Playing the Player (Sydney Smoke Rugby #3)

by Amy Andrews

  Sure, growing up, and the wisdom and distance that came with it, helped. It brought perspective. And the wounds healed.

  But that little kid. That seven-year-old—that four-year-old—was still in there somewhere. Hurting.

  She turned in her seat, angling herself toward him, her cheek pressed into the soft leather of the head rest. “Do you remember her?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I have one really vivid memory of her. The night she left. She hugged me tight and said, ‘Tell me that you love me.’ And I did. I remember being scared because I knew something was wrong, she was holding me too tight, her face was too close, too fierce. Then she told me she loved me, too. And then”—he laughed, but it was short, a harsh sound devoid of any amusement—“to prove it, she left and never came back.”

  And broke his heart. He didn’t need to say it. Em knew all about that kind of broken heart. The kind that stemmed from abandonment.

  Maybe someone else would have told him of course she loved him, of course she meant it. But not Em. Because love was about more than speaking the words. It was about actions.

  And parents could really fuck you up.

  “She gave me a note to give to Dad when he got home. It said she loved him, but she wanted a different life. If that’s love,” he said, his profile grim, a rich vein of bitterness in his words now, “you can keep it.”

  The crack in her chest split wide open. “You don’t believe in love?”

  He shrugged. “I think it exists. I think my mother meant it when she said she loved me. I know my father does and that my grandfather did. I know I love the guys on my team like brothers. I even believe that some people do fall in love with each other. I just don’t think I’m one of them or that marriage is the best expression of that love.”

  “Oh.” Em swallowed. Despite everything to the contrary, she believed the opposite. That marriage was the gold standard in love. Even if it didn’t work out. “So you don’t believe in marriage, either?”

  “Well, my grandparents were married for forty-five years but, other than that, over half the married couples I know are divorced, and of the ones who aren’t, about half of them are heading that way. Take my father. He’s a classic example. He’s been in love with about a dozen different women in a dozen different truck stops between here and Darwin. He even married two of them. And he’s about to get hitched to the third.”

  If Em had needed any more confirmation that she and Linc were on two different tracks, it was right here. His background had turned him into a cynic, where love and marriage were synonymous with doom. Hers had turned her into a romantic with an absolute belief that long-lasting happiness was possible if the right two people meet.

  He shook his head. “I believe in rugby and money and sex. There’s honesty in those things. They’re not things that involve feelings and airy fairy promises. They’re things you can control, and they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

  She wanted to rail against his conclusions. Tell him cutting himself off from the possibility of love and being with someone forever was so screwed up. But then who said her strategy of trying to find love wherever it was offered was any less screwy?

  Parents really could fuck you up.

  Em swallowed a hard lump in her throat. “My father walked out when I was seven.”

  Linc’s fingers wrapped and unwrapped from the steering wheel, but he didn’t say anything until they stopped at another red light, long moments later. He turned his head to look at her.

  “Is he somewhere in Cambodia with my mother?”

  Em gave the merest ghost of a smile, but it felt as if her whole facing was cracking. “No. He’s twenty minutes up the road with his other family. His perfect sweet sixteen-year-old daughter and his two fourteen-year-old twin boys. Loving them. You see, my father didn’t mind being tied down. He just didn’t want to be tied down with us.”

  His green gaze roamed over her face, telescoping his empathy. “I’m sorry.”

  It was simple, but it touched her on a much deeper level than an apology from an outsider, no matter how heartfelt. Because he understood.

  “Yeah.”

  Their gazes locked, and Em recognised something in Linc that wound around her limbs as indelible as the ink on his arms.

  A beeping horn from the car behind them alerted them to the light change, and Linc dragged his attention back to the road. Neither of them said anything for a while as he navigated a right turn across a busy intersection.

  It was actually good to have a breather from the intensity of the conversation. From the sticky tendrils of their past. From the confirmation that Linc could never be a contender for her heart.

  Because he wasn’t interested in her heart. Just her body. Because he believed in sex. Not love. Not marriage. Not for himself anyway.

  Her head hurt from thinking about it. From wondering if they’d been two normal people with normal happy-family backgrounds, could things have been different between them?

  “So why even bother wearing the TAG at all?” she asked, shifting the conversation to a less fraught topic once they were through the intersection.

  “Because it symbolises success, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I’ve worked hard and I’ve earned it. I can afford nice things. A lot of this gig outside of actual games and training is about image, and there’s always some other guy nipping at your heels for your spot. It’s important to project success.”

  Em nodded. “And do these symbols of success help to motivate and inspire you to keep going? To push yourself. To keep getting better. To win?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe for some but not for me. You want to know what inspires me to keep going? To win?”

  Em nodded. “Yes.”

  “You really want to know?”

  She really, really wanted to know. “Yes.”

  God knew she could do with a pick-me-up now. And, despite all the reasons she shouldn’t be, despite everything he’d just confessed in this car, Em’s fascination with Lincoln Quinn had only grown deeper.

  “Okay then.” He flashed a grin, and the heavy atmosphere of a few minutes go evaporated in an instant. “I’ll show you.”

