Cocky Notes: A Hero Club Novel

by Leesa Bow

  COCKY NOTES

  A Cocky Hero Club Creation

  Leesa Bow

  Copyright 2020 Leesa Bow

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organisations or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Editing by Kay at Swish Design & Editing

  Editing by Lauren at Creating Ink

  Proofreading by Nicki at Swish Design & Editing

  Book Design by Swish Design & Editing

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Image Copyright 2020

  All Rights Reserved

  Cocky Notes is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It’s published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward’s New York Times bestselling series.

  Who thought writing ‘LOSERS’ on a menu could lead to an affair of love notes?

  It didn’t start out as love. How could it when I vowed never to fall in love.

  Reef Burton, the sexy blue-eyed football player, and his mates are definitely not ‘Losers’, yet writing it on a menu gave me a reason to smile. Only it didn’t make it to the trash.

  He returns to the restaurant where I work wearing his killer smile. I wasn’t to know those squiggly lines and arrows meant something—an offensive play his football team learned at an earlier training session.

  He’ll see what I wrote. Apart from it being awkward the next time I serve him, he could also report me to my boss.

  I can’t lose my job when in hindsight, I need to pay all the bills rolling in and care for my father.

  I’m thankful he kept it as our secret.

  Until he left me a note.

  Responding will only lead to more trouble.

  So, when Mr Blue Eyes-Blond Surfy-Hair gives me one of his spine-tingling looks, how can I resist?

  To my daughter, Demi.

  For loving my stories, and reading over my shoulder as I write.

  I look forward to one day reading your book.

  This book has been written using UK/Australian English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style. Please remember that the words are not misspelled, they are slang terms and are part of the everyday Australian lifestyle.

  If you would like further explanation, or to discuss the translation or meaning of a particular word, please do not hesitate to contact the author – contact details have been provided, for your convenience, at the end of this book.

  A few Australian slang words are provided for your convenience:

  000 – Emergency telephone number in Australia equivalent to 911.

  AFL – Australian Football League.

  Bloody – Used to extenuate a point, or as an expletive.

  Boardies – Board shorts.

  Carpark – Parking lot.

  Crockery – Dinner plates.

  Dickhead – Idiot or jerk.

  Esky – Cooler.

  Fringe – Bangs.

  Grand Final – Annual Australian rules football match to determine the premiers for that year.

  Guernsey – A type of game uniform worn by Australian rules football players – typically sleeveless.

  Jocks – Men’s underwear.

  Loo – Toilet.

  Mate – Buddy or friend.

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Note to the Reader

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  More Books To Check Out

  Acknowledgements

  Connect With Me Online

  About the Author

  Prologue

  MACY

  Nine Years Ago

  “Sweetheart, I know it’s going to be tough, and it’s a shock to us all, but I don’t want you to stress about money. I’ll sort something out. We’re going to be fine,” my father says to my mother the day he arrives home from the hospital.

  “For God’s sake, Peter. Stop living in your goddamn happy-land where you believe everything is going to be okay. It’s not. You’re going to need extensive rehab, physical therapy and follow-up doctor visits and that’s if nothing else goes wrong.” She curls back into her lounge chair and covers her face with her hands. I want to step out from the corner doorway and say something in support for Dad, only I know better than to interrupt when Mum has an opinion. I’m not ready for her wrath to be switched to me.

  “Nothing else will go wrong,” he says, as he struggles to adjust his position in his reclining chair but grimaces with the slightest movement.

  I suck in a sharp breath, knowing he’s in pain and doing his best to keep a brave face.

  “You’re a bloody fool,” she snaps. “You could get an infection in your wound, not to mention any number of other things that could go wrong. You’re carrying unhealthy weight around your fat gut, and knowing my luck, you’ll have a stroke, and I’ll have to look after you more so than I’m required to now.”

  “No one expects you to be my caregiver,” he rasps.

  My throat burns seeing the hurt in his expression.

  “I certainly am no one’s caregiver. For years, I’ve suffered while you’ve been on the road for sometimes weeks at a time—alone and trying to run this house, pay bills with the pathetic wage you bring home. And Macy. She’s a dreamer and needs an uncle or someone to look out for her because you’re not a good influence.”

  I take a reactive step forward and freeze when Dad’s gaze meets mine. His cheeks blush, and he gives a gentle shake of his head warning me not to let her see me because, by the sound of her tone, she’s firing up to full-on rage.

