The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2)

by Penny Reid

  It had been a dark day.

  Dorothy left me and I caressed the crisp edges of the catalog with my thumbs.

  Uncle Peter hadn’t been much of a father figure, but he had given me my first SkyMall magazine. I’d been instructed to “pick something out for yourself and the maid will order it” after my birthday had gone by unnoticed for the third year—nothing unusual about that occurrence.

  Except, as it turned out, it had been a special birthday.

  Such oddities. So many bizarre and clever inventions. Who would possibly have thought a large super skateboard parasail would be a good idea? And did men really wear high-waisted control boxer briefs? Of course, I did consider requesting The Human Sling-Shot . . .

  Eventually, I settled on a glow-in-the-dark collar and leash for the family dog, first glimpsed on page forty-seven of the catalog. I’d circled it carefully with black marker, prepared to return the catalog to the head housekeeper.

  And yet, I couldn’t.

  In the end, I decided I could live without the leash, but found I couldn’t part with the eclectic and wonderful pages upon pages of sundry contraptions. I’d become infatuated with its weirdness.

  Presently, I was still debating whether to crack open the unexpected treasure trove of esoteric eccentricity now, or wait until we were airborne, when I was unceremoniously yanked out of my indecision by a familiar voice.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  I was a tad startled, but didn’t need to glance up to know which primate had addressed me with such apish manners. Ronan Fitzpatrick.

  “I’m sitting on an airplane,” I responded evenly, determined to enjoy SkyMall’s eclectic offerings despite Ronan’s untimely appearance.

  “You’re sitting in my seat.” My teammate’s voice dropped an octave.

  “Oh,” came a feminine squeak from the vicinity behind him, drawing my attention away from the pages of SkyMall.

  Ronan’s exceptionally pretty, brilliant, and odd girlfriend stood at his shoulder, cheeks rosy and tanned, and with wide eyes peering at me with surprise.

  “Ms. Catrel. How pleasant.” I grinned at her.

  “What are you still doing in Spain? I thought you left weeks ago?” Ronan growled.

  I ignored him, addressing my question to Annie as I patted the seat next to me. “Is this your seat?”

  Ronan shifted to the side, effectively hiding her from my view. “That is her seat, but you’re in mine. So I’ll thank you to get your arse up and out.”

  The grin slid from my face as I pulled my ticket stub from my suit pocket and showed it to my rival. “You’re in error. This is my seat. I’ve just purchased it.”

  Ronan’s Cro-Magnon brow furrowed, meant to display the severity of his disdain; he didn’t look at my ticket. “I don’t care if you’ve purchased the whole godforsaken airline. That’s my seat, and you’re in it. Get. Up.”

  “Oh dear.” The stewardess appeared, holding my cocktail and casting concerned glances between my hulking teammate and me. “Is there a problem?”

  “This man is harassing me,” I responded flatly.

  Mother Fitzpatrick turned an alarming shade of red.

  “No,” he growled, tossing his thumb in my direction as though the action would smite me where I sat in seat 1B. “This arsehole—”

  “Ronan,” Annie soothed, placing her hand on his arm.

  He began again after taking a breath and holding up his ticket for Dorothy the stewardess. “This person is in my seat.”

  I held my ticket up as well. “That’s impossible. I just purchased this seat two hours ago.”

  Dorothy’s eyes moved between our offerings and her forehead creased with worry. “Oh dear. This is a mess. May I have these tickets? I’ll ring the ticket agent.”

  “Certainly.” I relinquished my slip of paper proof and exchanged it for the cocktail she held.

  Ronan likewise handed over his and Annie’s tickets, sliding into seats 1C and 1D to wait as Dorothy disappeared into the galley.

  “The flight is sold out, Mother Fitzpatrick. You can’t steal those seats either.” I indicated to where he waited, sipping my bourbon and 7. I was glad Dorothy had made it a double.

  “I’m not the stealing kind, Cassidy. I’ve no need,” Ronan shot back, his eyes pointedly not meeting mine.

  “I suppose you’re referring to Brona? Really, isn’t that bad form of you? Bringing up your ex in front of pretty Ms. Catrel.” I winked at her. She rolled her eyes heavenward.

