The Lion Heart (Rogue Academy Book 2)

by Carrie Aarons

  I trail off, knowing I’ve gotten even more intimate than I ever planned to. The woman barely agreed to come here with me, and now I’m going to tell her about the emotional abuse I suffered at the hands of the man who raised me?

  “Blimey, it is too early for this.” I try to laugh it off, my words having more than one meaning.

  Poppy laces her fingers through mine and begins to trace circles around my palm with her thumb, just like I did last night for her.

  “I understand what you went through. More than you know.”

  In this moment, I know we’re both thinking about her confession in the car last night. My blood has been boiling ever since, dulling to a simmer but still retaining that acrid, poisonous feeling. Whatever that bloke did to her, he’s going to pay for it. But she sees me. We see each other.

  “Why don’t we lighten the mood?” she asks. “If the world ended right now, who in this cafe would you shag?”

  That makes me laugh, even through the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. I look around, pretending to weigh my options.

  “I’d still pick you, Poppy.”

  Her eyes melt into blue pools of lust, and I know it might be far off but I can’t wait to make good on that promise.

  24

  Kingston

  After shipping off to Siberia, also known as Nartanica, after my date with Poppy, I vow to myself that I’m going to keep my mouth shut and work my hardest.

  Now that I know I want nothing more than to play for RFC, to fulfill my own dreams, the ultimate goal is to get back to the club who loaned me out. And the only way I’ll do that is by keeping my nose clean and playing my arse off.

  Narta plays two matches in the week I’m back, and we win both of them. I score two goals in the second match, and I hope that Niles is monitoring my progress, because it’s one of the best showings I’ve had in the last year. It is the fourth tier, but I find it’s actually more difficult down here. Scrappier, the players have more to lose. Or gain, I guess. Everyone down here wants to move up.

  Jude isn’t much help on the snooping front, because I asked him if he’s heard any whispers about me at RFC. He’s such a Goody-Two-shoes, always keeping his brain focused on his own work. No good that does me.

  Meanwhile, I’ve been texting Poppy as much as both of our schedules allow. She’s in Paris for four days, but we’ve been talking as much as we can. So far, I’ve learned that she likes to mix ketchup into her honey mustard on sandwiches, and secretly dislikes modeling lingerie—a fact for which I’m sad about but at least I have the pictures to stare at if she ever decides to stop. Poppy also wants to own a cottage in French wine country someday, watches the show Friends when there is nothing else on, and the first concert she ever went to was some religious singer I’ve never heard of but apparently makes millions.

  At the end of our breakfast date, I didn’t miss the most important part. I walked Poppy back up to her front door, the one right next to mine. I had to leave for Narta in just thirty minutes, but that didn’t stop me from spending a good five minutes bringing my hands up to her face, walking her backward until her back gently pressed against her door, and kissing her senseless.

  Bloody hell, I could spend hours just doing that. And I might have to. I’ve been driving myself mad over the past week and a half, trying to think about how slow I need to take things. The first time I kissed Poppy had been her first kiss which means she is most likely a virgin. I don’t know, almost don’t want to know, what that bastard had done to her, but I was sure she had no pleasant experience with sex, foreplay, or anything of the sort.

  I have no idea how to treat a woman who is anything more than a kit chaser. The easier to get under my duvet, the better, that has always been my motto. It’s a big enough feat that I am trying to be decent and court her. But knowing how to handle a virgin with a history of abuse … I don’t know if I’m cut out for that. What if I say the wrong thing, or move too fast? What if Poppy doesn’t feel good when I touch her? The fear has nothing to do with my needs, but I’m terrified that if I make one wrong move, I’ll scar her even worse than she already might be.

  My squad mates interrupt my thoughts, three or four of them rising in their plain clothes after this evening’s practice. We have a match in two days, so it was a later practice today, but at least it was cooler than the mid-afternoon heat waves we’ve been having. Seems summer has come early to Narta, and the locker room wreaks of sweat after every session.

