Hard to Hold

by K. Bromberg

  God, it’s times like these that I want to make more of a difference.

  “Do you play?” I ask Scottie, when I can finally push words from my mouth. He nods. “How old are you and what position?”

  “I’m thirteen and I play center mid.” His voice is so very quiet.

  “A very important position. That means you’re steady and dependable when needed and aggressive when warranted.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say, then I pull my jersey over my head and take it off. “I think this would fit you better than me.”

  LENNOX

  WHO IS THIS MAN?

  His comment to the little boy with the red hair and freckles galore about not believing everything that you hear, and the look he gave me, is the reason I’m still standing here. Still staring.

  That’s why I’m watching him when I should be stewing over that kiss he planted on me in public—public—where everyone and their brother could have seen it.

  And that’s how I catch the change in his expression—the softness—when he pulls his jersey over his head and signs it for the little boy who’s staring at him like he’s his hero, with a mom beside him who has tears welling in her eyes.

  I take a few steps forward instinctively but am unable to hear what he’s saying when his voice lowers, as if they’re the only two in Rush’s world right now. The little boy looks at Rush with disbelief etched in every line of his face.

  Rush starts to look around as if he needs some help, and when he sees me, he motions me closer.

  “Did you need something?” I ask.

  “Yes. Um . . . my friend Scottie is going to be my guest for the exhibition tonight.” Scottie’s jaw drops open and he glances at his mother, who looks just as surprised. “Can you help me find someone to get him and his mother some gear and out onto the field? I’m thinking they can have a spot on the end of the dugout with the rest of the team.”

  “No. Way.” Scottie can barely get the two words out as his arms are halfway stuck through the jersey as he puts it on.

  Rush turns to him, his smile genuine, and nods. “Yes, mate. If that’s okay with you and your mum?”

  “Yes. Of course. Are you sure?” Scottie’s mom asks, almost as if she’s not used to anyone doing something like this for them.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Rush says and then looks back at me while Scottie is all but bouncing out of his shoes. “Can you find someone to help me with that, Lennox?”

  “Definitely.” I nod, and our eyes meet for a brief moment. I don’t know Rush well enough yet to be able to read into whatever emotion is swimming in his eyes—compassion, understanding, a gentleness I don’t expect—but all are definitely there. “Scottie and Mrs.?”

  “Daphne,” his mom says with a quick smile.

  “Scottie and Daphne,” I say. “Why don’t you guys follow me and we’ll find someone who can get you guys all set up?”

  “Sure,” Scottie says.

  “I can handle that for you, Ms. Kincade.” I’m startled by the woman from the MLS public relations team, who steps up beside me and motions for Scottie and Daphne to follow her.

  “Thanks,” Rush says with a smile. “I’m also going to need another jersey too.”

  “I’ll get that taken care of right away,” she says putting her hand on Scottie’s back and steering them to our left.

  I watch the trio as they walk toward the inner part of the stadium. Scottie is bouncing and talking excitedly, while Daphne takes one more glance back to where Rush is now talking to the next person in line. She has the softest of smiles on her lips, and I swear I see a tear slide down her cheek.

  Anyone looking at the scene would think this was a planned event. Some well-placed public relations for the bad-boy soccer player whose reputation has taken a hit.

  But I’m on the inside of this well-oiled MLS machine, and I know this wasn’t a stunt to garner good press. It was Rush McKenzie showing a softer side I don’t think many have seen before.

  A side that he’s not supposed to have. Not because I don’t want him to be a good guy, mind you, but because I know I’m losing the battle with my resolve.

  I know if I see much more of this nice, caring Rush, I’m going to cave.

  How can you not want to be with a man who treats a kid like he’s gold?

  And how can you push a man away when you think everyone else has him pegged all wrong, and you’re obsessed with figuring out why he’s not trying to prove otherwise?

