The Lion Heart: Rogue Academy, Book Two

by Aarons, Carrie

  I nod my head, inviting the man I’ve been holding at an arm’s length to dip his mouth to mine.

  I’m not sure what’s come over me … this must be the fever that Kingston Phillips ignites in women. One second, I want to throttle him, and the next, he’s in my space, making my head swim with lust. Or maybe it’s just time. Maybe I’m finally allowing myself not to feel guilty every time attraction settles in my bones. Perhaps enough time has passed that I don’t see his face each time I think about being with a man. Is this my mind’s way of finally dealing with the trauma?

  That large body looms over mine, and I hate that he was right about checking off one box of my must-haves list when it comes to finding a man. I’m a tall woman at five foot eleven, and Kingston has another five or six inches on me. Why is that so arousing?

  It’s almost as if he’s smirking at me as he closes in, the countdown to his imminent kiss ticking off in the back of my brain. My hands shake and the organ in my chest, the one I thought had shriveled and died long ago, is beating so hard I almost want to cry with relief.

  And though I thought my brain would be in overdrive, tricking itself into thinking I was going to be attacked …

  It’s blissfully numb. There is a warm, fuzzy white noise drifting through my head, and the instant Kingston’s lips find mine, my eyes flutter closed and thought itself ceases to exist.

  There is only this. The gentle, wet pressure of his mouth against mine. The churning, pleasant feeling low in my belly. It’s as if Kingston is stoking some fire I didn’t realize lay dormant inside me. With every gasped breath between us, as his hands come up to frame my face, when his tongue breaches the seam of my mouth and touches my own …

  He’s wiping away all the rot and scorched earth left behind here.

  He’s making me clean. Whole.

  The man kisses me as if I’m his dying breath and he’s chasing it, and I have to wonder, is it always like this? Does kissing make you feel like you’re both sick to your stomach and flying through the air at the same time?

  At some point, Kingston pulls back, and I’m caught in the laser beam of his electric green gaze.

  “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  That douses any budding hope or curiosity I had about exploring the tingles sparking in my flesh. Immediately, dread drenches me in its icy blanket.

  I’m only the ripe old age of twenty, and I’m certain Kingston doesn’t have more than a year or two on me. We’re playing pretend, just children forced to grow up too early. We’ve placed ourselves into the adult world with our posh, expensive flats and fast times on the nightlife scene … and expect that to be enough to prove to outsiders that we’re wise enough to direct the traffic of our own lives. It’s all a sham, though. We’re too young, too inexperienced, to act as though we’ve got it all figured out.

  It’s really that easy for him, isn’t it? A woman lays her trust in his hands, and it’s supposed to move at the speed of light. That’s what’s wrong with this life, with our fragile, young hearts. Everything moves too fast in our world, and at some point, we’re going to come crashing out of orbit.

  I can tell he has nothing figured out. And I may throw up the shield, causing everyone to think I do … in reality, though, I’m just as lost as the man combing his fingers through my hair.

  He’s everything I swore to myself I wouldn’t desire. A man like the one who stole everything from me. A man like my father; a cheater and a charmer, using his strengths to manipulate women.

  “I … I, stop. I can’t do this.” My hand pushes at his pec until he steps back.

  His eyes are glazed over, an almost drunk state of arousal swamping his mind. It would be bloody enticing if I wasn’t terrified of him learning two even larger secrets than the one he’d already rectified.

  I’ve never been kissed. Well … until ten seconds ago.

  I am a virgin. Which, if that fact got out, would put another microscope on my already diminished sense of privacy.

  Then, there was the worst truth of them all.

  When I was fifteen, a man four times my age stole my innocence from me.

  And to this day, I’ve never told another soul.

  11

  Kingston

  We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen!

  And it’s Rogue Football Club, Rogue FC!

  We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen!

  And it’s Rogue Football Club, Rogue FC!

