Playing Dirty (Sydney Smoke Rugby)

by Amy Andrews

  A sharp pain at the angle of his jaw alerted Kyle to how hard he was grinding his teeth. “And I followed through.”

  “This time.”

  Kyle shook his head. “And the last time. And the next time. And every time. I’ll follow through every time.”

  That wasn’t arrogance. It was just Kyle’s unshakeable faith in his abilities.

  Griff snorted. “Sure. Until you screw up one day. You fumble the ball, you misjudge a step, and then the monkey gets on your back, and you start missing everything and fucking up all over the field, and then you don’t have a team to rely on because you’re a one-man band and they’ll have given up on you a long time ago.”

  “I won’t screw up.”

  Another hysterical laugh cut the air with its harshness. “Of course you will, Leighton. Everyone does.” Griff shook his head. “You need to stop reading your own press. You’re never going to reach the heights every suck-up sports journo from here to the border is telling you you’re going to reach until you learn to become a team player and start passing the fucking ball.”

  Kyle glared at the man he’d admired and looked up to almost his entire life. Between this tirade and his treatment of Val, he’d never wanted to punch another guy so bad. But that’d be dumb. As would ignoring the advice of the best rugby coach on the planet.

  “Why do you think the Smoke is such a shit-hot team?” Griff demanded.

  Because they had a shit-hot coach was the obvious answer, but the question appeared to be rhetorical, as Griff ploughed on.

  “The Smoke is great because they work together as one. Not because one guy decides he can do it all himself. There are seven other guys out there on the field at any given time, and you’re going to need your team behind you when you’re shit out of luck, Leighton, and you will be. It happens to everyone at some point.”

  Kyle’s first instinct was to call bullshit on that, but Griff was eyeballing him, waiting for it, expecting it, and he was fucked if he was going to give him the pleasure. He told Griff he wanted to be coached, so shutting his mouth and listening was a good first step.

  “Look. I get it, Leighton. You’re used to being the guy in your family who takes charge, who gets things done. The one they look to when the shit hits the fan. I understand that it’s hard for you to rely on others when you’ve been let down by people in the past, when you know you can get it done quicker and better.”

  Kyle blinked, stunned at Griff’s insight. How the fuck did he know all that stuff?

  “What?” Griff glowered at him in response. “You think I don’t know how to use the internet or pick up a goddamn telephone? You think coaches don’t talk to each other? You think I don’t know every single thing about every player on my team?”

  Kyle wouldn’t have thought that Griff spoke to anyone. He wasn’t known for his conversation or networking. He was known for being grumpy and reclusive. He wasn’t on social media, gave only what press he had to, and had the world’s oldest mobile phone. There wasn’t even a computer on his desk.

  “I know everything about you, Leighton. Everything.”

  Kyle swallowed. He sincerely fucking hoped not as he thought about Val bare-assed naked in his bed this morning.

  “But you don’t need to worry about my family,” Griff continued, as if he hadn’t just tried to Jedi mind trick Kyle into thinking he could see inside the walls of his apartment. “Because that’s what the Smoke is. A family. They pull their weight, they don’t leave anyone to do the heavy lifting, they work together as a team, and have each other’s backs. And when you’re out there on the field, they’re your family. And they won’t let you down. Now…you want to be part of my family or not, Leighton?”

  A hot rush of anger burned Kyle’s chest. His family might be fuck-ups, but they were his fuck-ups and no one got to judge them—least of all a guy who’d spent twenty years ignoring his real family and deeply hurting a woman whose only crime was to have lived.

  A woman he loved.

  Val had dismissed him uttering the L word last night as being too rash. Hell, so had he. But in the cold light of day, facing her father down, he knew that was bullshit. He loved Valerie King. If he had to, he’d love her enough for him and her father, but he knew which she’d rather, and if that meant pushing this guy who could ruin his career in the blink of an eye, then that’s what he’d do.

  A red mist clouded his vision at the thought of Griff’s indifference to his own daughter. Couldn’t the man see what it did to her?

  “I find it ironic that you’re talking to me about family.”

  Sure, his might be dodgy as all fuck, but he’d never doubted he belonged.

  Griff’s gaze honed onto his like a predator spying prey as a sudden hush descended over the room. It was like all the things that made all the sounds in the world ceased to exist as Griff narrowed his eyes and shoved his hands on his hips. “I’d tread very carefully now, Leighton.”

  Fuck. That. His heart may be beating like crazy, and he might be breathing a little harder, but he wasn’t going to take lectures about family from this guy. He had to tread carefully, but he wasn’t going to let it slide, either.

  “She thinks you don’t love her. All she wants is for you to love her.” Val wouldn’t thank him for this, Kyle knew. But it was high time someone confronted Griff on his treatment of his daughter.

  “Don’t tell me what my daughter wants.” His lips were stiff as two planks.

  “Well, clearly someone has to.”

  “You know sweet FA about this, Leighton, and you gave me your word you’d stay away from her.”

  Kyle was not going to get into a discussion about the extent of his relationship with Val. He sure as hell didn’t want to be caught in a lie or make things worse for her.

  “We talk. There’s not a law against that.”

