Page 55 of Hard to Hold

But right now, watching Rush own the field every time he touches the ball, I see it differently.

His skill is phenomenal. Footwork that runs circles around the others. A cockiness that says he knows it and plans to exploit it every chance he gets. A grace that can be likened to a dancer’s but with the aggression of a fighter.

If the roar of the crowd here is invigorating, I can only imagine what a game is like sitting in a seat somewhere in England where the crowd capacity is three times what is here tonight, and every touch Rush gets on the ball is either revered or reviled.

When his third goal is scored toward the latter part of the second half and his hat trick is accomplished, he simply turns my way, arms out, and takes a bow.

I throw my head back and laugh.

It’s all I can do, because Rush McKenzie just successfully convinced me that soccer is an exciting sport.

So much so that I can’t remember the last time something—or someone—mesmerized me to the point that I didn’t pick up my phone to take a call.

And my phone had been ringing.

But I wasn’t answering.

No. Instead I was falling a little more in lustful like with the tattooed newcomer putting on a show for me. Because this man wears his heart on his sleeve for those he believes deserve to see it. And I absolutely love that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

RUSH

11 Years Ago

“C’MON, MATE. YOU HAVE TO celebrate. It was a fucking hat trick,” Rory says, hand on the door, phone in the other, and a pair of the most gorgeous boots tied by the laces and hanging over his shoulders.

It sounds stupid because I have boots. Practical boots that get me through every training session just fine . . . but Rory’s are a smashing black and red with a hint of white, top-of-the-line pair like the professionals wear. They look like luxury for your feet, which is ridiculous but true. Hell, for a kid always having to scrounge through used bins to find a pair of boots to fit me, I’d give anything to be able to drop three hundred quid on a pair.

I’ll have a pair like that someday when I sign with Liverpool. I know I will.

“Thanks, but I’m fine. You guys go out without me.” That and I have no money to go and celebrate with. Sure he’d spot me the cash, but my pride is stronger than my need to fit in with the guys. Besides, they don’t all like me just yet.

I see the glances and the rolled eyes when the coach compliments me. I feel the tackles that are a little too hard during training and given out of frustration because this new guy—me—is threatening to take their spots.

“Us guys aren’t going anywhere. I’m talking about going to my mum and dad’s. They phoned and told me that you’re coming home with me so you can celebrate properly.”

“Oh.” I think of Archibald Matheson and his constant presence around the pitch. His barrel laugh and quick comments to the coaches and other parents. And I think of how just two months ago he stood on that sidewalk outside of the shop and saved me in a way I’m not sure he even realizes.

“My mum’s cooking is way better than the shit you’re getting here,” he says as my mouth waters. I’ll never complain about the food I’m provided with because the memory of hunger pangs is too recent, but home-cooked food? I can’t remember what that actually tastes like. “Besides, she isn’t taking no for an answer. It seems my mum and dad love you more than me.” His laugh echoes through the empty hallway, and I can’t tell if it’s annoyance I hear or hurt, but one thing’s for sure, it sounds fragile. Something he seems to be more and more as of late.

“That’s not true.”

“Whatever, mate. I don’t care. Let’s go.”

I sit there and stare at Rory—the one who feels like the only friend I have—and wonder why I’m hesitating. “The rest of the guys. They’ll think—”

“Fuck what those bastards think. They’re just worried because you’re kicking their arses on the pitch and making them look bad. Besides, I told them you’re with me. I have your back, Rush. That means they won’t say a word since they know my dad turns a blind eye or makes any trouble they may get in go away over at the station.” He nods, our eyes meet, and I wonder what it is he sees when he looks at me, because it sure as fuck is something different than when everyone else does.

When I don’t stand, he strides forward to kick my foot. “You’ll be fine soon enough. Hell, a hat trick tonight helped with that seeing as everyone loves winning.”

“And hurt, seeing as I played the entire game,” I say.

“And?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows and a shrug. “C’mon. She’s waiting and I’m starving.”

* * *

I place the napkin in my lap and look up to find Helen Matheson staring at me with wide eyes. “So? Did you like it?”