by Jessica Ashe
Her hips swayed more as she moved. I saw the doorman check her out as she walked inside. I couldn’t blame him; she must get stares from every man she walked past.
Maisie and I talked online sometimes and, even though I never asked, Maisie mentioned Michelle’s boyfriends once in a while. None of them had lasted that long, and she was single at the moment. That was all that mattered.
“She looks like she’d be quite the handful,” Bob said, as we watched Michelle and Maisie disappear from view.
“Yes, she’s got a perfect arse,” I replied dreamily.
“Um, I meant the Maisie girl,” Bob said. “She’s going to be a handful when it comes to the training camp.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied awkwardly. “Quite the handful.”
Maisie was the least of my problems this summer. I could do no wrong in her eyes. Michelle was the one I needed to win round. I’d spent eight years convincing myself that I didn’t need her, but it was time to stop kidding myself. I wanted her. The question was, did she want me?
Okay, that couldn’t be a good sign. When Maisie and Michelle came back to the limo, Maisie had changed from her tracksuit trousers and hoodie, into a pair of jeans, light cotton top, and a thin cardigan. Despite being an aggressive rugby player, she could dress quite ladylike when she wanted to.
Michelle, on the other hand, hadn’t changed at all. She still wore the same yoga trousers, top, and jumper that she’d worn on the flight. If she intended to make any kind of good impression with me at all then surely she would have put on a fresh set of clothes. She still looked damn fine in my opinion, but it did mean I’d drastically overestimated her interest in me.
My local pub was a couple of hundred years old and the car park wasn’t exactly built to accommodate limos, so Bob dropped us off a few hundred yards away and went to find somewhere to park.
I invited him to join us, but he said he didn’t want to impose. That probably meant he intended to listen to a football game on the radio. Tottenham were playing tonight and while I thought watching football was boring enough, Bob managed to somehow find enjoyment from listening to it.
I’d reserved a table for dinner, assuming Maisie and Michelle would agree to come along. The pub wasn’t exactly busy on a Tuesday night, but there was one corner table in particular that always got snapped up. Fortunately, the owner would happily set it to one side if there was a chance I would be showing up.
“I hear that bartenders in the UK aren’t that strict on asking for ID,” Maisie said slowly. “And the drinking age is only eighteen.”
“And you’re only fourteen,” Michelle said.
I laughed. “They don’t let just anyone drink these days. When I was your age I could get away with it, but they’re much stricter now. I think you can have cider with a meal when you’re sixteen though.”
“I guess I can wait until I get back to the hotel,” Maisie said, as we sat down. I made sure to sit opposite Michelle; at least that way I could look at her without it being too obvious.
“Unfortunately for you,” I said, “I told the hotel staff not to send any alcohol up to your room. You can have all the food you can eat and enjoy any of the hotel amenities, but not the alcohol.”
“And here I was thinking you were the cool one,” Maisie teased.
Maisie and Michelle both ordered large meals, but I settled for a chicken salad. I wasn’t all that hungry and the rugby season was still in full swing so I had to watch what I ate.
“So, Michelle, what have you been doing since I last saw you?” I asked.
“You want me to recap the last eight years?” she asked sullenly.
“Just the highlights.”
“I’m sure Maisie has told you most of it already.”
This was going to be a long night.
“He wants to hear it from you,” Maisie said. “It’s called being polite.”
Michelle sighed, but I thought I heard a ‘sorry’ slip out from between her soft lips. “I finished school, obviously.”
“University?”
“No, I never went to college.”
Maisie had already told me that, but it still came as a shock to hear her say it. I’d only spent a few months with her, but in that short time she had made an impression on me as someone with a lot of book smarts. In fact, I used to tease her by saying she’d be a student until her thirties, never leaving school to join the real world.
“I work in a bar,” she continued. “It’s full of students usually, so we’re quiet over the summer.”
Michelle seemed to have finished, but Maisie was looking at her expectantly.
“And…” Maisie encouraged, waving her hand in a circular motion for Michelle to continue.
“And I also teach women self-defence.”
“Ah,” I remarked. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re in good shape. You look fit.”
Michelle didn’t know the word ‘fit’ tended to be used as a synonym for ‘attractive’ in the UK, so she accepted the compliment as relating only to her physical fitness.
“And…” Maisie said again, making the same hand motion.
“Those are the only two jobs I get paid for,” Michelle replied. “I also volunteer at a centre for women who are victims of violence. Domestic violence usually.”
Maisie had never mentioned Michelle’s volunteer work. It left me speechless, but fortunately our food arrived to break the awkward silence. It wasn’t a stretch to figure out why Michelle was teaching self-defence and helping women who had been victims of violence.
Michelle had been with Maisie when she’d been attacked with acid, and she blamed herself for not being able to defend her sister. The burn marks on Maisie’s face were a constant reminder. She should be blaming me instead. I’m the reason Maisie was attacked, not her.