  What Ronan didn’t know—what no one but Brona O’Shea and I knew—was that I never touched Brona O’Shea except for publicity purposes.

  Actually, that wasn’t quite right. Lucy Fitzpatrick knew.

  I scowled, recalling how I’d told her the truth. In retrospect, I couldn’t fathom why I’d allowed her accusation of bad taste to piss me off so much. I didn’t have bad taste. I had impeccable taste. I just didn’t act on my impeccable taste because . . . no point.

  Regardless, Brona and I had staged the whole scene, our relationship, hoping to enrage Ronan and push him over the edge. Unsurprisingly, it had worked. Ronan was nothing if not predictable, his emotions far too close to the surface.

  His loyalty and candid affection for his loved ones would be his downfall.

  I couldn’t relate. I had no loved ones.

  Well, that’s not quite right. I had a loved one. I had Eilish, but I didn’t go blathering on about her.

  Presently, to his credit, Ronan managed to sound bored and threatening at the same time when he responded, “Keep pushing, Cassidy, see where it gets you. You and Brona deserved each other seeing as you’re both dead inside. Really, it must be nice not to give a shit about anyone but yourself.”

  Abruptly, the bourbon tasted sour on my tongue. I removed my hand from the cup so as to control my urge to pitch it at him.

  “What about your sister?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I’d said them.

  Ronan’s glare cut to mine and sharpened. “What about my sister?”

  I smirked, though I struggled to form the words as a bizarre sense of loyalty and guilt completely arrested my spitefulness. “Is she the stealing kind?”

  Panic flickered behind Ronan’s glare, heating it to incendiary levels. Ronan knew. He knew all about his sister’s sticky fingers. And worried about her.

  Christ, I hated myself sometimes.

  But not enough to stop baiting Ronan.

  My smirk grew into a threatening grin. “I wonder what else little Lucy and I have in common.”

  “Shut your bloody mouth, Cassidy.” Ronan began to stand, murder clearly on his mind, but was stayed by Annie’s firm grip on his shoulder and calm reassurances.

  “Ronan, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. Just let it go. Can’t you see how sad he is?”

  I felt her last words at the base of my skull, a prickling discomfort, yet managed a slight chuckle. “Sad? Me? Ha. I’m the picture of cheerfulness.”

  “Yes. You. Sad.” Annie’s serious brown eyes captured mine across the aisle and her tone was free of malice as she continued, “You are sad and lonely and lost, though you’ll never admit it. Instead you pick fights, desperate to feel something.”

  I swallowed past a cinching bitterness in the back of my throat and drawled, “Oh yes. I’m so desperately sad, and need to be saved. Save me, Ms. Catrel. Save me from my crushing loneliness and despair. All I require is a good woman . . . or two. Or three, at the very most, so do bring some friends along.”

  Annie shook her head at me, a slight, knowing smile pasted on her lips, but was stopped from responding further by the appearance of the aforementioned gate agent.

  “Mr. Cassidy?” She addressed me, her tone painfully conciliatory.

  Not a good sign.

  “I am Mr. Cassidy,” I confirmed flatly.

  “I am so sorry,” she was tripping over the words, barely able to get them out, “but it appears there has been a mix-up. We never s
hould have released this seat to you. I’ll need you to come with me back to the gate.”

  “You don’t say . . .” I gritted my teeth, hating that Ronan would win this round, just like he won everything.

  Ronan Fitzpatrick and his apish manners.

  Ronan Fitzpatrick and his legion of loyal followers.

  Ronan Fitzpatrick and his adoring family.

  He didn’t deserve to be the team captain. He didn’t deserve seat 1B in this airplane. And he definitely didn’t deserve the insightful, pretty, and brilliant Ms. Catrel.

  I unhurriedly unfolded from the seat, tilting my head to one side so as not to hit it on the roof of the plane. The gate agent backed up two steps, clearly startled by my size. Or perhaps she backed off because I was glaring daggers in her direction.

  “Tough luck, Cassidy.” Ronan stood as well, grinning triumphantly. “You could always fly coach.”