  “Let’s go get a pint, yeah?” Donnie doesn’t so much ask me as tell me and then walks off toward the player’s exit.

  Finnegan smirks and then begins to follow his mate. I get up too, not wanting to miss out on an invitation. Plus, there is nothing to do around here and I might as well relax with a pint or two than sit in my hotel room alone.

  The pub is directly next to the Narta stadium, so we don’t have to walk far. When we enter, it looks like the same patrons who have been sitting at the bar for fifty years have already drunk their fill of beer.

  “What do you want? I’m buying the first round,” Donnie says, not bothering to look at me.

  The Narta squad is warming to me, but there are still those who have a bit of an ice cap on their shoulder. Donnie is one of them; I don’t think he’s convinced yet that I’m not just a lazy twit.

  “I don’t care. A beer? Whatever you’re having.” I’ve never been picky when it comes to alcohol, any old kind will do.

  Someone grabs a table in the back, and I slide into one of the old wooden chairs. I’m used to pubs in London, which are quaint and made to feel like the owner’s living room, but this is at the far end of that spectrum. In fact, I’m pretty sure this is actually someone’s den, complete with family pictures hanging on the wall.

  “So, this is where you blokes hang out?” I open the conversation with a casual question, hoping that maybe I can win some of their opinions of me tonight.

  It’s the first time in almost three weeks that I’ve been invited to the pub, and no one is openly despising me to my face so that’s a good sign.

  “Only pub in Nartanica,” Finnegan explains, taking a large swig of beer as Donnie sets it down in front of him.

  “And the only place to possibly meet a girl in this town.” Patricio smirks, suave as the day is long.

  “Looking for kit chasers, Phillips? You won’t find many around here. Again, we don’t measure up to your posh London taste buds,” Donnie quips. “And if you go anywhere near a girl named Maggie, I’ll kill you.”

  Okay, apparently Maggie is off-limits, not that it matters. Part of me really wants to taunt Donnie with some testing jab, but the other part of me really wants to brag about the woman I’d kill for.

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I have a girl back in London.”

  “That’s not a girl. That’s a woman. The woman.” Patricio wiggles his eyebrows at me.

  “How do you …” I trail off, realizing that they’re all staring at me.

  Finnegan fesses up with a shrug. “They all know you’re dating Poppy Raymond. I guess they become invisible when you have them around so much, but there are paparazzi pictures of you two all over the Internet.”

  “You would be dating the most famous lingerie model in the world.” Donnie says it like it’s a curse and rolls his eyes.

  “Fuck, those tits …” Patricio licks his lips.

  One of the other blokes on the squad, whose name I keep forgetting, tosses his two cents in. “How many times did you toss one off to her pictures before you actually got to shag her?”

  My teeth snap together, and the icy anger is coming off me in waves. “Watch it, mates. That’s my woman. She’s also kind and intelligent, puts up with my rubbish even less than you do. She’s not just some model, Poppy has been running that business for near six years, and she’s a successful career woman. You’re bloody right she’s out of this universe stunning, but that’s mine to make observations about. The next bloke who mentions her in that contex
t again … I’ll kill you.”

  Donnie claps a hand on my shoulder and smiles. “Nice to see you so passionate about something, Phillips. Especially a good bird. Didn’t realize you were a whipped bloke, like me. Good to have you in the club.”

  Who knew the way to get into Donnie’s good graces was to get a girlfriend? It makes me duck my head and smile, and the guys move on to discussing the potential group play scenarios for the World Cup next year.

  “How is the distance going?” Finnegan leans over to me, lowering his voice.

  I shrug, drinking my beer. “The whole dating thing is still pretty new for me, so it’s not bad yet. We’re both busy people by nature of our careers anyway, so I think it might be the same if I was back in London. Though maybe this is better. We text a lot, talk on the phone some nights. It forces you to communicate, to get to know something about a person without jumping right into bed. I’ve truthfully never done it before. So, it’s been … exciting? That makes me sound like a twit.”