  …

  Linc pulled his car into one of the car spaces reserved for members of the Sydney Smoke team at Henley stadium forty-five minutes later. He and Em hadn’t spoken much for the rest of the journey. She’d leaned forward and turned the radio on, singing along to the songs as she’d done on the way to the theatre, gazing out her window.

  “We’re here,” he announced as he shut off the engine. He climbed out, his lungs bracing against the sudden invasion of cold air as he hurried around to her side to open her door.

  She looked around dubiously as he helped her out, her clutch purse in one hand. “You brought me to your home ground?”

  “Yep.” He shut her door.

  “This isn’t some weird thing where we go and lay in the middle of the field and listen to the beat of the earth or the echo of footy boots from bygone eras or anything is it?”

  He laughed as he directed her toward the players’ entrance that led into the bowels of the building. “No.”

  “Good.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “It’s bloody freezing out here, and I’m dressed for the theatre, not a roll in the grass.”

  “Don’t put thoughts in my head, Miss Newman,” he said with a grin as he stopped and shrugged out of his jacket. He eased it around her shoulders, pulling down hard on the lapels to stop himself from sliding his hands inside.

  It was a shame to cover up the dress that criss-crossed at the front and fluttered to mid-thigh. It was the golden-brown of an autumn leaf, complementing the colour of her hair, her tawny gaze and the creaminess of her skin. Its length showed off her incredible legs already outstandingly emphasised by a pair of sexy heels.

  “Why don’t women ever dress for the season?” he growled, his fingers still firmly gripping the lapels of his jacket.

  She bli
nked at him, head tilted back. “It’s the theatre.” She said it like it was some lore written in stone somewhere.

  Thou shall dress for style when attending the theatre, no matter the temperature. Because—theatre.

  “Come on.” If he lived to be a hundred, he was never going to understand women and their clothes. Especially when they looked so bloody good out of them. “It’s warmer inside.”

  He grabbed her hand, half expecting her to pull away. He was inordinately pleased when she didn’t, not even when he shoved his key into the lock on the side door that led into a short hallway lit by a row of fluroes.

  “Mmm.” She sighed as they stepped inside, and he shut the door behind them. “Much nicer.”

  “This way,” he said, taking the three steps to the end of the hallway then turning right into another fluorescent-lit, much longer corridor. To the left were a bunch of offices. Griff’s, medical personnel, and security, as well as a couple of the executive offices, the rest being on the top floor of the stadium tucked in behind the corporate boxes and large function room.

  But Linc was heading to the only room he really gave a damn about.

  It loomed quickly on the right, and he inserted the key into the lock. He’d never had to use it before—Tanner and Dex always seemed to be the first here each morning. Although Linc had noticed that Dex had slipped a little since he’d put that ring on Harper.

  His heart beat a little faster as he pushed the door open and invited her to precede him. He’d never brought a woman to the locker room, and it felt illicit and risqué. Like he was breaking some kind of code.

  It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed in or anything. Hell, Eve, Griff’s PA, was in and out most days, half the medical team were women, and it wasn’t unusual to see female members of the media wandering around doing their thing.

  But it felt…important…bringing Em here. She’d asked about his inspiration, and he wanted to show her. Wanted her to understand why this room meant so much to him. He felt like he knew her after their conversation in the car about their similar childhood experiences, and he wanted to share more of himself.

  He didn’t know why, he just did.

  Griff would blow a gasket if he knew. Probably bench him because he could be a mean sonofabitch, even with their do-or-die game coming up on Sunday. Security would be none too happy, either. Hell, with the promised upgrades to the aging stadium, it wouldn’t be long before swipe passes that were monitored by a security service replaced keys.

  But hell. It was just for a few minutes. They’d be in and out before anyone knew.

  “This,” he said, flipping on the light switch as he shut the door, a vague trace of liniment tickling his nose, “is my inspiration.”

  The old fluorescent lights sputtered on slowly, almost one at a time as she moved in to stand close to the low, double-sided bench seat that divided the space between the two rows of free-standing, back-to-back lockers. Linc admired the soft white light glowing on the tips of her short, springy curls outlining her head in a fuzzy halo.

  She turned around slowly, checking it out. His jacket hung on her, falling to the tops of her thighs and finishing one hand span north of the fluttery hem of her skirt, which automatically drew his eye. His gazed drifted down the creamy length of her legs and over the muscles in her calves, his attention completely monopolised by their perfection.

  He tried not to think how good they’d feel wrapped around his waist as he thrust into her.

  “The locker room?”

  He dragged his gaze up at her query. “The locker room.” He moved closer, also looking around, trying to see it through her eyes.

  The long wooden bench occupying almost the entire far wall where they all sat huddled around during a home game, strategizing with Griff. Wooden racks overhead holding a stash of towels for the showers that were on the other side of the wall. The large open area to the left where a lot of pre-game jitters were worked off. Big enough for several of them to toss a ball back and forth.

