Page 51 of Hard to Hold

“You know what I mean,” she says and rolls her eyes.

“I do know what you mean, and no, you’re not a notch on a bedpost. Far fucking from it, but mission accomplished—I got you to talk to me. And face it, you miss me. You said we couldn’t, but I’m beginning to think you still want to.” I lean in closer and whisper, “Don’t worry. I know you see me and every part of you says yes, but being the sensible woman you are, you’re trying to do the right thing. Play by the rules. I get it. I do. But, Lennox, sometimes it feels good to be oh-so-wrong.”

Her quick intake of air tells me there is more between us left to explore. Like the bed. The pool. So many surfaces. So damn many.

“I admire your persistence. I do. And I never said I didn’t want to sleep with you again,” she says glancing around to make sure no one else hears her. “I said I can’t, that it’s not professional.”

I hum a noncommittal sound and then bring a hand to the back of her neck as my lips find hers. It’s brief, but I take advantage of her momentary shock to take more of what I so desperately want.

And just as soon as I do, I break the kiss and step back, my grin slow to spread, because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that I’m chasing her. The other part of me is dying to show her that her game’s not working—that I still intend to have her. And the jealous, fuck you part of me, wants to make sure that Cannon sees me so he can wonder what the hell is going on.

“What . . . What are you—”

“Time to go to work,” I say with nothing more than a wink and a laugh as I leave that gorgeous, confused face of hers behind without explanation.

And I do go to work. The line of kids and adults alike stretches through the concourse of the stadium. Liverpool gear is in their hands and at the ready for me to sign when they reach the front of the queue.

“Thank you, mate,” I say to the young lad in front of me.

“I want to be like you someday,” he says. “I mean the footballer part. Not the other part. My mom says she’d string you up by the balls for doing what you did.”

“Hank!” his dad gasps, mortified at the comment, and tries to stifle his laugh.

My own smile is hard to fight as I look at this ten- or eleven-year-old kid and know what a smart-arse I was at his age.

“I’m so sorry,” the dad says. “I don’t know—”

“It’s fine,” I say and hold my hand up in a no offense gesture. It’s no worse than the implications I’ve been given all day with every question from the press. “You know the hard thing about being a footballer, Hank? It puts you in the public eye when the only thing you care about is what you leave on the pitch. Even worse, sometimes things are said about you—things that aren’t true—and it doesn’t matter if you speak up about them or not, because people are going to believe what they want to regardless. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you need to train every day. Your footwork, your skill moves, your shooting. And you also need to get tough, because there will always be criticism, always be rumors that aren’t true, and people trying to tear you down. The only thing you can control is you. So train hard, stay in your lane, and shrug off the negativity. Okay?”

I reach across the table and bump fists with him, but when I glance in my periphery, Lennox is standing there, head at an angle, and eyes fixed on mine. There’s something in the look she gives me that says she heard me, and that she understands.

It’s the oddest feeling because in this Rory-Esme-lying shitstorm, I haven’t experienced nor expected that someone who doesn’t know me would consider that I didn’t do it. Until now. Until Lennox’s smile.

“Yes, sir. I’ll train hard. I promise.”

“Okay then. I can’t wait to play with or against you someday. Bye, Hank. Enjoy the game.”

His dad nods in appreciation to my chill response after what was said. Hell, it’s not the kid’s fault. He’s only repeating what his arsehole parents said.

I watch them walk away and then I turn to face the next in line, and before the kid even says a word, I know his story . . . or a version of it.

I know, because it’s like looking in a mirror at a younger version of me. His hair is longish, his cheeks are hollow, his eyes are wide with excitement at meeting me, but there’s a depth of sadness behind them that I can’t explain. I just know. It’s exhaustion from always feeling like you’re less than. It’s a weariness that comes from worrying if you ate too much of your breakfast this morning because you were starving, and therefore didn’t leave enough for your mum, since there was only one serving. It’s a tiredness over the fear that someone’s going to find out that the dirt beneath your nails is because your water was cut off. That it will be noticed that your clothes are a little too big, because you got them at the local Salvation Army on a handout for the homeless day.

It’s on his mum’s face too. The desperation to be seen as a mum who gives her all.

I’m bone-tired from working two jobs, but I’m here so he can see his hero.

I’m trying to be both father and mother so he can have a better chance at life.

I’m hoping that by meeting you, he’ll get the drive and hope to want more than I will ever be able to give him.

Just as my mum did for me in countless ways, like calling in sick to wait in an endless line to meet legendary footballer, Ian Rush. The same footballer I idolized and would lie and tell my teammates I’d been named after.

The pitch was the only place we were all equals. The green of the grass was where I was Rush McKenzie, whose footwork and determination the other boys envied. It was the place where they forgot I was the kid no one really knew.