  Finnegan laughs, shaking his head. “I get it, mate. It’s not easy with my wife back in Ireland, and eventually, I’ll have to go back. She’s put up with this for two years, and we want a baby. So … this is probably going to be my last season. You do what you have to for the person you love and make it work however you can.”

  Finnegan shrugs as if he couldn’t care less that he soon won’t play football professionally ever again. To me, that would feel like a bullet to the heart. And the gut. And my shins.

  Blimey, how daft could I be to ever doubt that I love this game? Just thinking about giving it up someday, not even in the near future, makes me nauseous.

  “You’re married?” I clear my throat after taking a large swig of my Carlsberg.

  He nods, a smile lighting up his face. “Erin is my childhood girl. We met on the playground in primary school, and I’ve been a sucker for her ever since. She knew when she married me that I wasn’t done trying to make it in football, but it hasn’t turned out like I’d hoped. There are bigger things in life, and I love her desperately. Making Erin happy is my number one priority. Nothing else matters if she doesn’t have the life I promised her.”

  Damn, that was admirable. If you’d asked me a few months back, I’d say Finnegan was a bloody sap. But now I knew what it felt like to have feelings like that for someone. Maybe not as strong as Finnegan, who has been with his wife for years, and definitely not ready for anything resembling marriage. But I understand now, that pull to want someone’s happiness over your own. To want to be a better man for the woman you care about.

  “That’s … blimey, that’s tragically admirable. I wish you all the luck, mate.” I raise my glass to his and clink them together.

  “And same to you, mate. May we get home to our girls soon.”

  25

  Poppy

  “Okay, so this time I want just a small smile as your falling, and try to sniff the perfume bottle as you’re doing it.”

  The photographer instructs me as I stand at the top of a small ladder, looking down toward the stack of mats below. I’m teetering on the small platform in a bright pink ball gown covered in hand-embroidered flowers. The dress probably retails for more than your average midsize car. I also have six-carat dangling diamond earrings, my hair is braided intricately around my head like some Swiss milkmaid, and the amount of makeup on my face is starting to weigh my eyes and cheeks down.

  We’ve been at this for hours, trying to shoot the advertisements for the new perfume Riare is launching in a month. If anyone saw what really went into the three or four stunning photos that come out of eight hours of tough work they’d probably laugh. And then be surprised.

  Modeling really is work, there is hours and hours of labor that goes into getting the perfect shot. From prep time in hair and makeup, to studying what the brand wants, to channeling the right look and pose for the product; it’s not easy. And that’s just the beforehand work. The actual process of the shoot is intense. For this perfume ad, I’ve fallen over twenty times onto the soft stunt mats below. Riare wants the perfect shot of me falling, midair, while smelling the perfume with a satisfied but coy expression on my face. The overall feel of the ad is supposed to make consumers want to fall in love with the scent.

  “Got it. I was thinking I could float my arm out, make it look as if I’m almost a ballerina or something. It might give more depth to the shot?” I suggest.

  The photographer I’m working with today is on the newer side, but she’s good. And I appreciate a woman in the driver’s seat. I just find that I have a wealth of experience to pull from, and good instincts about what might land us the best shot possible.

  “Yeah, let’s try that, too. Good thinking.” She throws me a thumbs-up, and I poise myself on the edge. “And go!”

  Slowly, I let my body lean into the fall, trying to control every facial and arm muscle. Your instinct when falling is to shoot your arms out, or cover your face. The natural response of your body is to protect itself, and I have to fight it the entire way down. I hit the mat hard, because no part of me was trying to slow down my momentum. Picking myself up, I shake off the blow and know I have to climb that ladder again.

  “That was a great one, Poppy!” one of the graphic artists sitting behind a large Mac computer off to the side tells me excitedly.

