by Amy Andrews
“Yep. Suits have decided you’re their man. So go do what you have to do, play nice with the journo, and don’t fuck it up, for Chrissakes.”
Tanner shook his head. They couldn’t be serious. “Look Griff—”
“I’m not asking,” the coach interrupted, with a voice that could have frozen a bubbling cauldron. “I’m telling you. This is one of those pain-in-the-ass, non-negotiable things you do for the love of the sport and because I fucking asked you to.”
Tanner pulled the phone away slightly as Griff spewed fire and brimstone into his ear. He looked around at five sets of eyes, the owners of which weren’t even pretending not to listen.
Fucking perfect. Just what he needed. A journo hanging around asking inane questions about shit that did not matter while he was trying to win rugby matches.
Six frickin’ parts.
“Fine,” he snapped, knowing he was up shit creek without a paddle. “Which paper? Who’s the reporter?”
He knew most of the ones that covered the sports desks already. They were okay, by and large. Chuck Nugent was a monumental wanker who knew shit about the intricacies of the game, but he was television-based on account of his apparently pretty face, so at least he’d likely be spared that dipshit.
“It’s the Standard. Someone called Matilda Kent.”
Tanner was pleased he was sitting as Griff tossed that particular grenade at him.
Tilly?
No. No frickin’ way. His Tilly? His high school sweetheart, the woman he’d lost his virginity to? The only woman he’d ever had a real relationship with?
The woman he’d hurt with possibly the most dickish thing he’d ever done in his life?
He knew she was at the Standard. He’d been following her career from afar since she landed back in Sydney straight from Stanford. But she was doing a style column—he knew that because he read it every day. How was she suddenly doing a six-part feature series? On him?
Tanner realised he was listening to the dial tone with no idea when Griff had hung up. He didn’t like the way his lungs felt too big for his chest, or the taut bunch of his muscles in his abdomen.
Tilly.
“Fuck.” He threw the phone on the table, picked up his three-quarter full, long-necked beer, and drained it in a half dozen swallows.
Nobody said anything while he drank. But Linc liked the sound of his voice too much to let the silence continue once the bottle hit the table.
“You get caught on camera with your dick out, too?” he asked.
Bodie cuffed Linc across the back of the head as he said, “You okay, cap? You look kind of pale?”
Dex glanced at him. He was calm and collected as usual—off field. On field, the big guy had perfected a menacing look specifically designed to make his opponents piss their pants. “Problem?”
Oh, yeah. Big problem.
“Suits want me to co-operate with a journo for a six-part feature series. The man behind the myth kinda thing.”
Dex whistled. “Fun. Not.”
About as much fun as a root canal.
“Who’s the journo?” Ryder asked.
Tanner picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Matilda Kent.”
It took less than five seconds for realisation to dawn around the table. “Hey,” Linc said. “Isn’t she that chick you read in the paper every day? The fashion chick?”
Fuck. It had to be Linc. “She’s a style columnist.”
Linc laughed and everyone else grinned. “Sorry there, Slick. I’m not up on all the jargon.”
Tanner had tried to convince his teammates, when they’d sprung him last year with the fashion pages, that he only did it because he liked to dress slick. They hadn’t been convinced but had thought it was hilarious enough to start calling him Slick.
Unfortunately, it had stuck and been adopted by the public and media alike. Something about the alliteration of Slick and Stone had obviously appealed.
Lucky for him, people outside the team assumed it was because of how slippery he was on the field or how slick he was with the ladies. But, no, it was from following his high school sweetheart’s writing career.
He sure as hell didn’t want that one going public.
“That’s because you’re a walking fashion disaster,” Tanner quipped.
“So what’s the problem?” Ryder asked. “She’s a chick who writes a style column. Make up some shit, bamboozle her with your famous charm, and send her on her way.”
“The problem is…” Tanner figured it was best to come clean with the guys about his relationship with Matilda. It was bound to come out, and he’d never hear the bloody end of it. “We used to go out. In high school.”
“Ah,” Dex grinned. “Now it all makes sense.”
“Oh, come on, cap. It was high school,” Ryder said dismissively. “How bad can it be? I swear you’re the only person I know who can dump a chick and still have them talk about how sweet you are all over social media.”
Tanner shook his head. “Not this one. I cheated on this one.” Or at least she’d thought he had, anyway.
Donovan winced. “Ouch.”
Bodie also winced. “Sucks to be you.”
“Dead meat.” Linc grinned. “I call shotgun on your apartment, though. This is one cool setup.”
Tanner’s apartment was situated on Finger Wharf, right on the harbour at Woolloomooloo. A century ago, wool was exported from the timber-pile wharf. A lot had changed.
“Shotgun his four wheel drive,” Donovan said.
“Shotgun his locker,” Bodie jumped in.
“Bullshit, that’s mine,” Dex said.
“I called shotgun first,” Bodie protested.
“You can’t handle his locker,” Dex countered.
If he’d been in a better mood, Tanner would have laughed at them squabbling over his stuff like a pack of seagulls. But right now, all he could think about was a cute ponytail and a pair of adorable horn-rimmed glasses.
Tilly.
