by K. Bromberg
“Okay.” I draw the word out as I pull on the back of my neck before looking back out the window to the trucks and cameras waiting for me to leave for my early morning training sessions.
“She’s why Rory has straightened up his act. He’s stopped the . . . bullshit,” he says, his term for the drugs he pretends his son doesn’t indulge in. The drugs that make a mockery of the law he’d been sworn to uphold. The laws made by the Parliament he’s hoping to become an elected member of. “And he’s focused on his fitness, his game, and the rest of his shortcomings. He’s really turned everything around—”
“He has—”
“And it’s all because of her, this woman. She’s turned everything around for him.”
“I don’t see why—”
“This isn’t the best time for there to be a scandal attached to the Matheson name, Rush. As you know, I’m standing for Parliament and it’s a tight margin between me and the other candidate, so I could really use your help.”
“Rory cheated with a married woman. Why would that reflect ill on you?” I ask, as my phone begins to start buzzing in my hand. Or maybe it already has been, but I’ve been so caught up in the conversation that I didn’t realize it.
“I hate to even ask this of you.”
“Ask me what?” I demand. “I’ll help, any way I can, but I’m not sure what it is that I can do,” I say, trying to make sense of what he thinks the problem is.
“There’s a picture of them kissing on a balcony. It’s all over the bloody place. Every newsstand, social media, the like.”
“I’m sure you have a whole team at your disposal who can assist you in how to spin this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you’re calling me.”
“They think it’s you.”
The dread that has been creeping up my spine slams into me. “Me?” I laugh the word out, thinking this joke is anything but funny. “Funny.”
“Rush . . .” His sustained silence owns my attention.
“Wait. You’re serious. Are they bloody crazy?”
“Turn on your telly. Your computer. Your . . .” Before he can even finish, I have my iPad in hand and am staring at the grainy image taken from afar, trying to comprehend what I’m looking at.
“That’s—she looks like—”
“Esme,” he murmurs.
“Oh. Shit.” The full weight of what Rory has done is out there and what Archibald’s asking me to do hits me.
Esme.
Chart-topping singer who only needs one name to be known.
She’s wildly famous and married to Seth Haskins.
My teammate and Liverpool’s captain.
“That’s not me,” I whisper to no one in particular, almost as if I have to talk my own self out of believing it, because it looks like me.
Or rather it looks like Rory.
“I need to cash in that IOU, Rush.”
“You’re what?” Surely he’s not—
“We’ve done nothing but help you ever since that day. We invited you into our home and treated you like a second son. We gave you everything you needed to set you up for success. You know I was well aware you were guilty that day. Not Rory. But this time, well, this time you take the rap for Rory.”
“Sir—” And then it hits me. I know what he’s asking, and my head shakes, rejecting any and every notion.
I was fifteen fucking years old, completely alone in the world, and this arse is holding a few desperate acts of a homeless kid over me . . . for his son.
No, for himself ultimately.
“If I hadn’t let that officer take Rory that day, you would have missed out on that scholarship. Missed your chance. Missed this life.”
My throat starts tightening up. He can’t be serious. He cannot be fucking serious. Surely Esme will do the right thing and not pretend it was me with her. She knows I’d never touch a married woman. “But—”
“Your reputation can handle this, Rush. You can weather this storm because you’re Rush fucking McKenzie—a footballer at the pinnacle of his game. Rory can’t. He’s been on the bubble for so very long between staying on the team or being cut. Something like this gets out? He’ll be cut in an instant to protect Seth. But you, you’ll probably be captain next year. Teams always forgive the antics of stars because they’re afraid to lose them.”
“I’m trying to process this, sir. Consenting to an affair is very different from a starving kid stealing food out of desperation.”
“You’re the rebel they expect this from. The man who brawls in pubs and changes women like you do your socks and doesn’t give a fuck who sees or knows.”
“That doesn’t mean that—”
“I’ll lose the election. My life’s work down the drain. You know this town and how they love their LFC. You know anyone that messes with its chance at success is a villain. I can’t run that risk. I can’t. You know I wouldn’t be asking you to ride out this storm if it weren’t of utmost importance.”
“Archibald.” I clear my throat and my chest constricts as panic spreads.
“Rory told me Esme’s leaving Seth. That they’re truly in love and she can’t handle Seth’s abuse anymore.” Abuse? Seth? He’s a surly bastard without much of a personality who keeps his private life private, but abuse? “She’s documented much of it. She—”
“You still have connections with the police. Can’t you do something about that and fix the problem in the meantime?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. The only thing to do is for you to step up. For Rory. For Helen. It’ll blow over just as quickly as that thing you did year before last. Look how little that affected you.”
The bastard in me wants to tell Archibald that his son needs to deal with his own problems. That he’s spent a lifetime fixing Rory’s mishaps to save himself and his political career the embarrassment of having a son who’s trouble.
The fifteen-year-old kid in me who was starving and desperate for a way out remembers the promise I made when I signed my first contract. The one that said I’d repay the Matheson family any way I could for giving me a life I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
I look in the mirror across from my bed. My hair is sticking up all over the place and the darkness of my ink is stark against the white of my sheets.