  “Talk? You’ve been here, what? Two fucking minutes?

  Kyle snorted. “It only took me two minutes to figure out how unhappy she is.”

  “Hey, I provide for her.” He stabbed himself in the chest with his index finger. “I’ve always provided for her. Don’t talk about her like you know her better than I do.”

  Kyle barked out a disbelieving laugh. He couldn’t help himself. Surely Griff didn’t really believe in his heart of hearts that he only had a fiscal responsibility to the relationship? That he could look into his daughter’s eyes and not see how much she yearned for him.

  “Are you kidding? The entire team knows her better than you do.”

  Griff stabbed the air with a finger in the direction of the door. “Get out,” he roared.

  Kyle shook his head and held his ground, his fight or flight reflexes muscling up, but he held his ground. “Can’t you see you’re breaking her heart? She thinks she’s dead to you.”

  Griff’s roar this time was more wounded than pissed off. He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, his brow screwed up, his nostrils flaring as he stared at Kyle with a look of such anguish on his face it was almost too painful to witness.

  He pointed to the door. “Get. The fuck. Out.”

  Griff’s voice was low and dangerous now. As dangerous as the taut lines of his body that seemed poised to strike. Kyle might be almost twenty years Griff’s junior, but the man was all height and muscle.

  And about as wild as a wounded bull at the moment.

  Getting into a fight with Val’s dad, or worse, giving him some kind of stroke, probably wouldn’t endear him to the woman he loved.

  Kyle turned on his heel, a heady mix of adrenaline and testosterone keeping his head up and his back erect. Still, he was thankful for contracts and good agents—he’d still have a job tomorrow.

  Whether he actually played another minute of rugby for the season was another thing.

  “Leighton!” Griff barked as he reached the door.

  Kyle took a calming breath as he turned to face the raging bull behind the desk. “Yes, Coach.”

  “Pass the fucking ball.”

 
Kyle stiffened. It was hard not to take criticism of his rugby style personally. But he didn’t say a word, just turned back to the door and yanked it open, resisting the urge, only just, to bang it shut.

  Eve, who was hovering outside the door, obviously waiting to go in, cocked an eyebrow and said, “You okay?”

  Kyle nodded, but the adrenaline that had sustained his system in a high-octane fight or flight state during the discussion with Griff evaporated in a sudden whoosh, and he reached for the nearby wall, leaning against it heavily. She smiled at him sympathetically and patted him on the arm before opening the door and entering.

  She didn’t close the door, and Kyle, still recovering from the encounter, wasn’t paying the low murmur of voices any heed until he heard his name mentioned.

  “Kyle’s right.”

  Kyle frowned and tuned into the conversation. Griff’s answer was a short, indistinct rumble Kyle couldn’t make out.

  “Val does think she’s dead to you, and you are breaking her heart.”

  There was nothing low or indistinct about Griff’s “And you can get out, too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A few days later, Val was working on her third batch of fifty croissants for the day. Or at least she was trying to. Kyle had decided to accompany her to work before training, and he was being exceedingly distracting. Both in how hot he looked in low slung track pants and his constant, indiscriminate groping of her.

  Anyone would think he hadn’t been inside her for days, that he hadn’t woken her at midnight—only five hours ago—with his deliciously hard cock.

  “You’re good at that,” he murmured, his front to her back, his mouth near her ear, his tongue drawing wet circles as she rolled the dough

  And he was good at that. In fact, Kyle was exceptionally good at a lot of things that involved his tongue.

  “Lots of practice. I reckon I could roll dough in my sleep.”

  His low chuckle puffed warm air down her neck. “I can think of better things to be doing in your sleep.”

  Val smiled. “I like rolling dough. It’s mesmerising.” And she forced herself to concentrate on the soothing action, not where Kyle’s hand was currently heading. “When I’m pissed off, I can roll it into submission.” She’d worked out a lot of her anger over her father on dough these last two years. “When I’m meditative, I can knead it ’til it’s all shiny and glossy.

  “What about when you’re horny?” he whispered, and his fingers slid under the waistband of her trousers.

  Val grabbed his wrist to stop him going any farther. “Oh no you don’t. I’m far too busy for this, and I don’t need the health department coming in with their blue light, muttering about the exchange of bodily fluids in a food prep area.”

  “Relax.” His low, hot whisper just about melted every bone in her body. “Who said anything about exchanging body fluids?” He smelled good, his wicked voodoo essence seducing her to let go his wrist, which he took shameless advantage of, his fingers ploughing straight and true to the heart of her.

  Val closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. “Kyle.” God, this man was irresistible.

  “You can roll dough in your sleep, huh?” She could just hear the hint of amusement through the fog of lust. “How about while you’re coming your brains out?”

  His thumb slid over her clit, and Val moaned. “Kyle.”

  “You roll.” His kissed down her neck as his thumb set up a steady rhythm. “Don’t mind me.”

  Val forced her eyes open. Forced herself to concentrate on the rolling pin in her hand and the dough waiting to be flattened a little more, but her nipples were two tight points in her bra, and hot daggers of pleasure shot down the fronts of her thighs, sank into her buttocks, and circled the base of her spine.

