by K. Bromberg
“A starving fifteen-year-old kid doesn’t owe anybody, Rush. Especially not at the expense of his integrity nor his career.”
“But I am where I am because of that day.”
“You’re where you are because of you, Rush McKenzie. Your determination. Your grit. Your talent. Your goodness. You are where you are and who you are because of you and no one else.” Tears well in her eyes as her voice escalates in urgency. “I beg you. Let. Me. Fight. For. You. You are worth fighting for.”
She stares at me in a way that owns every part of me and in a way I never expected to feel for someone.
My sigh is as heavy as my heart. I want to tell her thank you. I want to tell her that she’s the best thing that’s ever come into my life bar football. I want to tell her that I love how she’s fighting for me. With me. But my throat is hoarse. My soul is crushed. “Do what you have to do.”
LENNOX
“DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO do.”
I spring into action at Rush’s words. “You need to pack. I’ll deal with the rest.”
And then it hits me. Where’s the time stamp on the photo taken of Esme? If she was here three weeks ago, the bruises would have faded if Rush hit her. So if the picture was taken this week, there’s no way it could be Rush.
Later, Lenn. Get him on that plane and then dig in and find ways to refute this.
The next fifteen minutes are a whirlwind of him packing and me trying to figure out just what else I can do to fix this. I’m well aware that I should patch Finn in on this, that my hatred for him could be set aside for the good of Rush, but fuck Finn. Fuck him and his lack of confidence in Rush. He was talking loud enough on the other end of the call for me to hear.
This is not a wait-and-see operation.
This is a grab the bull by the horns and throw something red in front of him moment.
And right now, I’m so livid I’ll lead that charge. Hell, I’m furious with Finn, angry at Rory, and infuriated by Esme’s silence. Isn’t she just as complicit in this as Rory is?
I get why she hasn’t spoken up before this, but now? Now she’s going to let Rush take the heat for this?
She could have said something when she was away from Haskins in LA. She could have had a restraining order placed on her husband—who beats her—while she was safely hidden in a country, five thousand miles from home. But no, she stayed silent, allowing an innocent man to be thrown into the fire. An affair is one thing, but abuse? That attack on his character? On his very soul?
That’s deplorable.
Fury, rage, and anger course through me—and that’s an understatement.
“I’m going to need . . .” My words fade when I walk into Rush’s room with instructions and find him sitting on the edge of his bed looking utterly fucking wiped out. “Hey? You okay?”
High on my own adrenaline to fix and solve, I cross the room to him. When I’m within arm’s reach he just pulls me toward him, my thighs straddling his, and then he wraps his arms around me and holds on.
At first, I’m at a loss of what to do. Rush is always such a strong, vibrant presence so to see him so . . . vulnerable, it knocks me back.
I thread my fingers through his hair until he tilts his head up so his eyes can look at mine. There’s a whole host of emotions swimming in his and every undecipherable one makes my heart race.
“I need you, Nox. Right now. I just need you.”
I lower myself to sit on his thighs as my lips find his in a slow, bittersweet kiss. “You have me,” I whisper. Completely.
We move in silence. My action, his reaction. My exhale, his next inhale. Two strangers who’ve found each other. Two broken halves who’ve somehow made a whole.
My shirt over my head and his hands on my breasts. Our clothes shoved to the floor before he lays me down. Our lips meet again and again almost as if they’re making up for what will be no more.
Because this is our goodbye.
It doesn’t have to be spoken aloud. It’s in the soft sigh we both emit when he slips into me. It’s in the gentleness of his lips as he kisses the tear tracks from my cheeks. It’s in the lacing of our fingers together as if we never want to let go. It’s how our bodies fit together in an action as old as time but is intimately special for us.
We make love bathed in the morning sunlight, eyes locked on one another’s, with no sense of urgency, even though it feels like the world is burning down around us.
But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now. There’s no one else I’d want to be breaking my heart.
Our bodies move together as our foreheads touch, and our emotions swell to a point where it almost becomes painful to breathe.
I welcome the sudden rise of pleasure in my orgasm only for its ability to drown out the heartache for a moment.
Only for its ability to give me one more memory with Rush. One more sensation to recall. One more moment to cherish.
I look up at him with the sun like a halo around his head. His eyes reflect everything I feel, and I have to hold on to the idea that this is enough for me. It has to be. And in owning that notion for all it’s worth, I lean forward and press a kiss to the compass tattoo on Rush’s chest.
To those who wander.
No matter where I went in life, it would always let me find my way back to what was right. It was her compass so I’d never lose my way.
My only hope is that someday he’ll find his way back to me. To what is right.
Because I love him with all my heart.
RUSH
DESIRE IS SOMETHING I KNOW and understand firsthand. The desire to play, to win, to live . . . to have a woman. Simple, basic, masculine wants.
But as I sit on the tarmac waiting to take off, with my hat pulled low over my forehead and my eyes closed, I know there’s something about Lennox Kincade that makes me question if I’ve ever really understood what desire was before.