Who knew that day so very long ago that I took a deal with the devil? Who knew he’d come to collect like . . . this? This is bollocks. Fucking arsehole Rory.
“Rush?”
Today is my payday.
The problem? I’m arrogant enough to think I’m bigger than this. That my star is rising so high and fast that nothing can touch it. That I can weather the storm for the man who gave me the chance when he didn’t have to.
There’s a fear too, but I push it away.
“If I do this, we’re even.” I’ll just ignore the reporters. “There is no coming back for more.” I’ll make no comment on the pictures. “No favors.” I’ll act as if it’s any other fucking day. “No more—”
“Of course.”
“My debt is paid.”
RUSH
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT BLOODY time it is here, mate?” Louie asks. “It’s six in the fucking morning.”
I laugh, his voice is just what I need to hear right now. Anything to keep me from heading back to the house and finishing what I started with Lennox earlier tonight.
Anything.
Anything . . . except another woman.
“Six? God forbid you actually see the sun rise every once in a while.” I laugh.
“Moons are good. It means the party is still going strong. Sunrises, not so much. That means hangovers, training, and having to roll off whatever warm body I’ve found as a cushion for the night.”
And as if on cue, a woman murmurs his name as a protest in the background. Predictable fucking Louie.
“Do you have a sec?”
My goalie and closest friend’s laugh is deep and rich and tugs a smile onto my lips. “Unlucky for her, that’s all I h
ad in me last night,” he teases.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Of course. What do you need?”
“I’m here. You’re there. Have you heard anything?”
“I’ve heard a lot of things. Question is, are any of them fucking true?”
My sigh is heavy. “Depends who they’re from.”
“Are the arsehole reporters still camping out at your gate? Probably. Is the story still selling tabloids? Of course, it is. We do love a juicy scandal here. Is Seth still a surly son of bitch who doesn’t deserve Esme? Damn straight.”
His sigh is heavy. He’s seen the bullshit side of Seth before and he knows the real me. He hasn’t asked for a single explanation, but threw a punch to help defend me when Seth came at me in the changing room. Thank fuck for Louie, the only mate who didn’t need to ask if it was true.
“What about the club?”
“Still saying ‘no comment.’ Still giving the bullshit line that they’re ‘working on building the best team possible for next year.’ As for your fate? Who the fuck knows? They have to weigh the benefits of keeping their proven captain or keeping you, the face of this new version of the team they’ve rebuilt. It’s a shit decision.”
“It is.”
“Say something, mate. Anything. Do an interview with Piers Morgan. Get your voice out there. Your silence is killing you and we can’t have that. You’re too damn talented to be burying your career just yet.”
“The gagging order—”
“Fuck the gagging order,” he says. “It’s like you have something holding you back when you should be fighting tooth and nail to keep your spot.”
“Louie,” the woman’s voice comes through the line.
“I love you, mate, but—”
“But you’ve got to go give her your few seconds. I get it.”
“Fuck you.” He laughs.
“Later, mate.”
“Hey, Rush?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re the heart of this team and this team is your heart. You need to do whatever it is to get you back here. You have your reasons for doing whatever it is you did or didn’t do,” he says, walking a fine line and not asking for answers, “but if you’re protecting someone or something, it’s not fucking worth it.”
He ends the call and I pause with my phone in my hand where I’m parked in Johnny’s driveway. The darkened house sits before me, a shadow among the hills.
I’m unsettled. Restless. Uneasy.
It’s not fucking worth it.
That echoes how I feel after tonight’s event. It was interesting to say the least. I don’t know what I expected when Finn talked me into taking this MLS gig as a means to lie low, but this wasn’t it. A decorated stage where I talked to a small crowd about a game that is my life, but that clearly isn’t much of anyone’s here.
Is this what it feels like when you’re on the downhill slide of your career? Car park events with a couple hundred people versus stadiums with tens of thousands?
I scrub a hand over my face and wonder if this is worth it? Yes, Archibald saved my arse all those years ago, but other than that, I made it to this level of football on my own. My skill. My sacrifices. My love for the game. Do I hate the slander against my name, that I’ll be known as a homewrecker and bastard? Yes. But can I face losing my career due to loyalty to a man whose son hasn’t changed since he was a lad? No. Fuck. No.
Will this not die a quick death like Archibald said it would?
LENNOX
MY MIND RUNS THE CONVERSATION with Finn over and over in my mind and each time it replays, my anger sparks anew.
I know I should revel in the fact that I might get the last laugh in this whole fucked-up comedy of errors, but I’m still hurt that he would do it in the first place.
And angry.
So goddamn angry that my bare feet might as well have worn a hole in the carpet from where I’ve paced back and forth. The city has sparked to life beyond the windows, glittering dots in the land of dreams.
I’m too busy stewing over Finn and his bullshit.
This is on me.
Totally on me.