  I catch him out of the corner of my eye, and instantly, my heart beats double time. When I casually slipped into our phone call last night that he could stop by the shoot if he made it back to London in time, I didn’t actually expect him to come.

  Kingston stands in the shadows, a smirk on his face and a lustful look in his eyes. His sandy blond hair is tousled, like he’d been riding in a convertible with the top down, and he’s casual in faded red cargo shorts and a white Henley shirt. The summer ensemble has all of his brawn on full display, and suddenly I’m nervous.

  Doing my job, I never get nervous. I’ve been modeling for brands for six years, the butterflies ceased to exist long ago. But one look from Kingston Phillips and they’re flapping so hard that I have to press a hand to my abdomen.

  He drove back to London just to spend the day with me, and after communicating via texts, FaceTime, and phone calls the past week, I couldn’t wait to see him. How far we’d come from that dingy lounge the first time I told him where he could stick his arrogance.

  Twenty more minutes, and the photographer is calling wrap on the shoot. Everyone claps, happy that we did our jobs right and got what Riare wanted. I thank all the staff, who have been one of the best bunch I’ve worked with. Not only do I genuinely appreciate the help of the people who work behind the scenes, but I also want only the best things said about my professional attitude if anyone were to interview these people. Your reputation is all you have, and when someone talks about me, I want them to talk about how easy, kind, and dedicated my work ethic is.

  Kingston takes that as his cue to approach me, and instead of his usual slow and cautious hug, he marches right to me and wraps his arms around my waist.

  Then he kisses me in front of everyone. His lips are soft but the skin around them is pebbled with stubble, and the scratch of it makes a delicious tingle roll down my spine.

  After a few seconds, he presses his forehead to mine. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I breathe, feeling utterly swept off my feet.

  Kingston has always been up front and obnoxious in his actions, so why should his feelings toward me be any different? Well, I guess because I thought they would be. Every fellow model I’ve listened to, book I’ve read, TV show I’ve watched, they all demonstrate that if you fancy a man, he’ll be distant and aloof. He’ll ignore you in public and only chase you behind closed doors. That if you want a commitment from him, the relationship will be complicated and your heart will break more times than not.

  But with England’s famous football son, I’m finding the exact opposite. Maybe it’s the change in Kingston’s demeanor, or because I’m demonstrating that I have faith in him, it’s actua
lly working in my favor. Perhaps he only needed someone to believe that he could be a good man to finally be one.

  “You look beautiful.” His eyes don’t leave mine, and it’s like we’re the only two people in the room.

  “I feel like minced meat; I’ve been falling all day.”

  “Well, if you need someone to catch you, I’ll gladly fall on the sword for that job.” Kingston winks, and I find I’m no longer annoyed by his overt flirting.

  If anything, it’s grown on me as an endearing quality.

  “I thought we could go have a picnic. I know a quiet place in Hyde Park and I’ve got supplies.” Kingston holds up a soft cooler bag, and now I’m curious as to what’s inside.

  “Can I have a peek before I agree?” I say, teasing him and trying to peer into the bag on his shoulder.

  “Absolutely not. This is top secret, but I know you’ll like it.” He winks one beautiful green eye.

  “Fine, but there better be a feast in there, because I haven’t eaten in hours and I’m famished. Let me get out of this ballgown and then we can go.”

  “Or you could leave it on. I’ve always had this fantasy about ripping the back of a corset open and—”

  I slap my hand over Kingston’s mouth because the production employees are starting to watch us, and listen, and they definitely cannot be privy to what Kingston Phillips might want to do to me if he were to rip me out of this ball gown.

  Half an hour later, we’re nearing the entrance to Hyde Park in the middle of a weekday. As promised, he has the Uber drop of us at a desolate corner of the park, and winds onto a walking path that I know for a fact not many people venture onto. I used to rent a flat directly across the park and would take a morning run past the grounds that housed Wills and Kate.