Hard to Hold

by K. Bromberg

  I shrug. “It’s unprofessional of me to be working side by side with you, represent you and the league in a sense, and then . . . be sleeping with you at night.”

  “According to who?” He sets his knife and fork down and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “According to ethics. According to everyone who thinks I use my looks to gain clients. According to—”

  “Hold up. What about using your looks to gain clients?”

  “It’s a long story,” I sigh and shift on my feet. “And it doesn’t matter. What matters is this—you and me. We can’t do this anymore. We had an itch, we scratched it, and now we’re both satisfied.”

  “Satisfied?” He snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

  “I’m serious. I’m representing my family business while working this contract. If someone were to find out, it wouldn’t just look bad on me, but it would also look bad on Kincade Sports Management.”

  “Then we won’t let anyone find out.”

  “That’s easier said than—”

  “Than what? Than it’s no one’s fucking business who you sleep with?” He stands and takes the few steps toward me. Every part of me reacts to his nearness, and I dislike myself for it. He lowers his voice. “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy last night, Lennox? Are you telling me that the scratch marks down my arms aren’t real? You and I both know it was good. That it would be even better next time. A little fun never hurt anyone.”

  “Exactly. We had a little fun. It can only get more complicated from here and I loathe complicated. I think you’ve had more than enough complicated in the past month to last you a lifetime.” I take a step back but he takes one forward, so I gain no space between us. “I’m sorry, but my mind is made up.”

  “Why? You’re not my agent, and you’re not recruiting me so—”

  “Work up an appetite, did you?” a disheveled Johnny asks, striding in with his sunglasses on, hair a mess, and wearing completely mismatched clothes.

  Rush glances Johnny’s way while I stand there staring at him, wondering if I was just saved by the bell.

  But I know I wasn’t. This conversation still needs to be had with Rush.

  “Help yourself to breakfast,” Rush says. “I really wanted some pancakes.”

  “Thanks, dude,” Johnny says and then looks at us one more time, a piece of bacon stopping halfway to his mouth, as he does a double take. “Christ. Seriously?” He emits a dramatic sigh when he takes his sunglasses off and flinches from the bright sunlight. “I knew I smelled sex last night when I came home.”

  “What?” I laugh the word out, cheeks heating.

  Johnny looks from Rush to me and then back again. “The two of you are a pheromone blast if I’ve ever seen it. Couldn’t you guys have waited a bit?” He groans and then plops onto the barstool at the island and starts pulling food onto one of the paper plates that Rush left out. “Now it’s going to be like a rabbit den around here with you two fucking each other everywhere. This is not what I signed up for.”

  I fight back a laugh. Rush doesn’t. “You’re the one who vouched for both of us so at least we chose wisely.”

  “I didn’t vouch for shit.” He goes to the fridge and grabs a beer, the crack of it opening echoes around the kitchen as he sits back down. “What I do vouch for is those grins you both have on your faces.”

  “There’s that,” I murmur.

  “Don’t you have any shame?” he asks me.

  “Says the man hungover, and probably hiding someone tangled in his sheets upstairs.”

  “Her name is Heidi,” he says around a mouthful of food, “and no, she’s not in my bed. I knew if she woke up and saw Rush, that she’d dump my ass after realizing he’s way hotter. I figured I’d mitigate that awkwardness by sending her off before you guys woke.”

  “Well,” Rush says, “can’t say I’d blame her for thinking that.” And he gains a glare from both Johnny and me.

  “Thank you for sparing us from Rush’s big ego,” I add.

  “This is really good.” He looks at the bag of the take-out. “I’ll have to try this place again.” Another bite. Another sip of beer. “All I ask is that you two fuck monkeys don’t dirty up the surfaces in the house.” Rush and I slide a glance at each other. Johnny freezes. “Fuck, man.”

  Rush eyes the island where he’s sitting, and Johnny shoves back, his stool hitting the one beside it with a clang.