And what the hell is in it for him? Why would he advise Rush to come here unless it was for some endgame tactic?
I’m primed, pissed, and have had too much wine to avoid second-guessing or overthinking my next movements.
When I hear the front door downstairs slam, I know Johnny’s out, so there’s only one person it can be.
I’m down the stairs and striding into the kitchen in seconds. I don’t give myself time to consider how tired he looks. The tie undone and hanging around his neck. The beer bottle he’s holding up to his lips and drinking without a breath. His hair going every which way from the hands he’s run through it.
What I see is his shirtsleeves rolled up, displaying the dark ink of his tattoos beneath.
What I remember is the taste of his kiss and the need to have more.
What I know is the want and the need to use him to take the hurt and pain away.
I’m too selfish to think of anything but that as I walk across the kitchen and take him by surprise.
My hands are fisting in his shirt as my lips find his, the sound of the beer bottle clinking to the counter—glass onto marble—the only other noise besides his surprised gasp.
He lets me take the lead as I deepen the kiss, pulling him against me. Our tongues touch. Our groans amplify. It takes everything I have to push him away, to break our connection, but I have so much to say.
“Your agent is a condescending prick that is doing you no favors,” I growl, giving a yank to his shirt to reinforce my comment, and just when he starts to reply, I slant my mouth over his and take what I need once again.
The kiss is laced with greed and lust, and all I can focus on is the feel of his body, the trace of beer on his tongue, and how very angry I am at him for just being him.
“We can’t do this,” I murmur in between kisses. Over and over. A nip of his bottom lip. “This is wrong.” A gasp as his hand fists in my hair. “Unethical.” His hand on my lower back pulling me against him, so I can feel how hard that beautiful cock of his is. “We need to stop.” A grind of his hips against mine. “Rush?”
It’s his turn to break the kiss this time. He twists his hand in my hair and pulls back ever so slightly so our faces are inches apart.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a fuck about the rules.” He dips down and tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth before leaning back again so his eyes are front and center, lids heavy with lust. “I care about the here and the now and the taste of your kiss and hopefully the grip of your pussy should we keep this up. So . . . fuck the bloody rules.”
I’ve always been shit at self-control.
Always.
And right now, I know there is no turning back. There is no saying no. I knew the minute I met Rush McKenzie I was going to break the rules for him, and the laugh that falls from my lips and echoes around the kitchen sounds just as crazy as the notion.
Emotions are complicated, nasty things.
That’s why this is the perfect way to do this. Without thought and on instinct. If we just dive in head first, scratch that itch, neither of us will be able to complain about it.
It will just be pleasure.
That’s all it will be.
“Careful, Nox,” he murmurs. “You’re playing with fire here.”
I lean in closer so my lips are at his ear—his body tensing in anticipation is a seduction all in itself—and whisper, “You ready to burn with me, Rush?”
I see the muscle feathering in his jaw as our eyes lock again, our desire making the decision before our reason can. Our excited breaths hit off each other’s lips as our chests heave against one another’s in a battle for the small amount of space separating us.
And then in that split second, we collide again as if the air between us is on fire and we need to smother it to put it out. Our bodies become one as we use the anger a
nd desperation and lack of control to fuel our every moment. We begin removing clothes—items are discarded without a care to where they are being tossed—because right now there is a need to touch his skin, to map his tattoos with my lips, to add my own marks with my teeth.
We don’t take the time to admire each other’s bodies in this state—misted with sweat, smelling of arousal, and tense with a carnal necessity. We can’t. We’re too consumed by the moment and each other.
Our lips bruise as we kiss like our lives depend on each and every connection we make.
We don’t discuss where we’re doing this or how. We just move in sync. He’s lifting my ass onto the kitchen counter and propping my feet up on the stools below.
He dips his fingers into me with one hand while his other holds my neck, and I lean back into it.
“Rush. God. That feels . . .” My words are eaten by the moan I emit when his lips find that hollow spot just beneath my jaw and his fingers slide in as far as they can go before he starts the motion all over again.
I sag against his hand as his groan fills the room, prompting me to scoot my ass closer to the edge to give him unhindered access.
My eyes close and lips part as I let him prepare me in the most pleasurable way for the thickness of his cock that is ready and waiting.
He works me up so that between the friction of his thumb and the manipulation of his fingers, I’m a wet mess, which is more than ready to be pushed over the edge he’s built me up to.
Our lips meet again, and this time it’s my hands fisting in his hair, it’s my hands reaching between his thighs to grab what I want and tell him I want it right now. And regardless of the violent desperation that tinges our kisses, Rush makes sure that his hands have mapped every surface of my body, leaving goosebumps laced with anticipation in their wake.
It’s almost as if he’s marking me to make sure every time someone touches me from here on out, I’ll remember this—his hands, his touch—and the havoc they wreaked on my senses.
It’s exhilarating and exhausting because all I want is him in me, owning me, pleasuring me.
“Lennox. I need . . . you. Please. You ready?” he murmurs with his lips against my breast, those eyes of his looking up at me.