  I felt my glower intensify as I volleyed back hatefully. “Perhaps I’ll go find your sister in Barcelona and we can chat about all the things we have in common.”

  Irritatingly, Ronan chuckled and called after me as I walked down the aisle toward the exit. “Not likely. Lucy isn’t in Spain, Cassidy. She’s in the middle of the woods at some yoga retreat, where you’ll never find her.”

  I turned the corner, now blessedly out of earshot, left the airplane, and straightened to my full height as I strolled up the onramp and back to the gate. Bourbon, 7 Up, and defeat an acrimonious mixture on my tongue.

  The gate agent was still apologizing, scurrying in front of me and tossing regretful smiles over her shoulder.

  I didn’t return her smile, too busy stewing in the simmering heat of failure.

  Ronan Fitzpatrick lumbered through life, threatening and shouting, getting his own way at every turn. He was a great buffoon, masquerading indulgent, brutish conceit and idiocy as loyalty and dedication.

  “We’ll get you back to Dublin, Mr. Cassidy. I promise. It might take a few hours, but we’ll have it sorted.”

  He deserved to feel the sting of a true setback.

  He deserved humiliation.

  He deserved to suffer.

  “I’m not going to Dublin,” I said as I thought the words, a plan forming in my mind.

  “Oh?” The woman frowned at me, considering and cautious, and her voice held a slight tremor as she offered, “Well, I’m sure we can accommodate you wherever you’d like to go.”

  I glared at her earnest and solicitous face for several protracted seconds. Holding my gaze, she swallowed as though the action were painful. I dropped my eyes to her hands where they fiddled with the badge around her neck. Her fingers were shaking.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded, unaccountably irritated by her nerves. I was used to people being intimidated by my presence, yet I rarely enjoyed their discomfort. Just another reminder of how terribly inconvenient I was.

  “Marta.” She tilted her chin up, looking like a brave little girl.

  “Marta.” I let her name roll off my tongue, softening my tone, and giving her a smile meant to ease her nerves—a skill I’d perfected over the years out of necessity. “Such a beautiful name.”

  Her lashes fluttered and pink stained her olive skin. “Th-thank you, Mr. Cassidy.” Marta’s response was a breathy whisper.

  “Now, I need a flight to the United States. Specifically, to someplace called Squam Lake in New Hampshire.” I licked my lips and inclined my head toward her, lowering my voice as though I were asking for her secrets. “Can you help me, Marta?”

  Chapter Five

  @LucyFitz Sometimes I open chocolate bars real slow and imagine what I’d do if there was a golden ticket inside.

  @BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz Okay, first answer that pops into your head. Depp-Wonka or Wilder-Wonka?

  @LucyFitz to @BroderickAdams This is gonna cause controversy but…Depp-Wonka.

  @BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz WHAT!?!

  *Lucy*

  I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. Here I was, in a place far removed from modern stresses and strains, no Internet, no mobile phone, but most importantly, no Jackie Fitzpatrick. Yes, I was thousands of miles away from my mother and the urge to steal was a long-forgotten, distant memory.

  “You look happy,” said Broderick as we sat on a patio that faced the lake, drinking our kale smoothies.

  “Of course I’m happy, Rick. Look where we are. The people who live here must wake up every morning and feel elated just to be alive.”

  My friend chuckled. “It’s certainly a lot more relaxing than Manhattan.”

  I nodded. “I mean, don’t me wrong, I love New York, but I couldn’t spend the rest of my life there. If I ever made enough money I’d build myself a nice little two-bedroom cottage in a place like this, adopt a bunch of dogs, and just forget about the rest of the world.”

  “But then you wouldn’t get to see my handsome face every day,” he teased and I grinned at him. I’d had my fair share of platonic male friends in my time, but Rick was by far the prettiest. And don’t even get me started on his accent. Gah, I could listen to him speak for hours. I’d quickly come to realize we didn’t have chemistry of the romantic variety. In truth, I thought he might be harboring feelings for an ex or hung up on some other girl, and wasn’t getting involved in that.

  So, we’d become best buds instead and I thoroughly enjoyed his company.

