by Lily Cahill
“Thank you,” I say, almost to myself.
Nara nudges me with her shoulder. She’s perched on the stool, but her shoulders only came to halfway up my arms. Yet under that velvety skin, I can see lean muscle wrapped over her arms. She looks up at me with that wide smile, her teeth white and straight, and her eyes are warm and open.
“I have a feeling you get a lot of people assuming things about you, right?” She screws her beautiful, lush lips to one side and then twists her long, straight hair around one hand and settles it back over her shoulder.
“I don’t know what you mean, Nara,” I tease. “I’ve been welcomed into the football team like they’re all my family.” I choke on a laugh as the reality hits. “Actually, they’ve been just like my family. Cold, distant, and always running drills to make sure I’m perfect so they can get what they want from me.”
Nara frowns, so I brush away her obvious, unspoken questions.
“Don’t worry. All horribly posh families are as warm as mine. And, hey—I’ve now heard about one hundred percent more inspirational speeches than I did growing up.”
That does nothing for her frown. Why am I even saying anything? Frigid silence has worked pretty well for me since Shelby’s death.
I shift on the seat, anxiety and anticipation warring within me. My bones and muscles suddenly felt too big under my skin, making me go tight and uncomfortable. For nearly a year now, all I’ve been is a disappointment, a screw-up. First with Shelby, then my parents, then even on this team. Everyone I know hates me, but none more than I hate myself.
But Nara … Nara seems different. I stare at her for a moment, then say suddenly, “Have you ever wanted to just … do the exact opposite of what people expect?”
Nara blinks quickly, and her mouth drops open. “What did you just say?”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “I mean, right now, every single bloke on the team is most likely watching me with you and placing bets on when I’ll say something awful and storm away. But instead, all I want to do is kiss you and grab your hand and get out of here with you.”
Nara frowns and tucks her chin, pulling away from me. Confusion washes over me. Maybe she’s just been trying to be nice. Not everyone has ulterior motives.
“I don’t mean—”
“No!” Nara says loudly. She takes a breath and presses her lips together. And good God, she looks so deliciously perfect in this moment, I can’t keep my hands off her.
But I don’t want to maul her, like those brutes from earlier. My fingers brush against her soft skin, trailing down her cheek and jaw and dipping to her delicate neck. I can feel her pulse jumping in her throat, fluttering fast like my own. My cock stirs again, demanding I touch her more, touch her everywhere.
“Nara,” I say, my voice deep in my throat.
She licks her lips and looks up at me. My mouth dips close, so close to hers. My skin feels electric with the energy sizzling between us, dragging us closer together.
Nara’s soft fingers slide up my arm and curl around my hand at her neck.
“Wait,” she says.
Chapter Three
Nara
HEAT LICKS AT MY SKIN where Ben touches me. Sets me ablaze with desire for him. He’s shifted on the stool so his knees spread open and his powerful legs encompass my own.
We’re surrounded by people and dancing and music and sticky drinks, but it’s like that all fades to the background. Until it’s just the two of us, a hairsbreadth apart. Anticipation steals my breath, makes my brain go fuzzy.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
Lord, I want it so badly. It makes a hot ache bloom in my core.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I flick my gaze up to the mirror behind the bar and instantly spot Jess’ eyes drilling into mine. Her face has gone ghost white, her lips a thin line.
Shit. Shit.
I snake my hand up to Ben’s fingers where they rest so gently against my neck and squeeze his hand.
“Wait,” I say, though every single cell in my body screams for him to keep going, to complete the connection between us.
A little line appears between Ben’s straight, dark brows, and he tilts back a fraction of an inch. This close, I can see shafts of gold in his deep blue eyes. I can see his heartbeat thump in his throat, and a hint of hair on his hard chest at the opened top button of his shirt.
He’s even hotter up close than he is from a distance. And he’s something I never expected—funny and devilishly charming, if he wants to be. He is, I suspect, more complicated than anyone on the team gives him credit for. But I also suspect that he’s not given anyone a chance to know the real him. I have no idea why. Or why he’s chosen to open up even the tiniest bit to me.
