The Mighty Anchor: Rogue Academy, Book Three

by Aarons, Carrie

  When I’m done drowning in my sorrows, I pull myself up, complete my tasks, and change into pajamas. Just an hour of mindless reality television on the couch won’t hurt, and it might just cheer me up marginally.

  What I don’t expect is the doorbell ringing the moment I spread a blanket over my lap. I also don’t expect my ex-fiancé to be standing on my stoop when I open the door.

  “Vance fucking Morley, Lara?” Louis stalks into the flat, not pausing once to check if this is a good time.

  “Christ, Louis, do you know what time it is? And don’t use that language in here. You’re lucky Mason is sleeping. I thought you were in Wales?”

  I have to rub the sleep from my face because he’s shown up right when I was about to head off to bed.

  “Have you seen the papers? Mason’s face is splashed bloody everywhere. Alongside Vance’s, of course. But you already knew that. Almost three years, Lara, and you couldn’t have bloody told me that the bloke who knocked you up was England’s next great keeper?”

  Louis is irate, bitter anger pouring off of him in waves, and his tone with me is cruel. He’s looking at me like I’m some kind of gutter rat.

  “And here I thought you loved me out of the goodness of your own heart, and wanted to care for my son like your own,” I spit back.

  Don’t expect to show up at my house close to midnight, accuse me of being a slag, and then think I’m going to take it lying down simply because I recently broke your heart. Louis should know me better than that. After everything I’ve been through, tough is the only thing I can count on being.

  “Vengeful, are we? Imagine my surprise when I find out my fiancé—I’m sorry, ex-fiancé. Imagine my surprise when I find out you were shagging some athletic superstar and never told me. Were you a kit chaser the entire time we were together?”

  That feels like a slap in the face, even if he hasn’t physically touched me since he stormed in.

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Each word is clipped.

  “I look like a bloody idiot, Lara. My friends and family are calling me with millions of questions about Mason, you, and Vance fucking Morley.”

  “It’s none of their business. And at the time, it wasn’t yours either. Not that I owe you an explanation, what with how you’re speaking to me, but I had no contact with Vance from right after I got pregnant till a little over two months ago. I’m not a slag, I was faithful to you and tried to build a life with you.”

  “Up until you kissed him behind my back. Did I get that timeline right?” Louis is furious, but something else seems off.

  “Are you drunk?” I think I smell cigarettes on him as well.

  “What does it matter to you? I’m a single man now, I don’t have to answer to anyone.”

  I try to take a calming breath, to put myself in Louis’s shoes. His life has been upended, and now he gets this news. And it wasn’t even straight from my mouth. I can only imagine how much shock and hurt he’s feeling right now.

  “I should have told you. I apologize for that. But until you can come here with a clear head, and calm emotions, we can’t discuss this. Mason is sleeping in the next room. Don’t do this, Louis. Just go. Get home safe.”

  His eyes are still full of spite, but at least I see some regret filter through them. “We will talk about this. And I want time with my son.”

  I nod, trying to herd him to the door. With one last angry look over his shoulder, Louis stalks out.

  It won’t be the end of his upset with me, nor I fear, his claim over Mason.

  Could nothing in my life ever just be simple?

  23

  Lara

  My knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel.

  If I wait in my car any longer, Mason will be late for school, and that will just be another mark against me as a mother.

  But I’ve tried to take count of all the mum’s holding the hands of their children, escorting them into the red brick building. If I can be the last one in, I can avoid any run-ins with judgmental shrews who don’t know any of my business but feel they can speak on it anyway. I’m sure the gossipers of Brighton are having a field day now that they all know the real identity of my child’s father.

  Not that I care. I learned long ago not to let the sting of their judgment invade my thoughts. I’ve grown a thick skin to the insults, side-eyes, comments that I’m trash … so why can’t I seem to do it when it comes to the tabloids?

  Perhaps because they don’t know me or my son at all and seem to have an opinion on our characters.

  “All right, here goes nothing,” I say to myself, opening the door and stepping out into the frigid air.

  There’s something about living by the ocean in the winter months that makes it that much colder. The salty, moisture-filled air smacks at my cheeks and hair, invading my bones with its icy fingers.

  Mason is occupied with a stuffed Mickey Mouse toy when I reach in to unlatch his seatbelt, and he protests coming out into the cold.

  “I know, love. But we’ll be inside soon, with your friends.” I hug him close to me, shouldering my purse and throwing my keys inside.

  I bustle up the sidewalk, trying to transfer any warmth I might have over to my son. He giggles as I speed walk because he’s jostling in my arms and thinks it’s a game.

  Just as I’m about to step the final way toward the front door, I almost slam right into another body.

  My head snaps back as I halt my progress, grabbing Mason extra hard to me to keep both of us upright.

  “Oh, Lara.” Portia stands just before me, blocking the entrance to the school.

  She’s in a posh outfit, with heels that only a barmy bird would wear in this weather, and wears a snarky grin on her face.

  “Morning,” I mumble, gritting my teeth and squaring my shoulders. “Just trying to bring Mason inside before he freezes. Excuse me.”