  “Macy is doing fine,” he replies. “Her grades are good. She’s happy, which is a plus because many kids her age are on social drugs. So, I don’t think I’m too bad of an influence.”

  She laughs at him. “Maybe if you encouraged her to get out of the house more often, she wouldn’t be the size she is.”

  My chest burns, an imaginary knife twisting deeper.

  “Enough,” Dad yells. “I won’t have you talking about her in that tone
.”

  “You want me to whisper, so she doesn’t hear?”

  “Sylvia, stop,” Dad says between clenched teeth.

  The momentary silence fools us both.

  “I’ll tell you when I’ll stop,” she yells. “When I’m free of you both. You think you’re suffering because you have one leg? Well, my wings were clipped the day I met you. I’m a beautiful bird stuck in a cage having to sing and dance on a perch to entertain you. I can’t take it anymore. I see today as an opportunity when the cage door unlatches, and I’m flying out to be free.” She stands and leans over him, a finger jabbing toward him as she screams in his face. “You thought I was the beautiful girlfriend on your arm when we went out to parties. An accessory like an expensive handbag. You can’t afford Louis Vuitton.” Dad’s eyes round, and I’m scared because she’s hysterical. “I’m not meant to be with someone like you. I deserve better.”

  “Sylvia…” Dad’s voice cracks. “It’s been a stressful week. Let’s sleep on it.”

  “If you think I’m getting in bed with you, then you’re mistaken. I’m calling a friend. I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest of my belongings.”

  I step forward so she can see me. “Dad doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. He’s been through enough.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Macy—”

  “No, Dad. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You little snake.” She glares at me before pushing past, her heels clicking on the wooden floor of the hallway. I slide on to the lounge chair next to Dad, hug him, and lean my head on his shoulder.

  “You’re braver than me, my girl.” Dad pats my back.

  “What if she doesn’t come back?”

  “I can’t make her stay if she doesn’t want to.”

  I curl into his shoulder and sob. “I’m sorry…” I sniff. “I’m sorry she doesn’t like me.”

  Dad repeats my name softly. “She loves us both. She’s going through a tough patch at the moment. It’s all a shock to her, and she’s scared. Just give her time.”

  Chapter One

  MACY

  “LOSERS.”

  I utter the word to myself as I write it in capitals on the back of the menu above meaningless lines and scribbles with arrows drawn from point A to B.

  This gibberish art means something to the guys who sat at this table minutes before I walked over to clean up the mess. A detailed gameplay. The new offence their coach ran over with them at an earlier training session. Three days a week they come in here for coffee and breakfast, then chat about the strategies discussed during the team meeting as they graffiti our menus. While waiting the tables at Lombardi’s, I hear their antics mocking each other in a mate’s code of friendship.

  Shit, I’m not usually this grumpy.

  Before I left this morning, even my dear father told me to cheer up as he hobbled across the kitchen on his crutch. He never complains or stresses about the never-ending bills rolling in.

  Instead of smiling as my father would suggest, I underline a big fat zigzag beneath the word LOSERS. The emphasis puts a smile on my face. “Fuckers,” I murmur, now satisfied. Maybe this makes me as bad as them, tagging our perfectly good menu, but figure it’s ruined now. Doesn’t change the fact I have to pick up after these lazy shits. I mean how hard is it to place your half-eaten sourdough crust on your plate?

  I toss the leftover food from the table onto the plates. These guys are elite AFL football players with superb hand-eye coordination. Even so, they can’t even keep their food on the crockery.

  The door chimes alerting me to new customers.

  An arm reaches across the table and snares the menu.

  A sexy arm.

  I straighten. Heat creeps up my neck as one of the football players looks pointedly at the menu then back at me.

  The player who gives me spine tingles every time our eyes meet.

  “Tell Oliver we’ll pay for new menus to be printed.” Mr Blue Eyes-Blond Surfy-Hair waves the menu in his hand flicking crumbs aside. “Gotta write down new team plays while it’s fresh in our mind after training. Maybe it’s the organic coffee, but everything makes sense when we’re here.” His lips curl up, and he’s looking at me as though he wants to say something else like every other time he is here and we stare at each other, tongue-tied for words. A few seconds of awkward silence pass before he turns and strides away.

  “I bet it does,” I say to his back—broad and muscled—as the door whooshes closed behind him. Even his sexiness does nothing for my disgruntled mood. I can’t help the envy because what do these overpaid sports players have to stress about?