But something he said makes me pause. About people using him to get what they want. Aren’t I doing exactly that? The only reason I even approached him is because of Jess’ bet. I’m using him just like he implied others do.
“Is everything all right?” Ben asks, real concern in his tone.
His hand slips up my neck to cup my cheek. I lean into it, almost instinctually.
Some version of the truth escapes me. “You might want to defy expectation, but I don’t necessarily want to kiss you with both of our teams staring at us.”
Ben’s vivid blue eyes slice past me, and his lips twist into a grimace.
“Fuck. You’re right.”
He leans back further, and the sudden distance between us makes a pitiful whine wriggle up my throat.
“I have a plan,” he says suddenly. His hand drops from my face and settles against my thigh. The feel of his palm against my skin sends sensations exploding through me, but I somehow keep my face neutral.
“Go on a date with me. Next week, after the Ducks game. I’ll take you out somewhere we won’t see anyone from the cheer squad or football team. Then you can kiss me as much as you obviously want to.”
He grins, so I know he’s teasing, but my God, he’s not wrong. The thought of kissing Ben makes the warmth unspooling in my core threaten to overwhelm me. Any more of those promises or his large hand against my thigh, and I’m likely to straddle his lap right here. Teammates be damned.
“How about it? A date with a noted colossal asshole?”
That makes me grin, but another thought nags at me. If I say yes, I win Jess’ bet. And if I win Jess’ bet, I’m no better than everyone else using Ben Mayhew.
But, God, I hadn’t realized when I agreed to Jess’ bet that I’d want to go on a date with Ben so badly. I peer up at him and let a slow, dazzling smile take over my face.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “Yes, Ben. That sounds fabulous.”
Ben grins, then orders two more gin and tonics.
Chapter Four
Ben
MY HELMET HANGS FROM MY limp arm, and I drop it onto a bench as soon as I drag ass into the locker room at halftime. One of the coaches hands me a cool towel, and I sling it around my neck and grab hold of both ends.
The team is still shuffling into the locker room behind me, Coach Prescott bringing up the rear with his attention on West. I take advantage of the tiny slice of solitude to arch my back and shut my eyes, willing my breath to return to normal.
My lungs still burn from the last play, a thirty-yard sprint down the field in the final moment of the second quarter. It was a mad attempt to score a touchdown that would have pulled us well ahead of the Oregon Ducks, but West fumbled the long throw, and the Ducks nearly intercepted. If I’d pulled the same dumb mistake on the rugby squad at uni, the team would’ve ousted me as captain. Coach Prescott, though, makes a huge deal about believing in West. Like belief actually does anything.
I feel a slap on my back and open one eye to peer at Coach.
“Good run out there, Mayhew.”
I grunt. “Wasn’t much use.”
West hesitated a second too long, and it’d cost us a field goal. Annoyance prickles through me. I wouldn’t have hesitated.
I take my f
rustration out on the foot of my locker, and it springs open. My bag slumps out, and something else tumbles out of the locker with it: the wooden figurine. Jesus, just the sight of it turns my annoyance into a deep, burning anger that I just can’t get rid of no matter how much I will it. Riley carved these good luck charms for us at the beginning of the season, but even looking at the thing cuts at me. There’s no way he knows what the sight of an Aston Martin means to me—I’ve come to know Riley enough to know he’s too good to pull a cruel joke like that.
The anger sears at me, and I yank the towel down my neck, but it twists against my shoulder pads. Jesus, I want out of this bulky gear. How the hell does anyone play well in this contraption? Coach Prescott tracked me down when I’d enrolled last spring at MSU precisely because of my reputation on the rugby pitch. Fat lot of good my rugby talent does when hemmed in by forty pounds of pads and a helmet.
Coach Prescott looks at me for a moment and sighs—probably regretting every second since he followed me into that bar and talked me into joining his team—but before he can dive into whatever inspirational bullshit he has planned, one of the defensive coaches calls for him, and he strides away.