I don’t think I had a clue.
Before she came into the picture, I used the sensations desire induced to help numb me from my past.
But maybe that’s where I was wrong.
Perhaps I’ve always been numb.
And maybe, just maybe, it was Lennox I needed to make me feel again.
To make me live again.
To realize what I thought was living all along was really just existing.
The plane pushes away from the gate and as much as I miss home, as much as I need to get there right now and set shit straight, a part of me will still be here.
Will always be with her.
I need you, Nox.
You have me.
The woman who showed moment after moment that she believed in me.
Had faith in me.
You’re where you are because of you, Rush McKenzie. I beg you. Let. Me. Fight. For. You. You are worth fighting for.
Has faith in me. She’s the most magnificent woman I’ll ever know.
The only woman I’ve ever let myself love.
LENNOX
“I HAVE A MILLION THINGS I need to do, Johnny,” I say as he stands in the living room and stares at me.
“Like?”
“Like find Rory and talk him into confessing to this so Rush can be free and clear of this—”
“Rory?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.” I stare at my phone and the ten unanswered calls to Rory on my call log.
“What else?”
“I have to find a flight home.”
“Home? Already?” He laughs. “Talk about making me feel like chopped liver. The hired sex leaves and you bail on me.”
I eye him above the papers I have scattered all over the table. “That’s not—”
“You can admit it, you know,” he says as he takes a few steps toward me.
“Admit what?”
“That it was Rush who was holding you here. The MLS thing was over and it was time for you to go home, but there was Rush.”
Tears burn and I force a swallow down my throat. “Do
n’t do this. I can’t do this right now.”
“What? Break down and have a good cry? Why the hell not?” He takes a seat beside me and stares at me. “The sooner you do it, the better you’ll feel.”
“I can’t. I have all this work to do. I have—”
“Distractions. All of those things are distractions. Everyone in the UK is asleep right now. No one is going to be responding.” He turns me in my chair to face him and when I do, the tears are already there, the sob in my throat not far behind it.
And when Johnny pulls me against him in one of his reassuring hugs, I let myself cry for the first and only time over a man.
I let myself feel.
We were supposed to have two weeks of us. Lazy days where we made love in slow motion. Endless promises to talk or text.
Time.
Just time.
But maybe it is better this way. Maybe the best way is to rip the Band-Aid off instead of the slow pull that devours you with each and every hair it rips out on the way.
Maybe this is all for the better.
If that’s the case, then someone needs to tell my heart that too.
RUSH
Lennox: If she were in LA three weeks ago, the bruises would be gone by now. I’m trying to get a date stamp for that photo to prove it was taken recently. When she was in the UK and you were here.
Me: It’s worth a shot.
Lennox: I can’t get hold of Rory. Has he texted you?
Me: No. He’s not answering me. I’ll try him again.
Lennox: Thanks. Are you okay?
Me: Yes. No. I don’t fucking know.
Lennox: Understandable. We’ll get this straightened out. Text me once you get home.
Me: Will do.
I look at Lennox’s text from a few hours ago and then I scroll past what feels like a hundred other ones—teammates, Finn, journalists who’ve gotten my mobile number over time—and cringe when I come to the ten I sent Rory to find them unanswered.
At first, I hoped it was shitty phone service on the plane. But considering I just received yet another text from an unknown phone number, I know my service is working.
I know Rory received my texts.
Worry rifles through me over his emotional stability.
Will this push him over the edge? That the woman he loves was beaten—again—and the fucker who did it is placing the blame on me?
She’s not safe. His heart must be breaking.
But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I’m stuck on a plane.
So I just sit and wait.
LENNOX
MY PHONE STARTLES THE HELL out of me. When I look at its screen, as I fumble with bringing it to my ear, it says that it’s two o’clock in the morning.
“Chase? What in the hell are you doing up right now?”
“Turn on the television. Or computer. I mean computer. Go to ESPN or Sky News online . . . just go.”
I jump out of bed. “What am I looking for?”
“A press conference. Rory Matheson. Holy shit.”
My fingers miss-hit keys as I search as fast as I can to find a live stream. And when I do, I gasp. Standing in front of a sea of cameras is Rory Matheson, the always-on-the-bubble Liverpool defenseman. He’s dressed in what I think is his attempt to look as similar to Rush as possible.
And he does.
I notice it in the first few moments, but it’s his words that hold every second of my attention.
“Thank you for coming here today. I’m sure you’re wondering what a mediocre player like me is doing holding a press conference about the current situation at Liverpool FC regarding the allegations made about Rush McKenzie by Seth Haskins. I’m here to tell the truth.”
There is a shuffling among the reporters as flashes go off, and I’m sure some of them are looking at each other like what the hell is going on?
Me, on the other hand? I’m sitting in my bed with my laptop, waiting with bated breath.
“Do you know what this is?” Chase asks in my ear.
“I have an idea.” Let’s just hope it’s what I think it is.
