A few small hands shoot up. I point to a little girl who is missing her front teeth.
My dad says Rhys Maddox is going to give us a title this year, but only if he doesn’t play like garbage.
I blink. Seriously? I can’t get away from this guy. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I swore to dedicate myself to my bucket list. And yet here Rhys is, invading my carefully guarded personal space once again. Damn him and his ridiculous, delicious, rock-hard body. Oh, that body…
Yeah, another girl in pigtails says. My dad says Rhys Maddox can be the best player in the world if he just gets his head out of his ass.
“Whoa!” I say, before remembering to use Spanish. Celeste, excuse me, but you cannot use that word here.
Rhys Maddox would be kind and generous if he played as well as he did last night so we could win the war against Barcelona, a little boy named Miguel says.
Well, it’s not a real war, I say. The rivalry between the football clubs in Madrid and Barcelona is intense. Some Spaniards—older generations, mostly—see that rivalry as a continuation of the Spanish Civil War, or at least a reenactment of it.
My grandpa says it is, he replies. We’ve been fighting it for a thousand years, and only Rhys Maddox can win it with a league title.
I bite back a grin. I can’t resist. Do you think Rhys Maddox is kind, like the giving tree?
Maybe, a little boy says when I call on him. My mom says he is very handsome. It makes her happy when he takes his shirt off. So maybe that means he is kind?
Hmmm, I say. My belly aches from trying not to laugh. I’m not so sure about that one.
When we finish up reading hour, I take the kids outside to play on the playground. I jump when my phone, tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, begins to ring.
Are you all right, Miss Bennet? Miguel looks up at me, holding a hand to his forehead against the fading sun.
I grin at him and nod, even though my heart weirdly begins to pound as I dig my phone out of my pocket. The girls I went to the soccer game with usually text me; so do my friends back home. The only people who actually call me are Em and my parents. And considering both—well, all three of those people know I’m working right now, they wouldn’t be calling me unless it was an emergency.
I glance at the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize—a European number. My heart pounds faster. For one stupid, heady heartbeat, I think it might be Rhys, finally making good on his promise to call.
I look around, quickly. I’m not supposed to use my phone while I’m with the kids, but this could be an emergency. Ducking into the shade of a nearby bench, I slide my thumb across the bottom of the screen.
“Hello?”
“Laura?”
My stomach plummets at the familiar rumble of the voice that greets me.
Holy shit. It can’t be. No way. No freaking way. I bite the inside of my lip, just to make sure I’m awake and alive and that this is really happening.
“Uh. Yes?”
“It’s Rhys. Rhys Maddox.”
I take a deep breath, let it out. “Oh, hey, uh, Rhys. What’s, um. What’s up?”
Barf. Why do I have to be so awkward?
“I want to see you,” he says.
“See me?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Where am I? Like, physically?”
“Yes.” He laughs. “Where on the Earth are you located?”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Where are you right now?” There’s a loud noise in the background, like he’s vacuuming or something. Only Rhys wouldn’t vacuum because he’s, well, Rhys Maddox.
What the hell?
“Um.” I glance at the playground. “I’m volunteering at Santa Caterina. It’s this after school program in—God, I actually forget what the neighborhood is called. It’s not in the best area in the city…”
“You’re at Santa Caterina?”
My stomach drops again. “Do you know it?”
“No. But I’ve got Google maps. I’ll be there in twenty.”
Now I really feel like I’m going to barf. “Wait, Rhys—no. No, don’t…please, you don’t have to—”
He already hung up.
I drop my phone on the bench, my hands shaking as I smooth my hair back from my face. I feel like I just got electrocuted. Be cool, I tell myself. Stay calm.
But how in the world am I supposed to stay calm when Rhys Maddox is on his way here? After calling me? And inexplicably telling me he wants to see me?
I don’t get why he’s in such a rush. Did he just find out he has a horrible, non-curable STD he passed on to me? Is he just in a good mood after his win last night? Does he want to get naked again?