  She doesn’t budge. “Listen, Lara, it’s just awful what’s happening in the press. You must be downright depressed. What with Vance Morley not claiming your son, and now Louis has left you.”

  Her eyes scan my left hand, and I can’t help the ashamed blush that steals over my cheeks. This witch.

  “That’s not the case at all.” I leave it at that, knowing that even if I did, an explanation wouldn’t stop her from chomping at the rumor bit.

  “It must be hard to keep all these blokes straight. Although, being such a young mum means your brain might be a bit sharper. You have taken secondary school maths more recently than I have.”

  Wow. Ouch. That one nearly pierced the flesh. An attack on my age, since I had Mason so young.

  “You’re right. My brain is sharper.” I choose to use her words against her.

  “Perhaps. Now that you’re no longer planning a wedding, what with your baby daddy drama, maybe you’ll have more time to volunteer here with Mason’s class. We could really use you pulling your weight.”

  How she can, in good conscience, say these things in front of my son is just unfathomable. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Portia doesn’t have a good conscience. Honestly, it’s downright rotten.

  I’m too stunned to speak, and if I thought the backlash from Brighton’s residents finding out who my son’s father is was going to be bad I underestimated more than slightly.

  “Cheers.” She smirks, striding away, and I want to claw her eyes out.

  Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it. I try to repeat this over and over as I seethe, but it would be completely worth it. The only thing stopping me is Mason in my arms.

  “Mummy? No wedding?” he quips in my ear.

  Fuck. She had to go there? “Hush, sweetheart, let’s go play!”

  I hurry into the school. Hopefully, by the time I pick him up, he’ll have forgotten all about our run-in with evil Portia.

  * * *

  I’m pouring myself a glass of cabernet after putting Mason down, when my mobile rings.

  I deserve a whole bottle’s worth of wine for what I’ve had to endure
today, but since I’m the only one home if something goes wrong with Mason, I’ll savor this slightly overfilled glass.

  “Hello?” I say as I put the phone on speaker.

  I saw Vance’s name on the display, but still find it strange he’s calling me after Mason’s gone to bed. Not that we haven’t texted, we’ve shared more messages than just about our son. For his part, my ex-boyfriend has given me the respect not to push the envelope on the whole “I love you, I want to be with you, we have an undying passion until the end of time,” thing.

  “Hi.”

  And I feel pissed already. That’s what one word from Vance can do.

  “How was your day?” he grumbles, his rough voice needling at my core.

  It’s been about two weeks since he left, and I’ve fantasized about him every night. No wonder, what with the man being sex on a six-foot stick.

  Taking my glass of wine, I mosey to the couch, taking a long sip while sinking down into the cushions.

  I snicker. “You may not want to ask that.”

  A rustling comes from the other end, and my imagination pictures Vance getting comfortable in his bed, or on a couch. I picture that big body, preferably shirtless, adjusting until his hand is resting on his abdomen, the hair and muscles flexing beneath it.

  I don’t drink much, so this wine must have already gone to my head if I’m having sexual fantasies about Vance while we’re actively talking on the phone.

  “Uh oh, what happened?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

  “Oh, just mean mums at Mason’s school. Judgy, psychotic slags,” I huff out.

  “Those wankers don’t know anything. Don’t listen to them. You’re an incredible mum.”

  Always a succinct talker, but the things he does say are so meaningful.

  “Thank you.” I blush. “How was your day?”

  “Eh, it was fine. Had practice. Ate, went to the physical therapist. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak ill of the academy. It’s only now that I realize I barely asked Vance anything about his life when he was in Brighton for those two weeks.

  “What do you mean, get out of there?” I’m curious.

  His life has been football since the time I met him, and it’s surprising to me that he’s almost talking rubbish on it now.

  “I’ve been here since I was eight, and I’m an aging veteran at best. All the blokes I trained up with are gone, either to Rogue or sold to other teams. They’re competing, they’re playing through their best football years. I’m sitting in this bloody academy as a backup keeper because they’re too selfish to let me go play elsewhere. I’m biding my time for Remus to get hurt, or finish his contract, or want to play for a different team. I’m in football purgatory, and I’m ready to start. These bloody arses just won’t let me. My loyalty only runs so deep.”

  Blimey, I’ve never heard him talk about Rogue like this before. Back when we were together, he’d have thrown himself on a bloody grenade for that football club. But I understand it. He wants to play, that has been his dream all along. It must be torture to watch Jude, Kingston, and all the other mates he’s gone to academy with playing on a worldwide stage.

  My heart breaks for him, because no one works harder or deserves a place on the pitch more than Vance. I might not be ready to give him another shot romantically, but I can admit that he’s one hell of a footballer without any reservation.

  “You shouldn’t sit back and let them do that to you, then. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been nothing but steadfast and focused in pursuit of playing in the premiership, and that’s what you should do. Tell those people to bugger off, and get the job you want. I believe in you.”

  That last bit popped out of my mouth without warning, and I want to suck it back in because it means I feel something personal in the situation. Which I do, but I’m not ready for Vance to know that.

  “Thanks, Lara.” There is a pause, and I think we both know I just showed him the first bit of kindness in a while. “Aside from the mean mums, is Mason okay?”