  The fans shout out our team song; the stands ringing out in melodic unison and raining their voices down onto the field.

  It’s more of a pump up than Muse or Jay-Z could ever be, and as I do a couple of high-knee sprints up and down the sidelines, I let the adrenaline of their joy wash over me. It may be the seventy-fifth minute, and our fans may already be celebrating an almost sured-up four to one victory, but I’m finally being subbed in.

  After two solid months of riding the bench, Niles Harrington has finally called my kit number and told me to warm up. Now, the whistle is blown, and Alexander jogs off the pitch, holding up his hand for me to high five. I do, so, he slaps my arse on the way past and says, “Go get ’em, mate.”

  From the minute I step out onto the pitch, everything just clicks on. It’s one of those matches that I can feel my body thrumming with competitive energy, and the need to home it in on one cathartic gesture. I’ve not felt it often enough these days … but I just know, from the minute my cleats touch grass; I’m going to score a goal today.

  That’s saying a lot, and some may even call me arrogant for voicing it. But it’s a gut check and an intangible fact. In my position, I don’t score goals often … but I just feel it today.

  We’re playing Mandem United, also known as the top team in the league. They’re three points ahead of us in the standings, and if we can pull out this win today, we’ll be tied for first. Of course, it’s already in the bag. Jude and my other squad mates have ensured that. There is little to no chance that Mandem will score three goals in the next ten minutes, plus stoppage time. Though I guess in the game of football, you should never underestimate an opponent.

  That probably goes for the game of life as well.

  But just to make sure, I’m going to put my all into this small stretch of match play I get to show my coaches. And not just the coaches. This is my opportunity to show everyone—the trainers, my teammates, Jude, and especially my parents sitting in a luxury box ten rows up—that I’m bloody good at this sport. That I can compete with the best, that I’ve got what it takes to earn a full-time spot on this squad.

  Maybe this is me wising up. Or maybe I’m just bored and welcoming a challenge.

  Jude is up front, dribbling past a defender as he sprints away from me where I stand on the back line, between the keeper and the midfielder. I’m the last line of defense before our keeper takes all the weight on his shoulders. Though by the look of things today, Remus hasn’t had much to stress about.

  A complete wanker on the opposing team trips Jude, sending him skidding into the pitch. We all throw our hands up, and Jude milks the injury a bit as we’re taught to do. But I can tell he’s in genuine pain too, he’s got to be smarting after that one. The referee claims he didn’t see it and urges us harshly to play on.

  That only gives the Mandem side ample opportunity to pass up the pitch, and quickly. Soon enough, they’re in our zone, and I’m like a fighter pilot, homed in on which player has the ball. This is where I shine; I’m a pit bull off its leash, ready to do damage.

  I see my opening pretty quickly, when a short vertical pass leaves one of their best forwards alone, almost cornered in by me. I go in hard, almost slicing his shin open with my cleat but narrowly missing it and gaining control of the ball instead. Inside, I’m beaming, sprinting with the ball at my feet. I bump it with my boot every few feet or so, just to keep the momentum going.

  And my side seems to be letting me run with it. Luigi blocks another player and Jude screams as I pa
ss him.

  “Go for the goal, King!”

  He’s letting me take this one. I swerve around defenders, and at one point I almost lose possession of the ball, but then I’m back, marching straight to the goal like a one-man destroying crew. Their keeper’s eyes shift back and forth as I idle with the ball, wondering how I should make my move.

  And then I see him lean, a little to the left, and I know he won’t be able to swing his body’s momentum back in time. So I lob the ball right, skying it just enough that it’ll go over the keeper’s head if he’s able to maneuver back over to the right side of the net. The force of my leg kicking its hardest into the leather.

  The noise in my ears is deafening, and I can hear Niles yelling on the sidelines. It only takes a split-second before I watch the ball sink into the back of the goal, gently nestling and stretching the netting before rolling down onto the pitch.

