by K. Bromberg
Rush owes me no answers. Hell, he barely knows me, and yet here we stand, in close quarters with my mind wandering and my body wanting.
I itch to reach out and touch him. His jaw. His hair. His arm. Anything to make a connection, and that’s such a weird thought for me because I’m typically not a touchy-feely person.
But I refrain, because there’s something in the very little I know about him that tells me to take a step back. That listening to my gut instinct, I know he’d be devastating—to my senses, to the status quo I’m used to, and to my heart, when I swear it doesn’t like to feel.
“What are we doing here, Lennox?” he asks, his voice a whisper.
I part my lips to speak and watch as his eyes flicker down to look at them before coming back to my eyes.
“Negotiating with you,” I murmur, deflecting just as he did.
The space is large by any guest bathroom standards, but the minute he moves into it, I feel as if all the oxygen has been sucked from it. All that’s left to breathe in is him.
“Is that what you call this?” he asks as he takes a step closer. “Negotiating?”
Like I said, Lenn, he doesn’t need you right now.
“Yes. We’ve negotiated. I won.” I flash a victorious and over-the-top grin his way. “And now we’re figuring out what bathroom you’re going to use since this one is occupied by me.”
“I don’t think we were privy to the same conversation. There is no way I ceded this loo to you.” A little-boy smile paints his lips as he makes fun of my misuse of British terms. The smile and its charm need to go far away. The last thing I need is to find another thing attractive about him.
“You did. I heard it.”
“In my unspoken words?” He laughs.
“Yep.” I nod. “I can read minds.”
“Suit yourself.” His chuckle is low and seductive and causes chills to chase up my spine as he steps closer.
“Your negotiating skills need some work, McKenzie,” I tease.
“So do yours,” he says, and I yelp when he pushes his sweats off his hips and steps out of them.
“What are you doing—”
“Seems to me we’re sharing the bathroom now, so”—he meets my eyes in the mirror—“you shouldn’t be shocked that I’m having a shower. Since you can read minds and all.”
I throw my head back and laugh. It’s all I can do, really. And it’s way less polarizing than looking at his incredible body. “Good for you,” I say with a definitive nod. “You go do that.”
“I will.”
“For future reference, shock value doesn’t work well with me.”
“Noted. I was going more for the fact that I needed a shower and you’re in my bathroom.” He fights a grin. “Impressed?”
“It takes a lot more than that to impress me.”
“I know. Your loss of negotiation skills is a sure sign you’re still in awe of what you saw earlier by the pool.”
“Oh please,” I say with a roll of my eyes as the shower turns on and he steps into it.
“Don’t worry, love. I’m still recovering from that bikini of yours too.”
My eyes flash up to meet his through the fogged-up glass, and I’m treated to a lightning-fast grin.
All I can do is shake my head and try not to be affected by his words as I walk out of the bathroom, cross the hall into my room, and lean against the door when I shut it behind me.
There’s a smile on my face as I close my eyes and replay the whole exchange in my head over again. He’s a tease and a flirt, and if these are my thoughts after only two exchanges with him, I know I’m in trouble.
The past couple of days have been a blow to my ego and sense of self. Is it such a bad thing that Rush makes me feel a little better about myself? Is it even worse that I’ve been working nonstop for months on end that I haven’t taken care of me?
By taking care of me, I mean reaching out and taking what I want. And damn it to hell, I want him.
I have a feeling Rush isn’t a man who hesitates either. He takes and demands, and if you can’t keep up with his pace, he moves on.
There’s a challenge in that, an attraction.
What is it about me being attracted to athletes? The strong hands, the powerful bodies, the air of arrogance of a man who knows he’s good at something, the dedication . . . it’s like they’re my kryptonite.
“Christ,” I mutter and tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear.
Rush would be a terrible mistake. A terrible, gorgeous, satisfying mistake. I know it after only one day, but the funny thing is, it’s one I know I’m already going to make.
And I don’t feel sorry about it in the least.
I’m a woman who goes after what she wants—without shame or fear . . . and, I want Rush McKenzie.
RUSH
11 years earlier
MY STOMACH GROWLS SO LOUDLY I can hear it over the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
Just act normal, Rush. Move slow, look around at the produce, and then thumb through the magazine as if you don’t feel like your stomach is eating its way from your insides out. Don’t think about the biscuits you’ve stashed in your pockets or the banana you’ve tucked in the back of your waistband beneath your jacket.
The lightheadedness hits me again. It’s cruel and unrelenting as it blackens my vision, and I’m forced to grip the side of the shelving so I don’t pass out.
It’s been twenty-four hours—maybe, I can’t remember—since I last ate a leftover bite of protein bar that my teammate offered me. Since then, I’ve had two, three-hour training sessions where it took everything I had to focus on putting on the performance they expect.
The same performance I’m praying will get me out of this bloody nightmare.
Because I’m so close, so very close to winning the only scholarship the Liverpool Academy gives out every year.