Michelle looked over my shoulder seemingly in the direction of some young men laughing at the bar. I turned around to look—initially jealous that she was checking out other men—and noticed that they were laughing at Maisie.
They weren’t quite pointing and laughing, but they were looking at her face and snickering enough for it to be obvious. Maisie didn’t seem to have noticed, or if she had then she didn’t care.
Michelle tried to ignore it, but I could tell it was tearing her apart inside. I knew how she felt. When I heard another laugh from one of the men—although they were barely eighteen by the looks of them—I quickly downed the rest of my drink and said I was going to buy another round.
I walked over to the bar and stood next to the group of men. “Hey Craig,” I said getting the barman’s attention. “Can you fill this up with another Doom Bar please.”
“Sure thing Olly.”
“Use the tap just in front of these ‘gentleman,’” I said. Craig nodded and moved over to the tap right in front of the group of men. They’d overheard what I’d said—as they were supposed to—and I had their attention.
My head faced Craig, but I directed my words at the group of boys. “What’s so funny, boys?”
“Hey, aren’t you Oliver Cornish?” one of them asked, ignoring my question.
“Never mind who I am,” I said, standing up straight so they could see all six feet and five inches of my muscular frame. The tallest of their group was a good three inches smaller than me, and the muscles on all four of them put together wouldn’t match mine.
“We can laugh if we want to,” the smallest of the four said. “It’s a free country.”
“Ah, you’re right, my apologies. You are free to laugh at my friend if you like. As you say, it’s a free country. Who am I to stop you?”
The boy tried to force a smile to celebrate his victory, but he looked nervous and knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
I took my pint and turned as if I was about to walk away, but then stopped and looked at them directly. “Of course, if it’s a free country, then that means—hypothetically of cour
se—I am also free to take your heads and squeeze them between my palms until they are in the shape of a rugby ball.”
The boys all looked at me nervously. They weren’t about to challenge me, but they also had no idea how to get out of this situation. I almost felt sorry for them until I remembered the look on Michelle’s face.
“This being a free country,” I continued, “means you are also free to put down your drinks and leave. Hypothetically.”
One of the boys had the balls to finish his pint in one gulp, but the others just placed their glasses down on the bar and left as quickly as they could without actually running.
“Sorry about that, Craig,” I said. “I’ll pay for the drinks they would have bought.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Craig said. “I don’t want their sort in here anyway, and when word gets round that you popped by again I’ll get a load more business.”
I went back to the table and saw Maisie still tucking into her food. Michelle looked at me and nodded with the slightest hint of a smile on her face. I returned the nod and went back to eating my dinner, hoping Maisie hadn’t noticed what happened.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Maisie said, between mouthfuls.
“Do what?” I said innocently.
“You can’t threaten everyone who laughs at my face. It would be a full-time job. I’m fine with it, so you should be as well.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I lied.
“Okay, well hypothetically, if you did then you don’t need to.”
“Do you ever think that girl is too smart for her own good?” I asked Michelle.
“All the damn time,” she replied. “But then I see her grades.”
“Hey,” Maisie exclaimed.
“You told me you were doing well at school,” I said.
“It’s not my fault,” she insisted. “All the kids pick on me because of my face, so I can’t concentrate in class.” She laid on some obviously fake tears, but then gave up when she saw Michelle and I weren’t buying it. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
I laughed and looked back to Michelle who was already staring at me. She mouthed the words “thank you” and then went back to eating.
I had no idea how many brownie points I needed to earn to cancel out my past transgressions, but that was my first and I intended to keep working until I had enough to be a part of her life again.
Maisie meant the world to me, but our relationship was that of a little sister and big brother. Michelle had never been a sister in my eyes and I hoped I wasn’t a brother to her. That wasn’t the role I intended to play in her life. Not even close.
Could he really have changed? It had been eight years; in that time I’d changed from a timid, nervous young girl into a tough woman who taught other women to kick ass when required.
It’s certainly possible that he’d changed from being a self-centered jerk who blamed me for his mistakes and pushed me out of his life.
One thing was certain; he cared about Maisie almost as much as I did. I knew they’d talked online over the past year or so, but I hadn’t realized how much he respected her. I’d desperately wanted to confront that evil group of boys in the bar when they’d been laughing at her, but Maisie hated it when I made a scene. Oliver had handled it without even raising his voice.
It helped that he was built like a brick shithouse and famous for playing a sport that involved slamming your body into another’s and dragging them down to the floor, but I still appreciated what he’d done.
I couldn’t protect Maisie in the way I wanted to. I hadn’t been able to eight years ago when those men had appeared from the shadows and thrown acid over us, and I couldn’t do anything about it today, either.
Learning self-defense and then teaching it to others went some way to making me feel better, but it never scratched the itch that tormented me at night and every time I looked at the burn mark on Maisie’s face or the one on my upper arm. The one I always kept hidden.
