Page 64 of Hard to Hold

“Funny,” I say dryly before becoming dead serious. “I don’t want to leave the team, Finn. I don’t want to be transferred. That’s where I belong and I’m good enough, sought after enough, that my agent has the right to tell my team that. Seth is good, but he’s on the tail end of his career while I’m in my prime.” I take a sip of my designer lager and when he doesn’t respond, I continue. “I’m getting calls left and right. Media asking for interviews and the like. I’m beginning to think I should talk publicly.”

Maybe I’m baiting him about breaking the gagging order. Maybe I’m seeing what he says compared to what Lennox suggested. I know I have no plans to speak to the press, but perhaps I’m trying to figure out where his true allegiance lies. His paycheck or his player?

And he fails miserably when he answers.

“It wouldn’t be smart to go against the gagging order. We should stay the course.” We should stay the course. Archibald’s words . . . exactly. He lifts his finger to the server for another round that I no longer want to sit here and drink with him. “And in the meantime, you should soak this shit up. The sun, the surf, the women who will eat up those tattoos and that accent of yours.”

“Yep,” I say, mind completely disengaged at this point. I want to tell Finn to piss off, but I’m knackered and can’t be bothered.

“Where are you staying again?” he asks the question I dodge every time he asks.

I don’t think it’s the best time to mention I’m staying with Johnny . . . and Lennox. That won’t go over well at all.

“I already told you last time you asked, a friend’s house.”

“Good for you. A bit of advice, Rush,” he says, leaning forward as if he’s going to tell me the secret of all secrets. “Enjoy all that this city has to offer and tell me it wouldn’t be a hardship to live here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LENNOX

“FUCKING HELL,” RUSH SAYS AS he saunters into the family room where I’ve set up shop on one end of the couch. My laptop is on my legs, a few contracts are on the cushion beside me, and a bottle of wine is half gone on the end table opposite me. “I have stamina.” He winks, adding that grin I’ve been trying to ignore. “You know that, of course, but this press thing is bullshit.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, how many meetings and press briefings and circus shows do I have to go to where I smile wide and stand there beside Cannon but don’t say anything other than sing the MLS’s praises. These people don’t love football. Not like back home. They think they do but they have no desire to put the funds and the marketing in to make it what it could be here in the States.”

I look over to him where he stands, sweats on, shirt off, and welcome the distraction as my eyes were about to go cross-eyed from all the fine print.

But now I’m definitely alert at the sight of him and the visceral punch he gives me each and every time. It’s almost as if my body knows how good he is and is trying to shock my head into forgetting.

“That is kind of what your job description is, though.” He levels me with a glare that makes me chuckle. “Poor baby. Rough day at the office, dear?”

He presses his fingers to his eyes before running a hand through his hair. “When do the questions ever fucking end?” he asks and sighs. “What about Esme, Rush? Are you going to be the chink in the Liverpool armor, Rush? Hey, Rush, who do you think the team is going to keep—you or Seth? The transfer window will be narrowing soon so who do you think, Rush? Such bollocks,” he says as he moves toward me and begins to gather up all the papers on the couch beside me.

“Hey, what are you—” And before I can finish what I’m saying, he plops down, head on my lap—where I’ve just pushed my laptop out of the way—and his feet are extended over the armrest. “Rush!”

I look down to find him looking up at me with that sheepish smile and those thick lashes framing his pale, unapologetic eyes.

“Excuse me?” I ask in mock exasperation, which I’ve given up feeling when it comes to him.

“I just needed to be with someone nice who doesn’t ask me a million questions,” he says in a sleepy voice, closing his eyes as he snuggles in and gets comfortable. “Someone who isn’t judging or questioning or wondering while I stand there with a smile plastered to my face, pretending it doesn’t affect me, since I’m the face of a whole bloody league.”

It’s the first trace of Rush’s frustration and I’m glad to see it. A part of me wonders if it stems from what I said to him at the event the other night. The function where I spoke my mind when I swore I wouldn’t. I couldn’t help myself. Not after Finn and his bullshit. Besides, anyone who’s not affected in some way or another by the event he left behind needs to have an emotional overhaul.

And of course, he just pigeonholed me with that whole speech. Because while we’ve been skirting around each other over the past week with Finn here in LA, I can’t help but remember the look on Rush’s face when I told him I didn’t think he slept with Esme. The widening of his eyes. His lips opening in shock.

The question is what or who he’s covering for and why.

“They’re naturally curious, you know. Everyone is.” I tread cautiously, and when he doesn’t open his eyes or respond, I continue. “You haven’t given a single statement about the matter. To anyone. If you did, it might clear things up for some people.”

“I told you, the team is under a gagging order,” he murmurs.

“And I told you, there are ways to work around that,” I say, “but the fact that you carry on like business as usual when you left a wake of trouble behind you has people curious.” And probably, very disappointed. The comments on his post from his massive following on social media reflect just that.

“Next topic, please.”

I don’t hide my frustrated sigh as I study his face. The way his lashes fan over his cheeks and the dark stubble from not shaving this morning. I so want to lean over and kiss those lips. There’s an ache, a need, that seeing him, having him touch me causes. It hasn’t left since that first time he kissed me.