“You want to sell out the stadium this year or not?” I say to the room. “Quit thinking like wankers and get back to cooking so Isabella can do her job. And say sorry to her too.”
A small chorus ofsorry, Isabellas go up around the counter while I get a round of eye rolls and dirty looks.
I lift my brows.
Not looking for apologies for Shade. He’s used to me. Plus, I pay him double what any of his other jobs were offering.
“Sorry, Rosalia,” the guys add. With more eye rolls in my direction.
I pretend I don’t notice. The same way I pretend I don’t notice the tension underlying the team whenever more than three of us are together. “Better. Shred your cheese.”
“Very nicely done, Coach Fletcher,” Goldie murmurs. Her cheese is grated and in a perfect fluffy pile inside the baking dish.
“Thank you.” I don’t want to be a coach.
I want to own the whole fucking league and make it as popular here as American football is.
And then I want to send Rafferty a screenshot of my bank account and my awards and my old-ass body still playing too.
You’re washed up, Huxley. Over. Done. Can’t bloody well keep up anymore. Do you fancy being remembered as the bloke who couldn’t run the length of the pitch anymore, or shall you make a dignified exit while you still have fans? Someday you’ll realize I’m doing you quite the favor.
Fuck him.
That wasn’t his call to make.
I got right in his face, told him I was heading back to my homeland to make American rugby even bigger than British rugby, and that the next time I set foot in the UK, it would be for him to kiss my ass while eating his words.
Got my work cut out for me, but I can do it.
Iwilldo it.
No matter who doubts me. No matter the uphill battle. No matter what gets said about me in the press here or across the pond in the meantime.
We get the rest of the shit mixed in with the grated cheese, and then all of the dishes go in the oven while we’re told to pick up our knives.
“Pleaseswitch spots with him,” Crew mutters to Goldie.
“Our best opportunities for growth come when facing our own deaths,” she replies pertly, which makes both Crew’s date and Silas’s date crack up.
I dislike how much I like her right now.
“Keep your knife away from me,” Silas mutters.
“There are cameras, dumbass. If I was going to cut you, I’d do it without witnesses.”
“Oh, here,” Goldie says to me. “If you’re comfortable holding the knife that way, that’s fine, but youlookuncomfortable. Try holding it this way.”
She slips half behind me and covers my hands with hers, repositioning my grip on the chef’s knife.
Goosebumps break out on my forearms and my dick lifts a sleepy head. She smells like a cupcake. Like a vanilla cupcake fresh out of the oven.
“You’ve handled knives before,” Rosalia says to Goldie.
“I watched a lot of cooking shows a few years ago.” Goldie looks at me. “How’s that feel?”
“Quit fucking touching him,” Silas says.
He’s not muttering now.