Oliver dropped us off at the hotel, and I walked Maisie to her room which was just a few doors down from mine. We were both on the top floor and the rooms were so large there were only about five on the entire floor. I’d be close enough to keep an eye on her, but would also have my own privacy. Not that I’d need it.
If I’d known Oliver was going to meet us after the flight, I wouldn’t have worn tatty old yoga clothes. I couldn’t even change out of them before dinner because a bottle of water had leaked in my suitcase and most of my clothes were damp. I dreaded to think what he thought of me, going out to dinner like I’d come straight from a workout.
I caught him staring at me a few times, probably wondering what had happened to the sweet sixteen-year-old he’d first met eight years ago. That summer had been perfect in every way, right up until the last week. Then everything had changed.
We’d turned up in London to meet Dad’s new wife for the first time. Maisie had been a quiet and shy girl back then, and she didn’t really understand why Dad was with a woman who wasn’t Mom.
It hadn’t helped that sixteen year-old me had become almost like a mom to Maisie, because our own could barely look after herself—let alone us. Maisie shouldn’t have been going to London at the age of six with only me to look after her, but that’s the way it had to be.
I’d spent the entire flight over telling her everything was going to be okay, but I hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic myself. No sixteen year-old wanted a new Mom, and I certainly didn’t want a step-brother.
That all changed when I met Oliver. Step-brother or not, no sixteen-year-old girl could handle meeting someone like Oliver without going weak at the knees. And feeling something between the legs as well. He captivated me from the second I saw him, and only grew more interesting as I found out he was a star athlete, albeit playing a sport I’d never heard of.
Oliver was preparing for the World Cup that would be taking place in Paris, so most days he would disappear for training, but would have the afternoon and evening off. That left plenty of time for him to get to know his new sisters.
I’d tagged along with him as much as possible, and he never seemed to mind. I kept expecting him to push me away so that he could spend time with the women who threw themselves at him, but he never did. Given the choice he would always hang out with Maisie and me.
Thankfully, Maisie was too young to pick up on the way I’d been around him, although she seemed to have put the pieces together once she got older. It must have been painfully obvious how I felt about Oliver to anyone who’d been through puberty. Just the way I looked at him and hung on his every word was enough to let anyone within a mile radius know I was crazy about him.
Even as a horny sixteen-year-old, I was still sensible and realistic enough to know this might just be some silly schoolgirl crush that I’d forget about as soon as the summer ended. It certainly sounded that way on paper. Young American girl travels to England for the summer, falls for good-looking rugby star, gets married, and lives happily ever after.
But that wasn’t how my story ended. Oliver started coming home late at night and generally doing everything he could to ignore me. It took me all of six seconds to picture him with a girlfriend—tall, blonde, skinny, and with big boobs—but I kept imagining everything would turn out okay in the end. He’d realize that I was his destiny and we’d still have our happily-ever-after.
One day Oliver agreed—after much pestering from Maisie—to take us into London for the evening. We had a nice meal, but Oliver had something on his mind the entire time. At the end of the evening he told us he had something to do and that we should head home by ourselves. I suspected he was “doing” the imaginary blonde with big boobs, so I sulked the entire way home. I didn’t notice the two men come out of the shadows until it was too late.
We never found out why they attacked us, but it didn’t matter. Maisie ended up with burns all over her face and the doctor told us they would never heal. Mine were nowhere near as important, so I kept them to myse
lf. A few burns on my arm didn’t compare to what Maisie was going through, so I didn’t want to take the attention away from her.
If Oliver had been distracted before, then he only got worse after the attack. Maisie rarely stopped crying—a mixture of pain and embarrassment at her face—and Oliver blamed himself for what happened. He avoided spending time with us just so he wouldn’t have to face up to his guilt.
Then came the day of the Rugby World Cup Final and things went from bad to worse. England had made it through to the final, in no small part due to Oliver’s phenomenal penalty kicking and field goals.
The game took place in Paris, so we all gathered around the TV to watch, along with the majority of the country. Despite the significance of the occasion—or perhaps because of it—the game was drab and uneventful until the last five minutes. Each team had only scored one try, although there were quite a few penalties, bringing the score up to sixteen-fourteen to South Africa.
Oliver had converted most of his kicks, but he’d missed the conversion after the try and hadn’t even attempted a field goal all game. The commentator suggested the occasion was getting to him. He was only eighteen after all, and he had the expectation of the entire nation on his shoulders.
That wasn’t like Oliver at all. He had enough confidence—and a dash of arrogance—to take big games in his stride, and I never expected him to crumble for a second. But that’s exactly what happened.
The last few minutes were back and forth between the teams, but the commentators and everyone in the room around me got excited when England were awarded a scrum in stoppage time. I hadn’t understood this at the time, but apparently it was an easy chance for a field goal, especially for a player of Oliver’s quality.
The scrum-half took the ball out of the scrum and passed it to Oliver. Players were running straight at him, but I’d seen him score like this plenty of times before. All he had to do was kick the ball straight through the posts and England would win the game. But he choked.