The scholarship—a chance—that might change everything for me. Not only would it take me a step further toward playing in the Premier League, but it would also provide me a place to live and an allowance for food. It wouldn’t be much but it would be way more than I have now. Then I’d be able to stop pretending one of those flats on Crestfall Lane is mine. People see me walk up to it, but they never notice the kid in his football kit continues into the alley behind it. No one questions the abandoned post box out front that sometimes has mail in it addressed to a Mr. McKenzie. No one realizes the lock on the little shed back there is mine. That I’ve found a place to keep me out of the rain, that has a sink in it so I can wash my clothes and myself.
So I can pretend that I’m like any other normal teenager in Kirkby—going to school, spending every spare moment on the pitch, drinking a pint on the sly.
But this is what I need to do. This is how I have to live so my dreams come true. So I have a chance.
It’s playing professional football or . . . or nothing.
No one cared when cancer took Maude McKenzie’s life.
Even fewer thought to wonder where her fifteen-year-old son was and what was to become of him.
“Excuse me, young man.” I startle at the voice of a little old lady standing beside me and staring at me with her owl-like eyes. “Can I get in there?” She points to the bags of noodles in front of me.
I’m jolted back to the present. To the hunger pangs and the sore muscles from training. To the hope tinged with despair. To the drive to keep this all hidden. Because if I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m going to faint and then someone will notice the food I’m about to steal.
Then it will all be over.
The dream.
My escape.
Everything.
There’s a reason I’m in this shop. It’s the only one I haven’t been caught stealing from yet. The only one where the shop assistants at the front don’t start following me around to check for any sleight of hand.
“Yes.” I give a quick shake of my head. “Sorry. I was—”
“Thinking about th
e big game tonight, huh?” she asks and motions to the Liverpool Football Club hand-me-down training gear I have on. “Man U doesn’t stand a chance.”
“They sure don’t,” I murmur before offering a quick smile and hurrying from the shop with my head down, and my arms wrapped around me to ward off the chill of the coming evening.
As soon as I clear the edge of the building, I rip down the peel of the banana and can’t eat it fast enough. My stomach aches and growls. With half the banana gone, I tear open the packet of biscuits with a frenzy only someone who is truly hungry can understand.
You want to slow down, to save some for later, but all you can think about is sating the hunger pangs now. All you know is that you need them to go away for a while, because there’s no way you can go to another training on an empty stomach.
How can you be better than everyone else when you’re hungry?
How much longer can you hold out?
With a biscuit in one hand and the half-eaten banana in the other, I rush around the corner and run smack into someone.
We both emit a strangled cry in surprise, but mine is also because the food in my hands falls to the ground. The banana has broken off and rolled across the dirt and the biscuits have spilled out of their package. I’m so busy silently crying over the food that it takes me a second to look up and see my teammate, Rory, and his dad beside him.
Or the policeman who just stepped up beside me with his intimidating glare and shiny handcuffs.
“Again?” the policeman asks, as tears of humiliation burn in the back of my throat. It’s one thing to be caught stealing again, it’s another to be caught doing it in front of Rory and his very affluent dad, Archibald Matheson.
“I—uh—uh,” I stutter. “I did no such thing. It’s on the ground. You can’t prove it was me.”
“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” Mr. Matheson asks. As nerves course through me, I forget what he does for a living, but I’ve heard Rory say shit about him here and there during training. What I do know is from what I’ve heard—he seems to have enough influence that one word from him to the academy and I can watch all my chances vanish.
Every single one.
“This boy here”—the policeman grabs my bicep and tugs my arm, “has been caught stealing several times from shops around here.” He turns to me and starts to drag me with him. “Let’s go down to the station. I can’t look the other way since the owner is askin’ me to press charges. He’s ignored your sticky fingers before and now wants to teach you a lesson.” He tugs on my arm again. “C’mon. You know the drill.”
“No.” The word is a strangled cry filled with panic. “I can’t go. It’s the last week of tryouts. If I go, I won’t be able to train. I won’t be able to—”
“He did nothing wrong, Constable,” Mr. Matheson says in that baritone of his that has both the policeman and me whipping our heads to look at him. Mr. Matheson puts his hands on his son’s shoulders and pushes him forward. “It was my son, Rory, who did it.”
I think the look on Rory’s face mirrors mine—shock, disbelief, confusion—but mine also holds something else, hesitation.
Why would Mr. Matheson do this? Why would he offer up his son to take my place? Why would a rich man step in for a nobody like me?
“Sir,” the policeman says as he pulls me back to where the biscuits and banana litter the ground, “you and me both know your son didn’t do this.”
Mr. Matheson’s chuckle is long and low. “But I do know.” He takes a step forward as Rory stares at him, doe-eyed and confused. “I can see how it’d be easy to mistake the two of them for each other. Why, with the same training gear on, same hair and height, anyone could do it, but I assure you it was my Rory here. In fact, I was just lecturing him myself. I was telling him that actions have consequences and lo and behold, you came along to reinforce just that.”
The policeman looks from Mr. Matheson to me and then back again as his grip loosens ever so slightly on my bicep.