  “Really? My kitchen counter?” he screeches.

  Rush chuckles. “Nah, mate,” Rush lies. “Your bed is pretty comfy though.”

  Johnny glares at me, and I can’t hold back my laughter anymore. “We did not have sex in your bed. Lord knows what we would catch if we did.”

  “You guys are assholes,” Johnny says as he sits back down to his food again. “Just don’t be”—he motions his hand all around—“you know. Let me catch you or some shit. That is not something I want to walk in on.”

  “Should I be offended?” I tease.

  “No, the last thing I need to see is that fucker’s dick. I’d be left with an inferiority complex for the rest of my life.”

  “No worries there,” Rush says leaning his hip against the island and crossing his arms over his chest, as if it’s an everyday comment on how inferior men feel beside him. “When you walked in, Lennox was telling me why we can’t be shagging anymore anyway.”

  I stare at Rush, pissed that he’s trying to involve Johnny in our discussion, no doubt to have him take sides.

  “She’s smart,” Johnny says and points his fork at me. “She’s trying to let me keep my sanity.”

  “I was telling her I just don’t think that’s going to happen,” Rush says, that smile of his as devastating as ever. “Why turn down a good thing?”

  He hooks an arm over my shoulder, and I physically remove it by stepping away. Being close to him is not what I need right now.

  “It’s not happening again,” I say and grab a piece of bacon.

  “You sure about that?” Rush asks.

  “I am,” I say and sigh. “On that note, I need to take a shower and get ready for work.”

  “In my bathroom?” Rush asks.

  “No, in mine.”

  And with one last look his way, I saunter out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them and their testosterone alone.

  The funny thing is, despite having sex with Rush, the magnetism didn’t fade.

  It always fades. It always loses its luster.

  So why, as I climb the stairs one by one, do I admit to myself that this is going to be much harder than it should be?

  That working with Rush and keeping my hands off him is going to be a difficult challenge.

  RUSH

  SHE’S BEEN AVOIDING ME.

  She can say she isn’t. She can pretend to be busy with the hundreds of calls she takes every day. One moment she talks some athlete off the ledge of doubt, and then the next she’s like a bulldog as she negotiates what she wants with a team.

  It’s impressive.

  It’s a turn-on.

  Anyone who says they don’t like a woman who owns her confidence has to have a little dick and not much sense. Because Lennox . . . hell, Lennox is a complete and utter badass.

  It’s definitely sexy.

  And it’s also a pain in my arse because Christ, that woman and her pussy have left their mark on me. Maybe not so much a mark—other than the scratch marks—but a hunger.

  But isn’t that the problem? I’ve had her and know how good it is. Unlike all the other fuckers wondering if she’s as fucking sensational as she looks.

  I raise my hand because I can vouch—she is.

  I’ve had her. I want her again.

  Maybe telling me she’s off limits has fed that fire.

  Or maybe I just want her.

  Either way, while I admire her restraint, her reasons are shit. And I’ll tell her that the first chance I get when she’s not surrounded by Cannon or the other bastards vying for her attention.

 
“She’s definitely not a hardship to look at, is she?”

  Speak of the devil. I glance at Cannon, notice his eyes looking the same place mine are.

  Lennox is standing in one of those business suits she wears—navy-blue trousers, a matching jacket, and a soft, silk camisole beneath—and a pair of nude high heels. Her hair is back in some kind of thick braid with a few escaped pieces framing her face. Her sunglasses are on and her phone is pressed to her ear as she paces back and forth in the tunnel leading into the stadium. She’s gesticulating as she talks, and her laugh can be heard across the pitch.

  “Nah, mate, not hard on the eyes at all,” I murmur as every part of me revolts at the fact that he’s watching her.

  “You can thank me for pulling her on board for this project. Finn tried to talk me out of it, you know, but can you blame me?”