“I once heard someone say that the measure of a man isn’t what he’ll do for himself, but what he’ll do at the expense of himself for others. If that’s the case, Rush McKenzie is truly a remarkable man. The kind of man who would let the entire world think it was him caught in an uncompromising position with a married woman instead of destroying a man struggling with depression. That man . . . meaning myself.”
There is an audible gasp from the crowd as well as the people standing to the left and right of Rory, who look stunned. I guess he didn’t tell anyone what he was going to say.
“Well, shit,” Chase murmurs in my ear.
“I’m the one in that photo with Esme that was printed in June. If the photographer would have moved to the left, you would have seen my tattoo,” he says, lifting up his hand to show the ink I can’t make out, “and this wouldn’t even be an issue. But Rush”—he shakes his head—“allowed you to believe it was him. Because at that time I wasn’t in a good place. I was depressed and had thoughts of ending my life. I’m a recovering addict . . . so he took the blame. He took the punches. He took the wrath so wrongly aimed at him by you. He left the country to allow the story to die down. He let everyone believe that image was of him and not me, because he knew that you would eat me up and spit me out without a second thought to the damage you’d done to me. He knew I’d break under your pressure. He was worried about my well-being more than his career. And not once did he defend himself. Not once did anyone ask him if the picture was actually him.”
Rory shakes his head again and takes a sip from his water bottle before continuing to a rapt audience.
“Oh my God,” Chase whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back. This is incredible.
“When the picture leaked of Esme and me, I was weak and let him take the blame, but not anymore. I can’t in good conscience allow what he was accused of yesterday to stand without speaking up.” He clears his throat. “Rush didn’t lay a hand on Esme. In fact, I don’t think he’s even met her. Seth Haskins, her husband, my teammate, and the person who made the accusation in the Daily Mail yesterday, is the person responsible for Esme’s injuries. How do I know this? Because over the past nine months, I’ve had to sit by and watch random bruises mar her skin. Seth has a bad game, a new bruise appears. She tells him she wants a divorce like she did four days ago, her eye is bruised so bad it’s swollen shut.”
“That’s a heavy accusation you’re making, Rory.”
Rory nods and meets the eyes of the reporter. “It is and I’m aware of that, but I have proof.” More gasps ring out, mine included. “Esme has provided footage from their in-home security camera of her assault to the police so she can press charges. Charges I’ve begged her to file for months, but fear and shame and public judgment have prevented her from acting. But not now. Not anymore.” More gasps. “A small clip of the “alleged” altercation will be provided to all networks as proof of what I’m saying here today.” He glances to the side of the stage and the reporters start murmuring as the camera pans to where Esme stands, sunglasses on, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Jesus, she’s actually there,” Chase murmurs, exactly what I’m thinking.
“I’m not standing up here to play the part of the saint. I was in the wrong. I had the affair with Esme. I was in the wrong allowing Rush to be held liable, and I’ll willingly take the consequences for my actions. But I will not, cannot, stand by and let you”—Rory points to the journalists—“crucify Rush McKenzie for something he didn’t do. Something he would never do.” He looks to the left to a sports agent I know in appearance before looking back to the press gallery. “I’ll make no further statements on the matter. Thank you for your time.”
The press erupts in a flurry of questions as I sit watching, open mouth and eyes wide, with Chase talking in my ear.
Rush is finally free.
RUSH
I’M STANDING IN HEATHROW BAGGAGE claim, hat pulled low over my eyes, staring at Rory on the telly placed high in the corner, completely gobsmacked.
A million things run through my head.
What in the hell is he doing?
Will he be okay after doing this?
What is everyone going to think of me now?
The baggage claim carousel moves in loops at my back and my phone buzzes alerts over and over in my pocket, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. From the blurred image the broadcasters keep showing of Esme trying to open a front door with Seth yanking on her from behind, fist cocked back and ready to fly. Even with the blurring of detail—for a modicum of respect perhaps?—you can still see how Haskins could easily overpower his own wife. I cannot fucking believe it. What he’s been doing to her. I’m seething in anger now, not only for what that animal is capable of, but knowing that he was willing to have people believe I did that.
And then another thought crosses my mind.
It’s over.
It’s finally fucking over.
I’m successful in keeping a low profile so I get out of the damn airport without being noticed. The minute I’m in the car park, I suck in a huge gasp of air as if it’s the first breath I’ve been able to take since I left here over four months ago.
I don’t have a car or a ride but I don’t care, because all I want is a few minutes of privacy. All I need is to hear Lennox’s voice.
When I look at my phone and the four missed calls from her, it seems she’s on the same page.
I pick up my mobile and dial.
“I guess you didn’t need my help after all,” Lennox says.
“You didn’t put him up to that? You didn’t set that—”
“No. I’m as shocked as you are. I’m . . . speechless. See? I’m not the only one who thinks you’re worth fighting for.” Her words hang on the line as I struggle with the onslaught of emotions the past twenty-four hours have brought.
“Lennox . . . Thank you. God, you’re—”