  Maybe that’s why I stick around and watch the rest of Rush’s meet-and-greet session when I have a million other things to do, like follow through on two new athlete prospects as well as finalize a few negotiations.

  Perhaps I figure if I stand here long enough, there will be something he does that will sour my opinion of him. I’ve seen it a hundred times, where athletes walk out of these junkets after an hour because it’s beneath them, or when the line never ends, they become short with the fans.

  But not Rush. I’m more than impressed with how he takes time for each and every kid as if they were the first ones in line. He always has a smile and words of encouragement.

  And my inability to leave backfires. By the time he finishes and strolls over to me, before he heads to warm up for the exhibition game, I’m even more attracted to him. Not just because he’s stunningly handsome, but because you learn a lot about someone in how they treat others—and he treated everyone with grace and gratitude.

  “Hey,” he says. “You’re still here.”

  “As are you,” I say, angling my head to the side, wondering how tired he is from being “on” for the past four hours. Now he has a hard ninety-plus minutes of soccer.

  “You’re staying for the match?”

  “Nah. Soccer’s not my sport.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you need to watch me play. And the proper terms is football.” He winks.

  “Football. Soccer. Same difference. It’s not my sport,” I tease.

  He sputters over a cough. “What, love? Did I just hear you properly?”

  I nod, even though the smile I’m fighting says otherwise. “You did.”

  “What do I need to do to convince you otherwise?”

  I cross my arms over my chest as I stare at him and roll my eyes at myself for melting at his boyish grin.

  “I’m a hard woman to convince of anything, Rush.”

  “Are you throwing down the gauntlet? Because I’m pretty sure you just dared me to convince you that football is exciting. And I’m pretty competitive . . . so once I convince you of that, you know I’m going to succeed at convincing you of another very important matter.”

  Our grins match and our eyes hold, as people hustle around us to get things picked up before the crowd is let through the gates for the exhibition match. The connection we share is still as strong as ever, but how ridiculous was I to think avoidance would weaken that?

  It hasn’t.

  Not with him standing here with the sunlight on his face and those eyes owning every emotion of mine—confusion, desire, defiance, want.

  “This is the part where you tell me what it is you want, Lennox. This is where you explain to me why your words are saying one thing but your eyes are saying something completely different when it comes to us.”

  “You need to get ready for your game.”

  “Only if you stay and watch.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure Cannon would be really thrilled if you cut out on this extensive production because of me.”

  “I don’t give a toss about Cannon, Lennox.” And the way he makes the comment tells me he’s not joking. “So you’ll stay because you’re dutiful and sensible, and definitely wouldn’t want to rock the boat. I’ll stay because I’m going to get a hat trick and dazzle you with some fancy footwork. Once you’re impressed, we’ll talk about the rest.”

  “I think you suffer from a serious lack of self-confidence,” I say drolly despite being utterly charmed by this man.


  “I’m going to win you over yet, Nox,” he says as he takes a step back. “Like me, football is an acquired taste. Once you have it, you can’t resist sneaking a little in every chance you get.”

  “Definitely lacking self-esteem.” I can’t help but smile.

  “Make sure you’re sitting front and center. I wouldn’t want you to miss a thing.”

  And without another word, he jogs toward the underbelly of the stadium with two of Cannon’s “lackeys” following to make sure his every whim is taken care of.

  I watch until he fades from sight and the only thing I can do is laugh. Arrogant ass.

  This is the part where I should be telling myself that over my dead body am I staying, because I don’t want to give Rush the satisfaction of being right.

  But if I’m dead, then I wouldn’t be able to experience all that there is to Rush, and no matter how many times I tell myself I’m holding out . . . he seems to have found a weakness of mine.

  Him.

  The question is, what am I going to do about it?

  The answer? Stay and watch.

  Of course, I do. I watch each pass of the ball, each set made, every shot taken, and secretly marvel at Rush’s natural talent.

  The entire time though, his comment keeps running through my head, almost as if to help justify my weakening resolve.