  “YES! Yessssss. Hoorah!” I throw my arms up in victory, pumping them as if I’m supporting the earth on my palms.

  Sprinting to the far side of the field, I whip my kit off in front of the RFC supporter’s section and beat my chest. The fans are going mental, cheering my name and rocking the seats so hard it sounds like an avalanche. Holding my jersey in one hand, I twirl it above my head like helicopter blades, joining the fans in their shite talking and celebration.

  Suddenly, I’m tackled from behind, and I hear Jude screaming in my ear.

  “You bloody did it, mate! Hoorah!” He’s clapping me on the back, hugging me as my face is pushed farther into the dirt and pitch when our other teammates pile on top of us.

  The entire scene is one of mass hysteria, and soon the referees are pulling us apart. They kick me off the pitch for pulling my kit off, of course. It’s a violation, and I’m lucky I don’t receive a yellow card for it. But by this point, my goal didn’t mean much to the bottom line score, and we’re almost in stoppage time.

  As I jog back to the bench, Niles Harrington stops me with that hawk-eye gaze of his.

  “Nice footwork out there, Phillips. You require more self-discipline, but it seems you’ve shown us just what you’re capable of today. Keep it up.”

  I don’t respond; he doesn’t want me to anyway, but a small smile graces my lips as I head for the padded seat and plop down. A bunch of the trainers and other players congratulate me.

  All I can think is that this is the feeling I play for. This invincibility running through my veins … that’s what makes this worth it.

  Perhaps I should start giving a shite, because it’s a bloody good feeling.

  12

  Kingston

  After hitting the showers, and taking a celebratory swig from the flask of gin Luigi keeps in his locker, I head for the player’s exit.

  Only to find my parents standing there, their faces scrunched in disappointment.

  Instantly, my heart plummets. Most children probably can’t wait to see their folks after a match like the one I’d just played, and yet …

  In the back of my mind, I was waiting for the criticism. Knew it was coming. And with nothing but my two-piece suit to protect me, I march forth for my sentencing.

  “So, what is it this time?” I don’t even bother to say hello.

  Honestly, I’m not sure why they even attend my matches anymore. They don’t seem to delight in watching me play, nor do they really seem to want to give up their respective schedules to be here. Whenever I encounter them in the stadium, Edward and Lotta Phillips just look extremely miffed.

  “Your goal was very nice, Kingston.” My mum steps forward, giving me a hug and a kiss without ever actually touching me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, just ready to get this over with.

  I’m exhausted from coming off the adrenaline high, and I’d rather not stand here and argue. It’s no use. I’ll take their verbal lashing and get on with my life.

  “Your footwork was sloppy. You play defense, leave the goal scoring to Jude or the other forwards. This is your problem, Kingston, you’re impulsive! Your attention span is that of a gnat, and while you could be excelling at your position and honing your skills, you instead chase the thing that sparkles in that moment.” He shakes his head like I’m the biggest twit in the world.

  “Dad, I scored a bloody goal! What more do you want from me?” I throw my hands out in his direction, almost pleading with him.

  “For you not to celebrate like a foul git! All of this pomp and circumstance. Clap it out with your fan section and get back to work! You look like a bloody American taking your jersey off, running around the field like you just got your dick sucked for the first time. Act like you’ve been here, Kingston. You carry the Phillips name!”

  Nothing I do will ever be good enough for my father. I gave it my all out there, poured my heart and determination into the time I was given. I increased my team’s lead, even if it wasn’t the game winning goal, that’s pretty damn impressive on a professional football pitch. Against those players? They’re some of the best in the world, and I’m just starting out.

  “Fuck this.” I swat a hand at my parents and begin to walk away.

  “Don’t you take that tone with me.” My father grabs my elbow, yanking me back toward him.

  He used to take this tactic when I was a boy, before I went to live at the academy full time. The use of his hands, but never enough that it could be considered abuse. Just a push or a shove here and there, and never hard enough to leave marks.