“But, Dad—”
“Nonsense, Rory. You and I both know it’s not fair for Rush to take the blame for your mistakes.” He pushes him forward some more. “Now go on. Go deal with the consequences of your actions. Go with the constable.”
“But what about the school trip I’m supposed to leave on? What about—”
“Nonsense. We Mathesons take responsibility for our mistakes.”
I watch the exchange, feeling like I’m not a part of the situation, but rather a balloon floating around its edges. Nothing of this makes sense to me and yet, even at the age of fifteen, I know I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live.
Partially because it feels like it’s the first act of kindness shown my way in so long that I struggle with how to accept it. And if I do accept it, that means I have to remain quiet and let Rory take the fall for my crime.
A boy that will be on my team if I get the scholarship.
My eyes dart to the food on the ground again as my internal struggle rages over how I can casually pick it up and salvage it before the rest of it is ruined. With a sigh of resignation, the officer releases my arm, takes a step forward closer to Mr. Matheson, and lowers his voice. “It’s quite all right. We can keep this between the four of us. Why don’t you just go on about your way like this never happened and—”
“Why the difference, Constable? Shouldn’t both boys be held to the same set of laws and standards?”
“But, sir.”
“Constable, it’s Inspector Matheson,” he says and reaches his hand out as both the policeman’s and my lips fall lax.
Inspector?
I stare at him again with eyes wide. Why is he doing this?
“Go on,” he continued, giving them a shooing motion. “I’ll be by the station shortly to sort everything out.”
Rory gives his dad one last desperate, pleading look before turning and following the policeman, his shoulders slumped, his feet shuffling.
“So, Mr. Rush McKenzie,” Inspector Matheson says, as I look over my shoulder to where Rory had been before moving back to his imposing dad. “You from around here?”
I shake my head. “We’ve moved around a lot.” It’s the half-truth, because when my mom was alive, we did move a lot. Promises to live with distant family members had them buying us train tickets, taking us from one side of England to another more than once. This just happened to be the place we took root in the few years before she became sick and died. The place she promised we’d live so I could be closer to my dream. “But I’m here for good now.”
“I see.” He studies me in the most intense way. “You’ve got quite the talent on the pitch, son. I’ve heard your name mentioned in the right circles. How come you’ve never formally played with a club before?”
Because food comes before club fees.
“Haven’t had the opportunity,” I lie.
“I’m sure you’ll get one now. I’ve watched you play over the past few weeks, you know.”
“Yes, sir.” I eye the biscuits again as his feet move and smash another one into the ground. It takes everything I have not to protest aloud.
“You’re trying out for the team? Your presence is causing quite the buzz as it should. I think you’re the one to beat right now.”
I swallow down the hope surging through me. “Thank you, sir.”
“The coach is a good friend of mine.” He starts to say something else but then stops himself. “Do I know your parents? I don’t believe I’ve seen them around the pitch.”
“No. Don’t have any, sir.”
“Everybody has parents,” he says through a chuckle.
My smile is tight—to be polite—as I try to change the topic. “I need to be getting home, now.”
“Where to? I can give you a lift. The sky’s going to open up any minute now.”
“I can walk,” I say. He’s the police. He’ll kick me out or turn me in for certain.
“Nonsense. Let me take you.”
“You’ve d
one more than enough already, sir.” This time when I meet his eyes, I think he really sees me. The shame. The embarrassment. The fact that I feel “less than” in so many ways. The second-hand uniforms I scrounged together from the lost property. The boots with a hole in their side and with studs worn down to nothing.
The opening and then closing of his mouth tells me he understands more than I’ll ever admit to and that maybe, just maybe, he gave me a lifeline he never knew he was giving just now. When he threw his son under the bus for whatever reason he had to protect me.
“Okay then.” He blows out a breath and nods. “I’ll leave you be, but I’m not going to allow you to walk home in the rain that’s about to come down. The last thing we need is those talented feet of yours off the pitch because you’ve gotten sick.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and stuffs some notes into my hand without looking at them. “For the cab ride, then.”
“Sir. I can’t—” I fumble with the words and the money. “Why?”
His dark brown eyes hold mine as lines etch the sternness in his face. There’s enough in his sigh to tell me he’s disappointed in Rory, and it makes me more uncomfortable than not. I don’t have to explain any more for him to know what I’m asking.
“Do you know what it’s like to have a son who thinks he can do what he wants because of my position? To do things and then get away with them because others are upholding some unspoken code? Humility is a good thing, Rush, and Rory needed some of it.” He looks down to where the toe of his Oxfords crushes another biscuit before meeting my eyes again. “And because you never know when you might need a favor in return.” He offers me a smile after saying words I don’t understand. “See you on the pitch tomorrow, son.”
Son.
It’s a word I don’t think any male has called me before and it stops me in my tracks. It makes me feel cared for. And before I can say something stupid, Inspector Matheson walks the opposite way without a backward glance to where I stand.
It’s only then that I notice he gave me so much more than a cab ride home. He gave me enough money to have food for a few weeks.