  It’s no one’s fucking business who you sleep with.

  And he’s right. It’s not. But I also know public perception and the professional bias that comes from it. That thought leads to Rush and what he’s going through back home with Liverpool. After some digging, there are quite a few rumors about his team captain. None of them paint him in the most flattering light.

  So if Rush was having a fling with Esme, maybe it was because those rumors about Seth and his controlling—and possibly abusive ways—are true.

  If that’s the case though, why does Rush stay quiet? Why does it feel like Rush is taking this hit as if it’s a duty rather than because he’s guilty? And if he’s with her, why is he pursuing me?

  “Gooooooooaaaaaaaaaallllllllll!” the announcer screams a millisecond before the entire stadium roars. I jump up in unison with them, my hands in the air, my voice going hoarse. “Number thirteen, Rush McKenzie, just made an incredible shot, ladies and gentlemen. That’s his second of the night.”

  Rush high-fives the rest of his teammates in this pseudo-All-Star game with the best players from around the league competing against each other, before turning to me and pointing with a huge grin just like he did after the first goal.

  The next thing he does is run over to where Scottie and his mom are sitting on the bench, high-fiving him before all the guys proceed to ruffle the hair on the top of Scottie’s head.

  My smile feels permanent. I truly am enjoying myself.

  It’s not like I ever doubted he could do it. There’s a reason he’s often talked about in the same circles as Messi, Maradona, Ronaldo, and even Beckenbauer.

  I thought I hated this sport—the long breakaways, the low scores, the endless back and forth. After becoming fully immersed in this game, I’m beginning to think I disliked it because I didn’t have anyone to root for.

  But right now, watching Rush own the field every time he touches the ball, I see it differently.

  His skill is phenomenal. Footwork that runs circles around the others. A cockiness that says he knows it and plans to exploit it every chance he gets. A grace that can be likened to a dancer’s but with the aggression of a fighter.

  If the roar of the crowd here is invigorating, I can only imagine what a game is like sitting in a seat somewhere in England where the crowd capacity is three times what is here tonight, and every touch Rush gets on the ball is either revered or reviled.

  When his third goal is scored toward the latter part of the second half and his hat trick is accomplished, he simply turns my way, arms out, and takes a bow.

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  It’s all I can do, because Rush McKenzie just successfully convinced me that soccer is an exciting sport.

  So much so that I can’t remember the last time something—or someone—mesmerized me to the point that I didn’t pick up my phone to take a call.

  And my phone had been ringing.

  But I wasn’t answering.

  No. Instead I was falling a little more in lustful like with the tattooed newcomer putting on a show for me. Because this man wears his heart on his sleeve for those he believes deserve to see it. And I absolutely love that.

  RUSH

  11 Years Ago

  “C’MON, MATE. YOU HAVE TO celebrate. It was a fucking hat trick,” Rory says, hand on the door, phone in the other, and a pair of the most gorgeous boots tied by the laces and hanging over his shoulders.

  It sounds stupid because I have boots. Practical boots that get me through every training session just fine . . . but Rory’s are a smashing black and red with a hint of white, top-of-the-line pair like the professionals wear. They look like luxury for your feet, which is ridiculous but true. Hell, for a kid always having to scrounge through used bins to find a pair of boots to fit me, I’d give anything to be able to drop three hundred quid on a pair.

  I’ll have a pair like that someday when I sign with Liverpool. I know I will.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine. You guys go out without me.” That and I have no money to go and celebrate with. Sure he’d spot me the cash, but my pride is stronger than my need to fit in with the guys. Besides, they don’t all like me just yet.

  I see the glances and the rolled eyes when the coach compliments me. I feel the tackles that are a little too hard during training and given out of frustration because this new guy—me—is threatening to take their spots.

  “Us guys aren’t going anywhere. I’m talking about going to my mum and dad’s. They phoned and told me that you’re coming home with me so you can celebrate properly.”