“Hey, Mayhew,” someone says behind me, before a towel snaps at the back of my knee. I glare over my shoulder to see Dwayne Sheehan grin like a fool then elbow Reggie in the ribs.
Dwayne has small eyes and a smaller brain, though he is massive. A defensive lineman, he’s easily twice the size of the biggest prop on my Oxford rugby squad.
“You fuck that cheerleader? She looked like she was into it.”
My lip curls and I turn back to my locker to shove the figurine out of sight. I try not to talk to anyone if I can help it, especially not a dimwit like Dwayne with practically medieval thoughts on women.
“You need some tips? You ever been with a bitch? Or do all you fancy English guys only do each other?”
My palm slams against the locker, making a few people around me laugh nervously. “Don’t you dare call Nara that,” I hiss. I barely know Nara, but Christ knows she doesn’t deserve a bunch of football players gossiping about her sex life. The overwhelming need to protect her crashes like a wave through me.
Dwayne just laughs.
“Dude,” I hear Reggie say to Dwayne. “Haven’t we already done this? Don’t be a dick.”
Dwayne laughs again. It does nothing to make him sound more intelligent.
“Reg, man, you’re sticking up for Mayhew? What’d he threaten to do, murder Megan?”
Anger surges through me, blasting through my chest and up my throat. I whirl on Dwayne and can barely get the words past my tightening throat. “Shut. Up.”
Murderous Mayhew.
The Disgrace of Derbyshire and His Mistress.
Was She Pregnant? The Mayhew Crash and Coverup.
All the headlines from the accident boil in my brain. The weeks of not being able to leave the estate without reporters hounding me, calling me a murderer. Questioning whether Shelby was breaking up with me when it happened, or pregnant, or if I was cheating. None of it true. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered … except that her mother called me crying, demanding to know why I’d killed her daughter. Except that my own parents tried to act like my girlfriend dying in a crash—a crash that was my own doing—was something trivial to be swept under the rug.
Rage blinds me to everything else around, until all I can see is Dwayne’s little mouth twisting in glee. I hurtle toward him and shove him hard in the chest. He barely moves.
“You ever talk to me again off the field, Dwayne, and I’ll show you what a murderer looks like.”
Dwayne puffs his chest out, all hint of laughter gone. He thrusts a fist into my jersey and twists it up around my throat. “I’d love to see you try.”
There are suddenly hands on us, trying to pull us apart. Someone gets their arm around my neck, but I drive them away without looking. Everything in me spikes with white-hot hatred for this man, for every damn one of them.
“Hey,” West barks at my side.
One glance tells me he was who I shoved. The distraction makes an opening for Reggie to pull Dwayne and me apart. I stand stock still, my chest heaving and hot breath blowing out like acid through my nose.
“Don’t touch me, West,” I spit.
West holds his hands up. “You want to get suspended for fighting? Don’t be an idiot.”
A snarling laugh burns up my throat. “What, an idiot like you out on the field? Second-guessing every play? Jesus, why I ever agreed to give this team a chance ….”
West’s face drains of color, and he takes a step back. Around me, the locker room goes absolutely silent.
“You’re here now,” West says, every syllable clipped. “So stop being a bastard and taking out whatever shit you’re dealing with on us.”
Another wide receiver—Jerome Adams—glares at me. “If you hate everything so much, then go the fuck back to England. You think we can’t replace you?”
I can only open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I have no defense. I’m here because of Shelby, because of what I owe her. I’m here because the thought of living in England without her makes me want to scream. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go. My wonderful parents made that clear enough when I told them I was leaving university and coming to America a year ago.
Running back home would be giving up on Shelby. Again.
The memory of that night seizes me, won’t let me go. I can smell the fuel leaking out of the engine, the blood on my face. I can hear Shelby crying for me, her voice thin and scratchy, the fear in it raking across my skin. I’d reached for her, tried to reassure her. Then a horrible stabbing pain had lanced through me and I’d blacked out. When I came to, she was gone.