  Speaking of harbored feelings, my mind had been a little preoccupied of late, continually wandering to a certain blond-haired rugby player with a bad attitude. Even though our dinner had ended on unfriendly terms, I couldn’t help replaying his hands on my wrist, or how naturally his arm had wrapped around my waist, the heat of his body warming me.

  But enough about “He Who Must Not Be Named.” I needed to start treating him like Voldemort. Don’t speak of him, don’t even think of him, and certainly don’t imagine him tearing my knickers off with his teeth . . .

  Anyway.

  Back to Broderick. Yes, my friend was someone who actually deserved to take up room in my thoughts. He was a small-time music producer who ran his own blog and website. He did album reviews and stuff like that, but really his talent was wasted on writing, because the man had a fantastic set of pipes. Think Al Green meets Nat King Cole.

  We finished off our smoothies and headed inside for our mid-morning yoga class. I’d really taken a shine to the instructor. Her name was Maria, an ex-nun from Massachusetts who’d spent a decade of her life volunteering with impoverished communities in Zimbabwe. She was certainly a woman with stories to tell.

  The retreat was located in a large wooden house with an interior that consisted almost exclusively of whites and pale blues. There was nothing busy, nothing stressful to the eye, just serene tones and hardwood floors.

  Nirvana.

  We were a couple minutes early to class, so Rick and I busied ourselves stretching and setting out our mats. We sat close to the front, and it wasn’t long before the room started to fill up.

  About ten minutes in, as Maria instructed us to turn our heads slowly to the right, I looked across the room only to meet a startlingly familiar pair of blue eyes.

  What the fu—

  How the bloody hell had Voldemort gotten into the building?

  Sean Cassidy sat serenely on a yoga mat, his legs crossed and his hands braced on the floor, grinning widely like he’d just been told Scarlett Johansson wanted to give him a blowie. No longer was I relaxed. My inner peace fled for the hills as my palms grew sweaty and my heart rate sped up. I blinked—like maybe I’d imagined him—but no, when I looked again he was still there, still wearing that same smug grin.

  Again I thought of our dinner together, and how I’d so foolishly told him all the details of where I’d be spending my break. It seemed to me that Sean was up to something, something decidedly fishy.

  I refused to look at him again for the remainder of the class. The hour was a complete and total write-off though, because my thoughts were a scramble
d mess and I couldn’t focus. When Maria finished up, wishing us all a good day, I shot out of the room like a rabbit on speed. I didn’t even wait around for Rick. No, I took my mat and my water bottle and strode right out of the building, heading for the peaceful waters of the lake.

  For a second I considered finding a phone to call Ronan and request he come and extract Sean from my haven of solitude. His very presence turned it into a place of tension and anxiety . . . and yes, unwanted sexual urges.

  But no, I couldn’t go crying to my brother every time something didn’t go my way. I was a confident grown woman, and I could a handle a little problem like Sean Cassidy.

  Piece of cake.

  With this renewed determination, I took several deep breaths and enjoyed a few more minutes of blessed silence before spinning around toward the house. Unfortunately, as soon as I turned I found Sean standing there with his arms folded, leaning casually against the trunk of a tree.

  Startled, I almost tripped over a branch.

  “Jesus, what are you doing out here?” I asked, my hand flying to my rapidly beating heart.

  “As of the last few minutes I’ve been watching you have a conversation with yourself. It’s a tad worrying, truth be told. I assume you answer your own questions?” He tutted.

  I inhaled, my mouth opening to deny his assumption, but nothing came out. Had I been talking to myself? I’d been in such a tizzy, I couldn’t remember.

  I began fidgeting with the hem of my top, staring at the ground as I said, “Look, whatever game you’re playing by coming here, I want no part of it. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months and I won’t have anyone ruin it for me.”

  When I finally lifted my head to meet his eyes, Sean’s masculine brows drew together in a frown. I reluctantly traced the contours of his arms beneath his long-sleeved gray T-shirt, savoring the way his waist tapered into a pair of dark workout pants. God, he was attractive.

  “I’m not here to ruin anything. You invited me to come.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did.”

  “I wouldn’t.”