  Right now, there was a bunch of training equipment—balls, tackle bags, mats, kicking tees, witches’ hats—temporarily stored around the periphery due to renovations on the storage areas. A couple of narrow massage tables stood to one side. Sturdy and well used.

  He tried not to think how good her legs would feel wrapped around his waist as he thrust into her on one of those skinny tables.

  “This is the heart of the team, right here,” he said, dragging his thoughts off the massage table and her legs. “What happens in here is what inspires me. The guys, the camaraderie, the smack talk, the commitment and focus we all have to each other. All for one, one for all. This is where we bond.”

  “I thought you bonded out there?” She pointed at the door. “On the field of battle,” she said, lowering her voice to a deep, gruff growl.

  He smiled at her impersonation of a movie trailer voice-over guy. She smiled, too, adding, “All that jock crap,” in her normal voice but clearly still dismissive of the jock crap.

  “No. It’s here, in the locker room, where our friendships are forged. Where our cohesion comes from. I love these guys. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.”

  She nodded slowly as if she was absorbing the information carefully. “Which one’s yours?”

  “The end one.” He tipped his head to the right to indicate the bank of lockers he meant.

  “And what do you keep in there?”

  “Just the basics.” He shrugged, desperately trying to think of what he had in there as she dropped her clutch on the bench seat before sauntering in the general direction of his locker.

  With his eyes once again drawn to her legs, he was helpless to do anything but follow.

  “Training gear, some spare clothes, socks and jocks, deodorant, cologne, toothbrush and paste.” Christ, was there anything incriminating? “Um. Some breath mints. Bits and pieces of junk I’ve collected over the years.”

  “No half-naked pinups blue-tacked to the inside of the door?”

  Linc laughed, despite being wholly distracted by the flutter of her hem and how it brushed the backs of her thighs. “This is the age of internet porn. I can look at half-naked—fully naked, actually, not to mention real—women on my phone if I wanted.”

  “But you don’t do that, right?” She arched her brow, her fingers playing with the metallic handle of the locker, a smile playing on her mouth. The same mouth that had parted softly as she’d watched him jack off in her shower.

  Christ. His dick went stiff as a pike. So not helpful.

  He smiled and placed a hand over his heart. “Absolutely not. I only watch Christian porn.” And prayed he wasn’t about to get struck down.

  She laughed, her hem swishing tantalisingly, and Linc tried not to think how good her legs would feel around his waist as he thrust into her against his locker. “Well now there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”

  Oh, there was a moron all right. And his name was Linc.

  Jesus, dufus! Do not think about fucking her against your locker. You’ll never be able to open the thing again without a raging hard-on. Just what he needed, to be cracking in a room full of dudes usually in varying degrees of undress.

  Not.

  She twisted the handle, and the door opened. Linc watched as she rooted around inside, touching the shirts he had hanging in there, running her fingers over the stuff on his shelves.

  She pulled each item out into the light to see it better before replacing it. “Some gum…sunglasses…a Sydney Smoke cap…a bottle of Tommy Hilfiger. Mmm.” She took the lid off and sniffed it. “Very good taste.”

  Then she tilted her head and sprayed some on her neck. If Linc hadn’t already been hard, that would have done it for sure. There was something wildly primal about her marking herself with his scent.

  Made him want to get closer. Made him want to sniff her.

  All over.

  Everywhere.

  Chapter Eight

  It took all his willpower not to
swoop in and kiss where she’d just sprayed, push her back into the cold metal of his locker, and grind. He curled his fingers over the top of the open locker door just in case.

  There was a metallic clinking as she mused, “Some coins…some pens…” She cocked an eyebrow, mischief dancing in her eyes.

  “I do know how to write,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Well, your name at least,” she teased. “For all the autographs.”

  She took his breath away. She was something else when she let her guard down. “Correct,” he said, his voice full of self-deprecation.

  She returned to her foraging. “A whistle and…is that…?” She frowned and reached right into the back of his locker. “Do you have…after dinner mints in here?”

  Linc frowned, too. After dinner mints? What the fuck?

  “Because you’re a chocoholic? Or for a quick blood sugar hit? Oh…” She pulled three foil squares out into the light. “Not after dinner mints.”

  No. Not. Although to be fair, this particular brand of condoms were wrapped in gold foil, not dissimilar to the thin, foil-wrapped, chocolate-coated mints she’d thought they were.

  Now there was a design fault.

  His breath stopped in his throat as she held them up for his inspection. They were kind of incriminating.

  “For the Christian porn?” she asked with faux innocence, a hint of a smile still clinging to her mouth.

  Linc grinned and shook his head. “You never know when a mate’s going to want one.”

  Her expression told him she didn’t believe for a moment they were anything other than the personal emergency stash they actually were. Not that it mattered now, because the condoms were out there, in her hands. Her pale pink fingernails so innocent compared to the illicit nature of the contraband they clutched.

  Her smile faded as they gained her attention again. Standing stock still, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at them with an expression that fell somewhere between distaste and temptation. Like she suddenly realised the possibilities and she couldn’t decide if they were a message from Satan or manna from heaven.