept walking, and I turned back to serve my waiting punters. As far as I know, he’s never looked at me again.

And once my boss told me who he was, I understood why.

I stayed up after work that first Sunday reading everything I could about Omar Solomon—and there was a lot. He left his ten-year career as a brilliant midfielder at Chelsea Football Club in 2012 after a persistent knee injury benched him for an entire season. That same year, he joined the Los Angeles Galaxy and was more of an expensive hood ornament than an asset on the field. And off the field he modeled and starred in campaigns for colognes and watches. He started an investment company and owned nightclubs and restaurants.

At the age of 36, he graduated from the University of Houston with honors and a double major in marketing and economic development.

As if that wasn’t enough, while he was a student, he created an investment fund that invested in entrepreneurs from traditionally marginalized communities.

His Instagram account has thousands of pictures.

Since he started his account, there isn’t a week that has gone by that he hasn’t posted pictures from the fabulous places he traveled, the amazing meals he enjoyed, and selfies with the beautiful people he is always surrounded by.

The last three pictures were posted on the same day three months ago.

The first is of him with a young woman and a toddler with hazel eyes and deep dimples on her lap.

The second is of him in a black cap and gown with accents of dark red, smiling broadly and flanked by his famous best friends.

The last one is of his bare, beautifully muscled back, his head bowed, and his fingers giving the middle finger to the camera. Its caption read,I’m out.

It was nearly impossible to reconcile the extroverted playboy demigod online persona with the polite but reserved man who came into the pub to eat and watch whatever was on the tele.

The only thing about him in person that reminded me of what I’d seen in my hours of reading about him was the way he walked through the crowded pub to grab the same table in the back.

He keeps his gaze fixed on his destination, earbuds in, the world shut out. His stride is purposeful and merciless when you don’t have enough sense to move out of his way.

Just from looking, I couldn’t be sure if he was an asshole, just an introvert, or a little of both. Either way, I found the broadcast of his barbed edges refreshing. It’s nice not having to guess what people are thinking.

He cuts through the crowd of people in glamorous garb, crystal cut tumblers or fragile flutes in their wildly gesticulating hands. Yet they seem to move just as he wants them to so that he doesn’t need to turn sideways to accommodate his broad shoulders or taper his remarkably long strides.

Long strides that are bringing him straight toward me.

I barely have time to spin around before he’s right behind me.

“Scotch on the rocks,” he tells the bartender when he slides onto the empty barstool next to me. I disguise my gasp as acough, place a hand on the bar to steady myself, and stare straight ahead.

The young man nods and grabs a glass. “We’ve got Macallan 18 for the masses, but I’ve got a bottle ofCraigelachhiethat might be more to your taste.”

“I don’t really care, whichever,” he responds in a voice that’s not rude but doesn’t match the adoration in the server’s. Undeterred, the young man leans forward across the bar and lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “I know you’ve been gone a while, but I’m still a huge fan, Mastermind. Can I snap a selfie?”

To my surprise, Omar doesn’t rebuff the bartender. “Only if you promise you won’t post it for a bit. No one knows I’m in London yet, and I’d like to keep it that way for just a few more weeks.”

I watched an interview from very early on in his career when he was asked about his dislike of public availabilities.

He explained that he understood it was part of the job. So he did it. “I play for the love of the game, and if I had my way, I wouldn’t do any interviews at all. I don’t even know why you want to interview me. I say everything I need to out on that pitch. I get it. I had sports heroes, too. But when they fall off the pedestals you put them on, you swoop in and eat them alive.”

That interview would prove prescient when he left Chelsea years later. The press tore him to shreds for sitting out an entire season, leaving as soon as he became a free agent and basically abandoning London, his fans, and his team.