  “You’re not rolling.”

  Val abandoned the heavy rolling pin to grip the edge of the bench as her knees threatened to give out. “Shut up.” She was panting now, out of her mind with wanting him. “And don’t stop.”

  His knowing chuckle in her ear should have pissed her off, but it didn’t. She was totally enthralled with this man, her pulse and breathing totally in sync with the rhythm of his hand. He could play her body like an instrument, and she didn’t care. Even in such a short space of time he knew exactly what she liked.

  Exactly where and how she liked to be touched.

  “Val?”

  Sandy’s voice ripped her out of the sexual haze as effectively as an ice-bucket challenge. She was still seeing stars as she dragged Kyle’s hands out of her pants before her blissed-out body could protest.

  It caught up pretty damn quick, though.

  Kyle growled into her neck at the interruption. “Christ. She has terrible timing.”

  Ignoring him, Val dragged in a steadying breath. “Yes?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as husky to everyone else as it did to her ears.

  “Some guy out here to see you.”

  Val frowned, her sluggish brain still trying to drag itself clear of the quagmire of lust. The only guy she knew who called at the bakery to see her at five in the morning was the one who just had his hand down her pants.

  She heard a muffled, “No need to disturb her if she’s working,” and her legs almost gave out for a second time. She turned to Kyle with wide eyes.

  Her father?

  “Griff?” he whispered.

  Her pulse, which had barely settled from her close encounter with an orgasm, kicked up again. “Coming,” she called, her legs having already carried her halfway to the swing doors.

  She pushed through them, and there was her father, standing in front of the cash register, looking gruff and discomforted as per usual, taking up all the space in the bakery.

  “Dad?”

  “Valerie.”

  They didn’t say anything for long moments, just stared at each other. Sandy discreetly melted away to serve the usual lineup of customers. Her father seemed awkward, at a loss for words, and she didn’t blame him. He’d paid for this shop but had never been inside it. And now here he was.

  She’d imagined this day for a long time but had never—never—thought it would actually happen.

  “You on your way to training?” Sticky Fingers was not on her father’s route to Henley. He would have had to pass the stadium to get to Manly.

  “Yes.” He shuffled his feet a little.

  A little part of Val’s heart dared to hope. It was ridiculous to let it, but her father had driven an hour out of his way to visit her bakery before training.

  Surely that meant something?

  “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “Oh…” He glanced at the glass display cabinets like he was seeing them for the first time. “Yes. Please. What would you recommend?”

  “The croissants are my most popular item.”

  He nodded and flashed her a ghost of a smile. “Eve tells me they’re to die for.”

  Val blinked. “I’ll put in a couple for her, too, shall I?”

  She didn’t wait for his response, her brain too busy grappling with his appearance and what the fuck it meant. She was no closer to an answer by the time she loaded a half-dozen croissants into a Sticky Fingers paper bag and handed it over to her father.

  She was just glad he was here. She wanted to ask him to come again, but she daren’t do or suggest anything that might scare the horses. She had a feeling this was a watershed moment in their relationship, that things were shifting between them, and she didn’t want to jinx it by pushing too far, too fast.

  He took the bag with his big hands, hands that she could vaguely remember dwarfing hers as a little girl, and fished in his back pocket. She knew it was for his wallet and shook her head vehemently. If he paid for these, it would kill her. “On the house,” she said with a big, bright smile.

  He glanced at her startled. “Oh but—”

  “Dad.” She shook her head again. He’d bought the bloody bakery for god’s sake. “Please let me.”

  Let me do this
for you. Let me have this moment. Let me reach out to you and not have you rebuff me, just this once.

  He regarded her for long moments, awkwardly, silently, and she held her breath, waiting for him to reject her wishes, but he pulled his hand out of his pocket and nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you.” And then, to cover his embarrassment he said, “You’ll be at the home game next week?”

  Val breathed out on a long, shaky breath. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He nodded.

  Good? Normally he scowled the second he spotted her at a game, his disapproval of her being there cutting deep despite her bravado.

  “You’ll be in the box?”

  She nodded this time because she didn’t have the words and wasn’t even sure she’d trust her voice not to wobble even if she had. This was the longest her father had spoken to her voluntarily in a long time.

  “Well…” He glanced around, stiff and obviously ill-at-ease. “I hope to catch up with you there.”

  He did? Val nodded again. Her words still MIA.

  “Right, then.” Another awkward shuffle and nod from her father, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop, the ding of the bell heralding his departure.

  Val wandered back into the kitchen in a daze. Kyle had shifted closer to the sink, she assumed, to be out of direct line of sight of her father. He’d shared with her his fear that the coach had some kind of freaky x-ray vision.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, striding straight to her, his hands sliding onto her arms.

  “I don’t know, exactly…” But suddenly she was grinning like a loon. She didn’t care. Her father had reached out to her after twenty-two years of ignoring her, of pushing her away.

  It was the kind of thing her mother had been telling her would happen one day, but Val had long ago given up on it as a reality. She felt absurdly like crying.

  She wouldn’t, because her heart was just too damn happy at the moment, but it was a fine line.