  I head out back to dump the dishes in the sink. My gut is in knots. Next time I serve him will be even more mortifying. I pass the office window to see Oliver behind his desk, a mountain of paperwork in front of him, and cringe. He’ll be pissed if I’ve upset his customers.

  Bloody terrific.

  “We have fresh tiramisu and panna cotta for you to load in the small fridge.” Dominic, one of the head chefs, punctuates every word with a hand action. He waves his knife as he speaks to me. I step back—a work safety measure I learnt a long time ago.

  “Do I get to taste test first?” I wink at him. “To ensure it’s up to scratch?”

  “You don’t insult Dominic,” he says in thick English. “I make-a the best tiramisu in the southern hemisphere.”

  “Now, you’re over-exaggerating. I’ve tasted better at a café down the Bay.”

  “Macy.” Oliver leans on the doorframe. “Stop teasing my uncle.” The half-smirk tells me he’s enjoying my antics.

  “Mamma mia,” Dominic says with both hands in the air, one still wielding a long knife. “She not understand the love I put into cooking.”

  “I do… When are you going to understand I’ll never stop throwing you a baited line? Maybe you should make fish your specialty dinner?”

  Dominic raises his eyebrows at Oliver. “You want me to cook fish?”

  “Ignore her,” Oliver says and waves me into his office. “I want to discuss something with you.”

  I follow him inside and sit behind his large cedar table. What if one of the football players mentioned my accusation? They attract trade, and if Lombardi’s loses customers, I might lose shifts or my job. Paper is spread from one side to the other. Since taking over the business from his father twelve months ago, and at only twenty years of age, Oliver is juggling managing the business along with completing his university degree. The first project he took on was aiming to be paperless in the office. By the bags under his eyes, I assume he’s getting little sleep and spending most hours at the computer

  “I need to alter my friend Ava’s shifts.”

  “Okay.” I don’t object as I know how close the two are, especially since he visited her on the East Coast and convinced her to return to Adelaide along with her then two-year-old son.

  “I realise you need to work mainly during the day, so it’s easier to help your father, but Ava also needs to work during the day. At the moment, I try to share the weekend load between you. One weekend on, one-off alternating. How do you feel about having one weekend off a month?”

  I want to say no for I’d also like a social life but almost laugh in my own face. Who am I kidding? When I manage to go out, it’s to forget my worries. A night out on the booze with my friend, partying to the late hours is my therapy. Early morning starts at Lombardi’s impedes on a social life. “Sure.” Another fake smile. Truth is I like Ava. Besides, the weekend penalties could be the answer to my woes.

  “Great. I’ll pencil you in for this Saturday and Sunday. If you’re cool with it, then take tomorrow and Monday off.”

  I scroll through my phone, checking Dad’s upcoming medical appointments.

  “No need to pencil me in. I can work both days.”

  Before dropping my phone back in my pocket, I sneak a text to my friend.

  So keen for tomorrow night. I’ll be at yours by six.

  Chapter Two
<
br />   MACY

  “Don’t rush home, love. I’ll be fine.”

  Dad plonks himself on the lounge, unclips his prosthesis from his thigh stump, and tosses it aside. He moans as he lies back in the chair—a sound of relief and pain. I doubt the pain ever truly eases. He sets a lap table over his thigh and waits for me to place a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of him.

  One hand reaches for the armrest patting the length of the brown velour cushion.

  “Here.” I snare the remote from the table and place it in front of him. Anything in his periphery gets lost in his line of sight with his failing eyesight. “I think Greg is the name of the caregiver rostered for tonight.” He ignores me as he digs into his pasta.

  Swallowing a mouthful, he adds, “Greg, Joe Blow… they’re all the same. As long as they like soccer, it’s all that matters.”

  “So, we’re hiring someone to have a few beers with you and watch the game on television?”

  “I told you I don’t need anyone. I’m fine. What I do need is for you to go out and enjoy yourself. Hang with your friends like other normal twenty-four-year-olds.”

  “I am normal,” I emphasise.

  He laughs without looking up.

  “As long as Greg helps you to bed and has your crutches nearby, I’ll be happy.”

  “They always do.”

  He’s forgotten about the time he and the caregiver drank too much beer, and the caregiver left at the time he was paid to finish work, leaving my father in the chair without his crutches nearby. So when my dad needed the toilet, he clambered out of his recliner chair, and after a few drunken hops, fell. He was lucky to come away with a black eye and sprained wrist. It took me a while to leave him again. Being with him as much as I can after six o’clock is the best reassurance he’ll get to his bed safely.