  Why the fuck would Sanderson do that? And surely Cannon hired her on skill and merit, not because she’s hot—

  “I had dinner with her last night. She’s definitely enough to challenge any man. Good thing I like challenges.”

  My hands fist reflexively. Like hell you’ll be touching her, arsehole. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were a thing.”

  “We’re not.” He shrugs and emits a laugh that is one hundred percent arsehole. “At least not yet anyway.”

  “Good luck with that. Heard she’s already smitten with someone else.”

  “Mr. McKenzie? We’re almost ready for you,” one of the public relations people says to me.

  “Okay. I’ll be right there.” I glance from her to Cannon before walking the short distance to where Lennox is pacing.

  She’s finishing up her call when I approach, but when our eyes meet, I can tell by the sudden slouch of her shoulders and shock in her expression that I’m right: she’s definitely avoiding me.

  “You’re here,” I state as she closes the distance between us. She smells like sun and coconut oil. Like sex and desire. Like exactly what this man needs and wants.

  “It’s my job to be here,” she says, looking anywhere but at me.

  “Are you going to stand there on your phone and ignore me like you have the past few days or are you actually going to pay attention?”

  “I’m not avoiding you. I’m a busy woman and this isn’t my only responsibility.”

  “You’re avoiding me. It’s the tattoos, isn’t it? They either scare women away or make them flock to me in droves?”

  “Droves?” She breaks a smile. “I doubt it’s the tattoos,” she murmurs, but through her sunglasses I can see her eyes dart down to the winding mess of ink on my bicep.

  “Then it must be the size of my dick. Though I can’t say I’ve had many complaints when it comes to that.”

  “If you’re trying to get me to like you, that’s not the best way to do so—by telling me I’m just one notch on a bedpost filled with many.”

  “I’m? As in present tense? So you’re still thinking of us in the present instead of the past.” I lift my eyebrows.

  “You know what I mean,” she says and rolls her eyes.

  “I do know what you mean, and no, you’re not a notch on a bedpost. Far fucking from it, but mission accomplished—I got you to talk to me. And face it, you miss me. You said we couldn’t, but I’m beginning to think you still want to.” I lean in closer and whisper, “Don’t worry. I know you see me and every part of you says yes, but being the sensible woman you are, you’re trying to do the right thing. Play by the rules. I get it. I do. But, Lennox, sometimes it feels good to be oh-so-wrong.”

  Her quick intake of air tells me there is more between us left to explore. Like the bed. The pool. So many surfaces. So damn many.

  “I admire your persistence. I do. And I never said I didn’t want to sleep with you again,” she says glancing around to make sure no one else hears her. “I said I can’t, that it’s not professional.”

  I hum a noncommittal sound and then bring a hand to the back of her neck as my lips find hers. It’s brief, but I take advantage of her momentary shock to take more of what I so desperately want.

  And just as soon as I do, I break the kiss and step back, my grin slow to spread, because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that I’m chasing her. The other part of me is dying to show her that her game’s not working—that I still intend to have her. And the jealous, fuck you part of me, wants to make sure that Cannon sees me so he can wonder what the hell is going on.

  “What . . . What are you—”

  “Time to go to work,” I say with nothing more than a wink and a laugh as I leave that gorgeous, confused face of hers behind without explanation.

  And I do go to work. The line of kids and adults alike stretches through the concourse of the stadium. Liverpool gear is in their hands and at the ready for me to sign when they reach the front of the queue.

  “Thank you, mate,” I say to the young lad in front of me.

  “I want to be like you someday,” he says. “I mean the footballer part. Not the other part. My mom says she’d string you up by the balls for doing what you did.”

  “Hank!” his dad gasps, mortified at the comment, and tries to stifle his laugh.

  My own smile is hard to fight as I look at this ten- or eleven-year-old kid and know what a smart-arse I was at his age.