  I can’t tell him about Louis storming over here the other night. If I do, it will do nothing but make him go all aggro and blow back into town with vengeance on his mind. I don’t need a brawl, or to be rescued. What I do need is his head on straight, because aside from the leaking of his parentage to the media, we have loads more to figure out.

  “Yes, he’s oblivious to it all. Happy as a clam. In fact, he keeps asking if you’ll take him to the park again.”

  “Is that so? I’ll have to get back stat.” I can almost hear Vance’s smile in his words.

  “Your presence wouldn’t be unwelcome.” I’m not sure where I’m going with that, but it’s not just Mason who wants to see him again.

  “Is that so?” His voice has dropped an octave, and if I’m not mistaken, I’d say Vance Morley is flirting.

  “Maybe if you bring that cheese on toast I used to love from that place in Clavering, I’ll even compliment you.” He used to bring a sandwich that had gouda and bacon stuffed between thick toast, and I’d give my left breast for it right now.

  “Only if I’m allowed to stay and eat one with you. Alone.” He throws down the gauntlet.

  “I wouldn’t object to that.” I bite my own fist after I say it.

  Here I am, sitting in the flat that I rent with my own money, legally drinking a glass of wine while my child sleeps in the next room, and I feel the same flutter of lustful, exciting flirting that I did when I was sixteen.

  How Vance makes me feel this way, like I’m riding a roller coaster with rose-colored glasses, I’ll never understand. Because I can’t seem to feel this way about anyone else.

  “Think about what I said, Lara. My feelings haven’t changed. I’m still just as in love with you as I was when we were teens.”

  I’m pretty sure he rings off before I can say anything; he probably fears I’ll turn him down again.

  Mental, though, that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  24

  Vance

  Sweat drips from my brow, almost freezing on the hair.

  The stark contrast of my body temperature against the icy air leaves my fingers numb and my entire face chapped from the wind, but I barely notice.

  There are only seconds left in stoppage time, and my squad is barely hanging onto our one goal lead.

  “Mark your man!” I scream, steering the ship from in front of the net.

  Not only is my job to literally stop the other team from scoring a goal, but as keeper I’m the eyes of the team. I watch everything with laser focus, calling out to my strikers, forwards, and backs to tell them when they’re about to get passed, tripped up, or outrun. My expertise is to keep us in formation, keep us formidable so that I don’t become the last line of defense before that ball sinks into the back of my net.

  And today, that part of my job has been harder than ever. I miss the days when my academy squad played so in sync that I rarely had to command anyone. When Jude and Kingston played with me, we functioned as a sole unit, almost sharing one brain.

  These new blokes are clumsy and inexperienced. Cocky little shites, too. They don’t listen, hog the ball, and try to outrun everyone to the point that they’re winded. I suppose, at one point, we were like them. But then we grew up, moved on.

  Well, some of us have moved on.

  “Stay on top of him! Don’t let him … bloody hell!” My ire rings out across the pitch as an opposing player comes barreling toward me.

  The arrogant prick on my squad has terrible footwork and was an easy defeat for the player about to shoot the ball directly at my face. I hear the smattering of supporters in our bleachers cry out because it would be useless if we lost the game after being up for more than half of it.

  My heart jumps into my throat, but my leather-gloved hands go to the ready. I stare him down, knowing that sooner or later, he’ll be kicking that speeding orb right at my body.

 
; He winds up, and I crouch, adrenaline shooting through my feet. The ball comes hurdling toward my net, my zone. I spring sideways, reaching endlessly, endlessly …

  It twirls just past my fingertips, brushing the very end of my glove as it sinks into the white string behind me.

  “Fuck!” I scream as my body hits the ground.

  Pain radiates through every cell, but again, I don’t feel it. All I feel is the slice of disappointment cutting through every muscle, tendon, and bone. I may loathe being at the academy, but it doesn’t mean I don’t give one hundred and ten percent through everything I do.

  Football players hate to lose, but I more than hate it. I despise it. Each time a tally is marked in the lost column against me, I sink into a deep funk. Sometimes for days. Kingston and Jude used to have to take me to the local pub and get me legless before I could put the defeat behind me.

  “Tough loss, but you played well, mate.” The git who let the winning goal get by him pats me on the shoulder.

  I want to break his hand.

  There will be post-game meetings and film sessions, and some of the squad will go eat in the dining hall together. I want no part of it. I head back to my empty dorm room and punch the wall of my shower so hard that I think I crack one of the tiles.

  It’s not planned, but I’ve had such a shite day that the only thing I know will make me feel better is two hours away. Without telling any administrators where I’m going, or concerning myself with what Rogue will think about my departure, I get in my car and begin driving.

  It’s a tad comical that the only thing I used to look forward to was practice and matches. I breathed, ate, and slept football. If my squad lost, it would gut me. But now, there is something I long for more than football.

  My family.

  Two and a half hours later, with flowers in one hand and a giant lollipop in the other, I ring the door for Lara’s flat.

  Muffled stomping comes from the other side, and in a moment, Lara is opening the door.