  Now, though? I tower over the man, who was a shriveling shell of the Goliath that was Edward Phillips. I raise up to my full height, looking down into his eyes, and I see him rethink his approach.

  “Not here, please.” My mum’s voice is calm and measured.

  Per usual, she’s only worried about avoiding a scene in public. Her sweep things under the rug mentality hails from the passive Swedish genes … ones I appeared to inherit none of.

  “Not so tough now, huh, Pops?”

  He’s so angry, I’m surprised there aren’t blood vessels popping in his eyes. “One more stunt like that, and I’ll talk to Niles myself. Get you traded to some junior league in Norway. Your career will be over.”

  The threat is laughable. “And why would you go and do a thing like that? It would disgrace the Phillips name, not just my reputation. Nah, you’re bluffing. Have a good night, Mummy and Daddy dearest.”

  The endearment I throw out sounds more like a curse than a loving nickname, and I stalk off before either of them can demean me even more.

  I forgo the team celebration at some rave outside of Camden. The whole thing seems dingy, dangerous, and half-mental … which is typically my favorite kind of night. But, I’m knackered, both physically and mentally, and for once decide to head home.

  The streets of London are quiet after our Wednesday evening match, the supporters long gone and the tubes already shut down. Most of the city’s occupants are snug in their beds, resting before another full day of the work-week tomorrow.

  What must it be like to live a normal life like that? Part of me wanted to know; the side that loathed my every move being criticized. How easy must it be to not have to answer for anything, or constantly be judged? Of course, I know people with quote-unquote normal lives have those problems, but not on the scale I did.

  But the other part of me? It craves the spotlight. I was born into it, and therefore, bathing in fame feels more normal to me than breathing. I couldn’t imagine not having all eyes on me, even if it means I have to take the lumps.

  My brain is constantly divided, warring with itself. Is that why I can never make a decision, or commit to anything? Or is that why, when I finally do set my sights on the thing I want, that I have to go full throttle or stop before I start?

  Parents, coaches, even my friends … they’re all bloody fed up with it. But the secret is that I am, too.

  Charlton House is quiet as I walk through the lobby, not even the night receptionist looks up as I cross to the bank of lifts. It’s not until I’m wal
king to my door on the top floor that the thoughts in my mind change from those of woeful inaccuracy.

  Flat 602’s door taunts me, no noise coming from behind it. I wonder if she’s home, or if she’s galivanting in some other country.

  My mind flashes to three days ago, when my mouth took hers, giving her the first kiss she’s ever had in her life.

  Never been kissed. Poppy bloody Raymond had never been kissed before my lips touched hers in the kitchen of her flat. Of the flat next door to mine. The whole thing boggles my mind so much, I feel mad. Like I’d woken up in a world that’s upside down and someone is trying to tell me it’s right side up.

  So, if she’d never been kissed before that, it’s safe to assume she’s a virgin. Unless, of course, she’s pulling some kind of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman shite where she only shags and doesn’t get intimate face-to-face.

  And don’t start picking at the fact that I know my Pretty Woman references. Vance tricked me into watching it once, said Richard Gere was a posh bloke in it and that there was prostitution. He had me at that. When I watched, and saw what the movie was really about, I’d ragged on him for days. But now it was an inside joke between him, Jude, and me and we watched it whenever it was on cable.

  Do I want to kiss her again? Hell, yes. But am I a fool for doing it in the first place? Even bigger yes on that one.

  Sure, I haven’t heard from Poppy in three days, and she’s the one who threw me out of her flat. But it doesn’t mean she won’t become clingy. Suppose we bump into each other in the lifts, or a club, or at an event. I’m the only man she’s ever been with, and it was child’s play at that.

  A shiver runs down my spine thinking about what expectations she might hold, or if she’s possibly waiting for me to call her. To court her. Is that her deal? Is that why she’s so inexperienced?