Why’d it have to be Tilly?
Chapter Two
Three days later, Matilda stood outside Tanner’s locker room, which was accessed via a concrete tunnel in the bowels of Henley stadium, the Smoke’s home ground. The fabric of the lanyard she’d been handed on her arrival scratched against the back of her neck, and she clutched at the hard plastic of her all-access pass to centre herself for a moment.
She could do this. It was her chance to score her dream job, and she wasn’t going to blow it, despite wanting to turn on her heel and run. Everyone had parts of their job they hated.
It just so happened that today hers had a name: Tanner Stone.
But she was a professional, and she would approach this feature series like she did all her work—with dedication and decorum.
The fact she’d managed to extract a promise from Imelda that she could have significant editorial control over the series had heartened her. Her boss wanted to know the man behind the myth, and that’s what she’d get.
With a side dose of how high school jerks grew up to become adult jerks.
It would be the ultimate revenge on the guy who had ripped her heart out of her chest, and the thought of it was about the only thing keeping her from fleeing right about now.
She’d have to be careful, of course. Imelda was happy to give her leeway, but she wouldn’t tolerate a biased attack. No, instead Matilda would write about how extreme popularity and sycophants had turned the boy she knew in high school into a raging egomaniac who craved the limelight and ran through beautiful women like water. There was a bigger story to be had here, as well—an exposé on society’s obsession with sport and making heroes out of guys not mature enough to see beyond the adulation and excesses.
It was going to be freaking brilliant.
A burst of male laughter flowed out into the concrete corridor through the partially open door of the locker room, reminding her she was standing outside when she was supposed to be inside.
With Tanner.
&nbs
p; She hadn’t announced her arrival yet because she wanted to have the advantage. She wanted him unsettled. Because she needed to be in control here. The man had smelled better than a whole damn bakery, and she’d been like a carb junkie around Tanner Stone. Just a whiff of him had turned her into the goddamn Cookie Monster.
Going cold turkey had been hell on wheels.
So she had to remember not to get too close. To keep her distance. Although surely he didn’t still smell good enough to eat. Not after two hours of training, right? She’d watched the last fifteen minutes of the session from the stands and didn’t need to see it to know the perspiration would be dripping from him.
He’d be all sweaty and disgusting.
Perfect.
And she was dressed in her no-nonsense black pantsuit, which was more practical than stylish. It felt like armour, which was exactly what she needed.
Matilda gathered herself and rapped loudly on the door. “Everybody decent in there?”
The low deep murmur of men’s voices cut out abruptly, and there was silence for a beat or two.
“That depends what you look like, honey.” A burst of laughter was followed by, “C’mon in, baby. We won’t bite.”
“Fabulous,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.
Matilda hadn’t been inside a locker room before, but she refused to be intimidated by a bunch of big, sweaty guys. Straightening her spine, she pushed the door open. A wide bank of lockers temporarily blocked the room from her view, and she stepped around them.
“I’m after Tanner Stone,” she announced as her gaze took in about half a dozen guys, some still in their uniforms, some shirtless, others in their underwear, one of them, his back turned to her, was pulling on a pair of briefs, momentarily flashing her a lily-white ass.
“What you want an old man like that for?” A young cocky guy in his boxer-briefs, all meaty thighs and abs, grinned at her. Matilda was about to point out that twenty-six wasn’t exactly ancient, but thighs-and-abs wasn’t done yet. “They tire too easy. You need a younger model. I’d like to volunteer my services for a test drive.”
Brashness in guys was usually such a turn off, but there was something so endearing about the twinkle in his eyes and the cheekiness of his grin, Matilda found it difficult not to smile.
Clearly he was getting laid far too easily.
“Keep it in your pants, Linc,” said a mountainous-looking guy still in his uniform. He turned his head slightly. “Hey, Slick, lady here for you.”
Matilda opened her mouth to tell him she was no lady, but suddenly Tanner appeared from behind the bank of lockers, his golden-blond hair dark and wet from his shower, his chest bare, a white towel slung low on narrow hips.
“Hello, Tilly.”
The locker room fell silent again as her mouth went dry as a chip. There wasn’t a single drop of moisture left to even castigate him for the use of her pet name. And frankly, hearing him say it after eight years was doing strange things to her equilibrium.
Thank God she wasn’t wearing those ridiculous crotchless knickers with the pearls. His voice, his chest, that towel, the thorny half-sleeve tats running from elbow to shoulder on both sides were more than enough stimulation.
“It’s been a long time,” he murmured, prowling toward her, drawing to a halt just out of arm’s reach.
Not long enough.
Not nearly long enough. The incredible mix of soap, deodorant, and cologne he wore so well had her body responding like he was an original glazed Krispy Kreme.
Still warm from the oven.
Dear God…he did still smell good enough to eat.
He was bigger than she remembered. Bigger than he’d seemed on the telly. Taller and broader. His muscles were thicker, puckered in places, ridged in others. He looked every inch the formidable footballer with the massive kick, powerful in the way athletes often were, all leashed strength ready to uncoil.
With his slightly crooked nose, rough stubble, and brooding expression—not to mention the tats—he looked fearsome. Practically naked, there was something wholly uncivilised about him.