  “Oh.” I think of Archibald Matheson and his constant presence around the pitch. His barrel laugh and quick comments to the coaches and other parents. And I think of how just two months ago he stood on that sidewalk outside of the shop and saved me in a way I’m not sure he even realizes.

  “My mum’s cooking is way better than the shit you’re getting here,” he says as my mouth waters. I’ll never complain about the food I’m provided with because the memory of hunger pangs is too recent, but home-cooked food? I can’t remember what that actually tastes like. “Besides, she isn’t taking no for an answer. It seems my mum and dad love you more than me.” His laugh echoes through the empty hallway, and I can’t tell if it’s annoyance I hear or hurt, but one thing’s for sure, it sounds fragile. Something he seems to be more and more as of late.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Whatever, mate. I don’t care. Let’s go.”

  I sit there and stare at Rory—the one who feels like the only friend I have—and wonder why I’m hesitating. “The rest of the guys. They’ll think—”

  “Fuck what those bastards think. They’re just worried because you’re kicking their arses on the pitch and making them look bad. Besides, I told them you’re with me. I have your back, Rush. That means they won’t say a word since they know my dad turns a blind eye or makes any trouble they may get in go away over at the station.” He nods, our eyes meet, and I wonder what it is he sees when he looks at me, because it sure as fuck is something different than when everyone else does.

  When I don’t stand, he strides forward to kick my foot. “You’ll be fine soon enough. Hell, a hat trick tonight helped with that seeing as everyone loves winning.”

  “And hurt, seeing as I played the entire game,” I say.

  “And?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows and a shrug. “C’mon. She’s waiting and I’m starving.”

  I place the napkin in my lap and look up to find Helen Matheson staring at me with wide eyes. “So? Did you like it?”

  My eyes all but bug out of my head. “Yes. I’m sorry. Did I not sa
y I did? It was”—Wonderful. Incredible. Homecooked—“my new favorite meal.”

  She claps her hands as Archibald chuckles. “I’m so glad,” she says as if she were nervous that I was actually going to complain. “After the game you played today, you deserved something special.”

  I spare a glance across the table to Rory and feel awkward. “Rory kicked arse—did great today too. I think he’s going to make a fine defender if they end up keeping him there.”

  “Rory will do fine wherever he plays so long as he keeps practicing,” Archibald says dismissively as he takes a sip of brandy. “But you, Rush. You were magnificent today.”

  Shifting in my seat, I feel uncomfortable at the praise, but I offer a smile or comment when proper during the rest of the meal. Rory even makes a face at me at one point and we erupt into laughter.

  But it’s only when the meal is done and Mrs. Matheson walks out with a cake lit with candles that I do a double take when they start singing, including me. She laughs as she puts it down in front of me. And when the singing ends, they all look at me expectantly.

  “We know it’s not for two weeks, but we wanted to help you celebrate your birthday properly,” Helen says. “Happy birthday, Rush.”

  I blink at her . . . and swallow back tears. It reminds me of the last time my birthday was celebrated. It was my twelfth birthday and my mum was healthy and happy. She’d picked up an extra job waitressing that I kept telling her she didn’t need, but when I opened my present, I understood why. She’d bought me a Liverpool shirt. We’d cried together when I opened it.

  It’s the last great memory I have of her—before treatments and hair loss and pain. Before she lost her jobs, because she missed so much work from being sick. When we cuddled together in that tiny flat, so I could keep her warm and try to make her laugh through the pain.

  “Rush? Son? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this would upset you. I promise I’m not trying to take over for your mum.”

  I’m so fucking embarrassed by the tears that I shove away the one tear I let slip down my cheek with the back of my hand as fast as I can. “No. This is . . . it’s good. Fine.” I feel like an arse. “It’s just . . . I can’t remember . . . It’s only ever been my mum and me who celebrated my birthday.”