  “I’m so sorry,” the dad says. “I don’t know—”

  “It’s fine,” I say and hold my hand up in a no offense gesture. It’s no worse than the implications I’ve been given all day with every question from the press. “You know the hard thing about being a footballer, Hank? It puts you in the public eye when the only thing you care about is what you leave on the pitch. Even worse, sometimes things are said about you—things that aren’t true—and it doesn’t matter if you speak up about them or not, because people are going to believe what they want to regardless. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you need to train every day. Your footwork, your skill moves, your shooting. And you also need to get tough, because there will always be criticism, always be rumors that aren’t true, and people trying to tear you down. The only thing you can control is you. So train hard, stay in your lane, and shrug off the negativity. Okay?”

  I reach across the table and bump fists with him, but when I glance in my periphery, Lennox is standing there, head at an angle, and eyes fixed on mine. There’s something in the look she gives me that says she heard me, and that she understands.

  It’s the oddest feeling because in this Rory-Esme-lying shitstorm, I haven’t experienced nor expected that someone who doesn’t know me would consider that I didn’t do it. Until now. Until Lennox’s smile.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll train hard. I promise.”

  “Okay then. I can’t wait to play with or against you someday. Bye, Hank. Enjoy the game.”

  His dad nods in appreciation to my chill response after what was said. Hell, it’s not the kid’s fault. He’s only repeating what his arsehole parents said.

  I watch them walk away and then I turn to face the next in line, and before the kid even says a word, I know his story . . . or a version of it.

  I know, because it’s like looking in a mirror at a younger version of me. His hair is longish, his cheeks are hollow, his eyes are wide with excitement at meeting me, but there’s a depth of sadness behind them that I can’t explain. I just know. It’s exhaustion from always feeling like you’re less than. It’s a weariness that comes from worrying if you ate too much of your breakfast this morning because you were starving, and therefore didn’t leave enough for your mum, since there was only one serving. It’s a tiredness over the fear that someone’s going to find out that the dirt beneath your nails is because your water was cut off. That it will be noticed that your clothes are a little too big, because you got them at the local Salvation Army on a handout for the homeless day.

  It’s on his mum’s face too. The desperation to be seen as a mum who gives her all.

  I’
m bone-tired from working two jobs, but I’m here so he can see his hero.

  I’m trying to be both father and mother so he can have a better chance at life.

  I’m hoping that by meeting you, he’ll get the drive and hope to want more than I will ever be able to give him.

  Just as my mum did for me in countless ways, like calling in sick to wait in an endless line to meet legendary footballer, Ian Rush. The same footballer I idolized and would lie and tell my teammates I’d been named after.

  The pitch was the only place we were all equals. The green of the grass was where I was Rush McKenzie, whose footwork and determination the other boys envied. It was the place where they forgot I was the kid no one really knew.

  The pair of them hit me in every part of my past and what’s brought me to this future, and I struggle with what to say.

  “Hi. And who might this be?” I ask as I meet his eyes and then his mum’s.

  “I’m Scottie,” he says in a timid voice as he worries his hands in front of him.

  “Hi Scottie. How are you today, Mum?”

  “We’re very good, thank you.” She darts her eyes to the line behind her and then back to me. “We don’t have anything for you to sign. We can’t—” Her voice breaks off as she motions to the merchandise stand to the far left of us. I know she means they can’t afford to buy anything for me to sign. “But you’re his favorite, so I had to make sure he got the chance to see you since we’ll most likely never get the chance to see you play in England.”

  My smile is plastered on my face, as I swallow over the lump of emotion lodged squarely in my throat.

  I’ve seen mothers like this one a few times over the years, and mostly due to the rush of the event, I haven’t stopped to consider the extreme hardship my mum suffered. I recognize the look in her eyes, because I saw it for years in my mum’s. But I can also now see something with startling clarity.

  This mum is probably around the same age my mum was when she died. When she cried her final tear because she wouldn’t be there for me anymore. And this mum’s the same.

  She’ll never give up on her son. She’ll push and push because of her love for her little boy.