And so damn tactile.
She curled her fingers into her palms as the urge to touch him rode her like the devil. “Hey,” she replied, finally finding her voice as she ground her shoes into the floor.
Keep your distance. He’s just a job. Just a stepping-stone. No pun intended.
“No glasses?” he asked.
“I have contacts now.”
He didn’t acknowledge her reply. “You’ve cut your hair.”
Matilda resisted the urge to self-consciously touch the back of her neck where the tips of her blonde ’do feathered so lightly. The pixie cut suited her fine hair and the gamine features of her face, giving her a maturity and authority her petite frame often didn’t.
She loved it.
He leaned one huge shoulder against the nearest locker and ran his gaze over her hair. His eyes were as blue as she remembered, the dark outer rim of his iris defining and emphasising them so brilliantly. “I liked it better the other way.”
Matilda’s pulse fluttered as she remembered how he’d loved to see her long hair spread out on his pillow, or falling around them like a curtain when she was on top.
Damn the man to hell for putting that particular image in her head.
Resentment simmered through her veins. She needed to show him that she was in control. That she wasn’t here to trade pleasantries or reminisce about the old days. For God’s sake, didn’t he know what he’d done had irrevocably coloured her memories of that time?
“I wonder if you know how very much I don’t care about your opinion.”
A couple of the guys sniggered from behind, but she ignored them. It was time to cut to the chase. She put on her best journalist voice—brisk and no-nonsense. “I take it you know about the feature series?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “I heard.”
He was annoyed. Good. If he multiplied it by a thousand, he’d be in the ballpark of what she felt. “It’s a six-parter. The man behind the myth.” She glanced over his shoulder at their rapt audience before returning her attention to him. “We have a lot to cover. We should figure out a time to sit down and talk.”
He regarded her for a moment or two, those full, firm lips—as spectacular as she remembered—curving into a slow smile. “Oh, come on, Tilly, I’m sure you remember how mythic we were in the sack?”
Matilda’s eyes bulged a little at his audacity, her cheeks burning as the guys behind him all grinned and high-fived. Slowly, deliberately, she slid her hand into the bag hanging off her shoulder and pulled out her trusty recording device. In the age of mobile technology, it was a little dated, but Matilda always felt like a real journalist with it in her hand.
She flicked and held down the record button with her thumb and brought it up close to her mouth. “If memory serves,” she said, projecting her voice for everyone to hear, “Tanner Stone’s dick doesn’t quite live up to its namesake and pales in comparison to his ginormous ego. His fumbling attempts to manage both never quite succeeded. Let’s all be glad he has more game on the field.” She released her thumb. “Is that how you want the article to go down, Slick?”
The guys behind Tanner erupted in catcalls and backslapping.
“Whoa! Burn, baby,” the guy called Linc said.
“I love her, cap,” came from someone else. “I think you should marry her. Hell, I will if you won’t.”
“We’ve got a space on the cheer squad,” was another suggestion.
A big Maori-looking dude shook his head. “Nah. Girl that fierce should be the team mascot.”
Much to Matilda’s surprise, Tanner threw back his head and laughed, too. It was low and delicious, ruffling all the good places. She could see every individual whisker on his neck, and the urge to bury her face right where his pulse beat slow and thick at the base of his throat was almost overwhelming.
His laughter died as he looked at her, but there w
as still that easy smile lighting up his stupid, handsome face. “I knew you were in there somewhere, Tilly.”
Matilda frowned. She preferred him being annoyed with her. She needed him to be annoyed with her. Because this Tanner—flirty, charming Tanner—was not what she needed.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, Matilda.” Except he didn’t look very sorry at all. “So…how do you want me?”
Matilda ignored the blatant double entendre. “I thought we could meet for six sessions over six weeks and cover a different topic, which will form the basis for that week’s feature story. The first article is due to appear in next Friday’s edition. Does that fit with your schedule?”
He lifted the shoulder that wasn’t planted against the locker. “As long as I get to choose the locations for the interviews, sure.”
“Oh.” Matilda frowned, already sensing a deviation to her plans. She didn’t like deviations. “I thought we’d meet at the newspaper? They have interview rooms there specifically for this purpose.”
They were cold and clinical, and not full of half-naked men. There was a lot less testosterone. People wore clothes.
It was perfect.
He shook his head slowly. “Nope. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. I agree to submit”—he grinned as he drew the word out a little—“to you, on six occasions. But I say where and when.”
If this was him “submitting,” he’d better not ditch rugby for a BDSM lifestyle.
An image of him submitting whilst naked and tied to her bedpost undulated rather unhelpfully like a serpent through her brain. If only it were hissing keep your distance instead of step a little closer.
Matilda cleared her throat. She just wanted out now. She wasn’t used to dealing with this much testosterone in one room. Hell, if she stayed much longer, she’d probably grow her own pair of balls.
She’d come to set up a time to meet and get the hell out. If Tanner wanted to assert himself by trying to control the extraneous details, so be it. She was the one wielding the pen.
She reached into her bag and plucked one of her cards out of the internal pocket and thrust it toward him.