She shouldn’t have been driving my car in the first place. I’d told her I wasn’t planning on drinking at all. But then my mates were there and we’d just sat our winter exams and we just wanted to let loose a little. She’d taken the keys to my drop-top Aston and insisted that she drive, even though it was snowing and I knew she hated driving in bad weather. And I’d been too fucked up to argue with her.
That was twenty months ago. I’m not sure I’ve slept through the night since.
Without a word, I grab my helmet and stalk out of the locker room.
Tension slithers and bites as I huddle with the team in the short break between third and fourth quarter. The sun is setting over the packed stadium, baking our shiny helmets and glinting off Coach Prescott’s whistle. Coach’s voice is nothing more than a buzz in my ear—the flat, American vowels and clipped consonants the background to the pulse of my own blood throbbing hotly through my veins.
Eyes slice my way, glaring, questioning. Then I hear West calling my name.
My eyes skip to Coach Prescott then over to the quarterback.
“I said, we’re going to run a fly route, and I need you to be the diversion.”
Before I can object, West slams his hands together and straightens up out of the huddle.
A diversion? I’m not a fucking diversion. I’m the fastest guy on the field, and everyone knows it.
“West,” I shout, jogging to catch up with him as he strides onto the field. He already has his helmet pulled over his head. “West, stop.”
He slows down, but doesn’t look at me. All around us, the crowds in the stands roar and cheer. The marching band is playing some sort of staccato number that sets the fans stomping their feet in time like a thousand-strong herd of mustangs surrounding me.
“I should be running this play, not Adams.”
“I already called the play, Mayhew. Discussion’s over.”
“He got sacked the last two times you called the fly route. You know I should be running this.”
West straddles the fifty-yard line and stares at me, then he shoves his mouth guard in. Discussion over, just like he said. What an asshole. An asshole who’s done nothing but choke under pressure. I shove my helmet on over my head and settled into my
stance at the line of scrimmage.
The stands fall quiet, the band goes silent. The entire stadium waits on the edge of their seats. Behind me, I know the scoreboard announces Ducks: 20; Mustangs: 24. We need a solid win to turn the tide of the season and prove the last few wins weren’t luck, but talent.
Jesus, why do I care? No one on the team gives a toss about me, nor I them. But out on that field, thousands of eyes on me, the thought of not showing what I can do rankles. For all my posh upbringing and careful breeding, I’m bloody good at this. My pride won’t allow me to do anything other than play hard, not matter what sense tells me.
And right now, pride is making me glance left and right, judge my opening through the defensive line of the opposing team, calculate how fast I need to sprint to reach the ball first ….
There’s the rush of breath before the play, then the whistle blows and the world explodes.
Men shout and grunt, pads and helmets crashed together in a furious scrum for position. And I take off. My cleats dig into the turf, and I rocket forward, dodging a giant defensive lineman and hurtling past another. The field opens up behind me, and I sprint as fast as I can, glancing once, twice behind for the snap of West’s wrist sending the ball through the air.
There. The ball sails in a high arc. And it’s coming straight for me. The end zone is mere yards away. I’m almost … almost ….
The world goes horribly, suddenly sideways.
I’m hit straight on with the force of a train, and my skull snaps back against my helmet. I feel the hit all the way through my shoulders, my chest, deep into my lungs. Then I’m off my feet, spinning through the air before I land on my side, the wind knocked clean out of me. Jesus. What was that?
I cough, and my chest is on fire. With a guttural groan, I roll to my side and grimace. Another man is laid flat out beside me. And he’s wearing the blue and silver Mustangs helmet.
Shite. Fucking shite.
It’s Adams. I’ve taken out my own teammate. It’d all happened in a split-second. We must have both been focused on the ball. All the sound comes rushing back to me—and the air is filled with jeers. The Ducks fans in the stadium are going nuts, and their band has started playing what sounds like the Imperial Death March.