I mean, what the frick is going on?
I stand up and survey my outfit. Of course Rhys would pick the day I’m dressed like a sweaty hippie hobo to drop into my life. I was more than a little hung over this morning after yesterday’s shenanigans at the football stadium, so I only had time for cruddy jeans and a little mascara before I had to leave for class. And after hanging outside in this heat, I probably smell just lovely.
I run my hands through my hair, giving my tired waves a bit of a boost. I adjust my shirt and discreetly check for any signs of BO. The situation isn’t great, but it isn’t terrible, either.
I take another deep breath. Be cool. Be calm.
And then I laugh at the absurdity of trying to be either of those things when the hottest, sexiest human on the planet just called to say he wants to see me this very minute. I am so out of my depth here. And I can’t tell if that excites or terrifies me.
Chapter 8
Laura
When the throaty rumble of an exotic sports car fills the playground, I feel like I’m going to faint. On cue, the kids drop whatever they were doing and hurry toward the fence. They let out little gasps of surprise as a black convertible Lamborghini pulls up to the curb.
I bared myself to Rhys in every sense of the word last week. I felt relatively brave then. But now? Not so much. I feel embarrassed. Some small, mean part of me thinks he came here just to make fun of me for my hairy vagina or awful, pretend o-face.
I remind myself I have nothing to lose, that I’m focusing on me, myself, and my bucket list this semester, but that doesn’t do much to slow my racing pulse.
I look down at a tug on my hand. It’s the little girl with the missing front teeth.
It’s all right, Miss Bennet, she says. That’s Batman. He is kind and generous, just like the giving tree. Although sometimes he kills people, too.
Rhys revs the engine one last time—boys and their toys, so ridiculous—before he turns off the car and climbs out, tucking his sunglasses into the front pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
That’s right. As if this whole scenario wasn’t ridiculous enough, Rhys is wearing a goddamn tuxedo. I feel like I’m in a commercial, one of those ads that’s trying to sell probiotic yogurt to middle-aged women. Rhys is one tall class of yogurt—water—whatever—in his dapper duds. I didn’t know feeling weak in the knees was actually a thing until this very moment. I grab onto the fence to steady myself.
“You all right there, love?” he says, lips twitching.
I try not to appear too bewildered as I lean in to accept the kisses he presses into my cheeks. His stubble scrapes against my skin, and a wave of goosebumps (the good kind) breaks out on my arms and legs.
Oh. Oh. He smells delicious.
“I’m good,” I say. “Great. I’m great. How are you? And, um. What’s up with the tux? Not that I mind it. I don’t mind it one bit, actually, you fill it out…uh…nicely? You make it look nice?”
Rhys laughs. I cringe.
“Have you got any plans this evening?” he says.
“Plans?”
“Do you always answer questions with more questions?”
“No-o?”
He laughs again, toeing at the gravel that edges the sidewalk. “I’m wearing a tux because I have an event tonight—and I’d
like you to come with me.”
My heart trips a stop. “Wow. An event. Um…”
The kids take advantage of my temporary stupor to start screaming Rhys’s name. Mister Maddox, your car is so cool! Rhys Maddox, please take off your shirt for my mom! Mr. Maddox! Rhys! Hello I love you!
Rhys blinks, as if he’s just noticing the twenty-some-odd kids that surround me for the first time. He shrinks back. You’d think the kids were waving scythes à la Children of the Corn instead of their hands. His buoyant expression dims, becomes unreadable. I recognize this look, this coldness, from the morning after our naked marathon, when I tried to ask him about his past.
Mr. Maddox, Miguel says, producing a soccer ball from out of nowhere. Would you please play football with us?
“Maybe another time,” Rhys says, looking away before he remembers to translate his response into Spanish. “Lo siento, no puedo jugar hoy.”
Miguel’s face falls. The kids go quiet. I’m embarrassed—for them or for Rhys, I don’t know.
