He’s laughing, walking over to a teammate when I spin on my heel, rage overriding all sense, and tackle him around the waist in a way only a rugby player could.
Surprise works to my advantage, because Hughes is too shocked initially to shake me off before I straddle his waist, pull my fist back, and land a punch squarely across his cheek.
The stands are full of riotous excitement, and it holds me suspended in my anger. My soul has left my body, and it hovers above us, watching me grip his jersey in my left hand, lifting him off the ground slightly before slamming him back down and landing another blow to his face.
My rage is nuclear, hearing him talk about Jade like that—about any woman like that, I reason with myself.
Pain coalesces across my knuckles as they split on the third punch to his face. Blood shines across Oliver’s teeth, pooling in the crevices as he smiles up at me like a lunatic. I’m about to land a fourth hit before I’m pulled off him, Cavan’s thick arms wrapping around my shaking body, trapping my own arms down by my side.
He’s talking quietly in my ear, but there’s a buzzing that prohibits me from hearing him. All I can hear is Hughes’ smug voice as he says,I do like it when they put up a fight.
Bile crawls up my throat, threatening to spill as my breathing comes in heaving gasps.
“Settle down,” Cavan’s deep voice says calmly. “Settle the fuck down. Take a breath in.” I follow his instruction, inhaling sharply. “Good. Now, out.”
I repeat his order a few more times, absentmindedly thinking he’d make a better captain as I inhale and exhale.Cavan always kept calm, always delivered on the pitch. His presence is a balm to my anxiety riddled mind, and the team could probably use that more than me.
“Are you with me?” His gravelly voice is barely audible, but I nod, and his arms loosen their grip around me slightly. Three taps to his sun kissed forearm lets him know I’m not going to go on a rampage, rip off Oliver’s left arm, and feed it to him—no matter how much I may want to.
My friend drops his hold, and I hazard a glance over to the VIP section, where Jade’s sitting, but…she’s not there anymore. Only Lottie remains, yelling expletives at me too colourful to repeat, and I swear, I think I hear Cavan chuckle. I must have hit my head during the scuffle and I’m imagining things, because Cavan Darceyneverlaughs.
“You saw him tackle me—card him,” Hughes berates the referee when I rejoin the fray.
The ref pulls a red card out of his shirt pocket, holding it up in the air for fans and announcers to see. “Red card, Stone.”
I accept my fate with as much grace as I can, turning to walk off the pitch and prepare myself for the reeming I’m about to receive from Ballard for being kicked out of the game.
“Red card, Hughes.” The crowd goes insane with a chorus of cheering and dissent.
“You’re taking the piss! For what?” he’s shouting.
“Your illegal tackle and,” he pauses, searching for the words, “ungentlemanly conduct.”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest, fighting a smile the entire walk to the sidelines. But it falls off my face when I see it’s not Ballard waiting for me.
Jade stands at the mouth of the tunnel, arms crossed over her chest, a severe scowl lining her impossibly beautiful face. She looks like she’s contemplating taking off her stiletto and giving me a lobotomy with it.
“My office.Now.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument, so I follow her, passing Harry, who hands me a towel and a bottle of water to cool down as I go, praying the whole way I don’t finally get the sacking I’ve deserved for the better part of a year.
The silence blanketing the office is actually starting to frighten me, but not quite as much as Jade’s singular focus as her right eye starts to twitch.
To an outsider, one might think she’s calm, but I can tell that underneath the mask of neutrality, she’s a viper ready to strike—something under my skin is humming for her to sink her fangs into me.
“Do you want to explain to me why my captain, England’s best fly-half, just got red carded out of a game?”
“That middle bit’s debatable, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.” Her tone is sharp as a knife, quick to defend me even as she looks angry enough to chop off my balls and wear them as earrings.
“Careful, boss. That sounds suspiciously like you like me.” The urge to flirt can’t be stymied anymore. At least not tonight, while adrenaline from the game is still coursing through my body. I should probably feel some sort of remorse for my behaviour—for getting thrown out of a game for the first time in my career—and I probably will tomorrow, once the sense of failure starts to creep in. But for right now, all I feel is a strange sense of calm.
“I tolerate you at best,” she hisses.
We’re in a face off like two gun slingers in an old-time western film, and I won’t be the first to draw.
She lets out a beleaguered sigh. “You have to be above reproach, Tieran.”