“Um. Okay. Vale,” I say, and with a promise of snacks, usher the kids back onto the playground.
“My tux,” Rhys says, by way of an explanation. “The label is one of my sponsors, and they gave this to me to wear tonight. I doubt they’d be pleased if I showed up with dirt on the hem.”
I buy the tux excuse. But that’s not the only thing that’s keeping Rhys off the muddy patch of grass that passes for a soccer field here at Santa Caterina. There’s something else at work—something that clearly makes him uncomfortable being around all these kids. I mean, he can hardly even look at them without squirming.
I’m starting to get the feeling that Rhys is a man of many faces. One he wears for his fans. One he wears for me. And one he keeps for himself. Maybe the faces he shows to the world are just masks he hides behind.
I don’t know why I want to dig deeper, and uncover what it is those masks hide. He pretty much blew me off after the best sex of my life—the pretend-orgasm incident notwithstanding—and then all the sudden he appears a week later in a tuxedo and shiny shoes, asking me out on a date. (I mean, is a sponsored event really considered a “date”?). The whole thing makes no sense. I shouldn’t care.
But I do. I care a lot. I always care; I’m trying to care more about my self-fulfillment and my health and less about everyone else’s. But it’s a hard habit to break.
“So what do you say?” he asks. “It’s going to be quite the party. This big diamond company is celebrating the launch of their new line of diamond earrings. The theme is ‘everything comes best in pairs’—so of course I’ve got to bring along a date. A hot date. You, Laura. I want to bring you.”
My face gets hot at his compliment. I hold the fence between my fingers in a death grip. “That sounds, like, ridiculously awesome Rhys, really, it does. And I hate to say no, but I, um. Already have plans, unfortunately.”
Rhys cocks a blond brow. “Plans?”
“Yeah.” Oh, God, now I’m really sweating. “It sounds stupid, but. Yeah. I signed up for guitar lessons with this guy who plays flamenco. It’s part of this bucket list thing I’m doing, trying to do some, you know, self-improvement or whatever. Anyway. My first lesson is tonight, so…”
His eyes flash with panic. “So you can’t reschedule it?”
“I mean, maybe I could. But it’s my first one, and I’d kinda like to be there for it.”
Rhys ducks his head, stepping forward. “I didn’t think my lucky charm would abandon me to walk the red carpet all by myself.”
“Lucky charm?” My pulse leaps.
He puts his hands over mine on the fence and meets my eyes. “Yes. I don’t know if you saw the match last night—”
“I did,” I say, swallowing. My mouth is suddenly dry.
“But something happened to my game that completely turned it around. And I think that something is you.”
For several seconds I just look at him, blinking stupidly, my head starting to hurt as it tries to wrap around the enormity of what Rhys is saying. I’m his lucky charm? I’m the one to thank for his wicked performance in last night’s game?
“That’s ridiculous,” I say.
“Is it?” he says. His fingers feel strong and sure as they tangle with mine. “I think it’s real. And I’m not going to stop pestering you until you believe it.”
“I think your performance has nothing to do with luck,” I practically stammer. “I think it’s about all the work you’ve put in. All the practice and the rehab. That’s what made you play so great. Not me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I had a lot of fun with you last weekend. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time, and the se—” He glances over my shoulder at the kids. “The, uh, dancing, it was really something special. Got me out of my head for a bit, yeah? Cleared my mind. I don’t know if it was that, or your smile, or what have you, but after we met, whatever was broken inside me became whole again. You fixed it.”
Now I’m blushing and sweating. “I’d insert a di—a dancing joke here, but with the kids so close…”
“Right.” He smiles. “Look, Laura. Whether or not you believe you’re my good luck charm, my career is on the line. I’ve got to cover all my bases. So come out with me tonight. My team—all of Madrid—they’ll thank you when we win on Saturday. I’ll thank you.”
I scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “You’re really going to put the outcome of that match on my shoulders?”
His gaze softens. “If it means you’ll say yes. C’mon, love. You can’t let me down. Not when things are finally going my way.”
“God, you’re shameless.”
“I am,” he says, lips twitching.
“And that doesn’t bother you? That you’re guilting me into…whatever this is?”
“Who said anything about guilt? This is about you and me enjoying a lovely evening together in Madrid. I promise it will be a good time. We had fun together last time, didn’t we? Please, Laura. Please be by my side tonight.”
Even as his smirk deepens, he looks at me, eyes soft and pleading, and I feel myself softening, too, my fingers twining more tightly around his. My insides go squishy. Beneath his bravado, he’s scared, I can tell. He’s afraid of losing. I would be, too, if I had worked as hard as he has to build his fledgling career. Rhys is trying to turn his life around. And no small part of me yearns to help him do that.
I promised myself I’d tackle this bucket list thing, that I’d stop being such a people-pleaser all the time. But what kind of person would I be if I didn’t extend a hand to someone who’s desperate? Someone who apparently believes he needs me to make his dreams happen?
It doesn’t hurt that I had a very good time with that someone last weekend.
As we look at one another, my resolve to make it to my guitar lesson dissipates. I mean. I’d be an idiot to pass up a night out on the red carpet with Rhys Maddox, football superstar, right? Maybe we’ll make out. Maybe I’ll get some diamonds. Maybe he’ll slay it again on the pitch next weekend.
Who knows what’s in store for Rhys’s future. All I know is I won’t be the one to let him down. He needs me, and I need to be there for him. My guitar instructor can wait. But Rhys’s career—his future—they can’t.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath. “I’ll go.”
His handsome face—God he’s so handsome—breaks out into a smile so big and so happy it makes my heart contract. He gives my hands a squeeze. “I knew you’d come through. Thank you, Laura. I really do appreciate it.”
“One problem.” I glance down at my clothes. I look like a peasant compared to Rhys in his shiny shoes and shinier tux. “I’m not sure I have anything, er, appropriate to wear to a red carpet event.”
He laughs again. “Love, I’ve got you covered. I took the liberty of doing a bit of shopping for you this afternoon. Dress, shoes, naughty underthings—I’ve seen to it all. There’s a hairdresser and make-up artist waiting for you at my suite in the hotel. But we’ve got to hurry—the
event starts in less than two hours.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Oh my. Okay. Um. I’m not supposed to be done here until six, so let me run and find someone to cover for me. I’ll meet you at your car. That thing is ridiculous, by the way.”
“Another sponsor,” he says with a shrug. “They pay me to drive it around and be photographed in it every now and again. Speaking of, I should Instagram it—then the paparazzi will know I’m out…”
I think it’s kinda weird that Rhys wants the paparazzi to follow him around, but I have too much on my mind to give that any further thought. I dash across the playground, my entire being lit up with the heady knowledge that I am walking the red carpet tonight with Rhys Maddox.
Me. Laura Bennet. Ten minutes ago, I was just an American student studying abroad. But now? Now I’m a professional soccer player’s muse. His good luck charm.
As cool as that guitar lesson sounded, I gotta admit this is way, way cooler.
Chapter 9
Rhys
That Night
When Laura makes her debut on the red carpet, the press goes nuts.
Wow, you’re beautiful, one photographer shouts in Spanish, crouching to get a better angle.
Rhys, you lucky bastard, another says.
Yet another begs her for more time in front of his lens. Show me your face, honey, the camera loves it.
I make no effort to hide my pride, beaming at Laura as the cameras click. I’m not at all surprised they’re eating her up. Hell, I am, too; I’ve been fighting an erection for the past half hour. Laura looks fucking ridiculous in the tight dress and five-inch heels I bought for her at one of my favorite designer stores on Calle Serrano earlier today. Her long blond hair is styled and sprayed into tight waves that fall over her shoulders; the make-up artist really made her hazel eyes pop with thick liner and fake lashes. She looks like a model.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 7
