Page 90 of Hard to Hold

I lean my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and make a conscious decision to ignore the stares my teammates keep angling my way.

The glares that say I just lost us the place to go to the Champions League.

“Fuck,” I groan to no one in particular.

“You sure know about fucking, don’t you, McKenzie?” Seth growls, and I open my eyes to find him standing right in front of me. “Since you seem to have no problem fucking my wife.”

The atmosphere of the changing room shifts in an instant. It seems like every guy on the team is there in a heartbeat, including Rory, standing a few meters behind Seth, staring bug-eyed at the situation.

“Just like you know about using your hands, right, Seth?” I say thinking of Rory’s account of Seth punching Esme. “Good thing you play a sport where you use your feet so you can save your hands for what you really do best.”

And from one breath to the next, Seth’s fist plows into my face. I return the favor before the two of us are rolling on the floor landing blow after blow.

At first the guys stand there, uncertain what to do, and then their attempts to break us up turn into them throwing punches as if we asked them to pick sides. The entire changing room becomes a brawl of fists and elbows and frustration and anger.

* * *

“That’s going to be some shiner,” Lloyd says as he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me.

“You should see the other guy,” I say with a chuckle that makes my ribs hurt like a bitch. I’d refuse to admit it if asked.

“You think this is fucking funny, Rush? You think any of this is? I have half a mind to—Fuck!” He barks the word out as he shoves up out of his seat to pace his frustration out. “We lost the fucking game tonight we were hands down favorites to win, and you sit here with a smirk and a smart-arse comeback like it has nothing to do with that picture in the bloody paper.”

I stare at him, at a loss for what to say. For what to do. Hell, how do I even keep up the charade? Because I’m fucking pissed off we won’t be going to the champions league. We’ve worked hard for that all year, and now because of a damn photo, LFC is out of the championship. So, yeah, I’m pissed all right. But my hands are fucking tied.

“You do understand that your contract is currently being negotiated and you could be up for a transfer, right? Keep the future star of our club when he’s going to ruin it, because he can’t keep his fucking dick in his pants? Force management to put Seth up for transfer or go on loan to another club because he’s on the tail end of his prime? Or tell both of you to figure your shit out, because this is a business and your fucking team needs you too?”

It hits me. The severity of what I’ve agreed to do, and the fact that Rory was right: they would have cut him without giving it a single thought.

“I have no problem playing with Seth, mate. None at all.” I open my jaw wide and feel the pain in my cheek where his fist landed more than his fair share of punches. “I have a problem with the fact that he likes to plow his fist into more than just my face.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Not my business.

“Never mind? You’re fucking up my team. Your squad. And fucking over the club and its fans, and you’re going to tell me never mind? How about you tell me why the fuck you did this?” he shouts.

How about you tell me why the fuck you assume I did?

I want to scream the words at the top of my lungs. I may fuck things up outside of football, I might be reckless and not care about the consequences, but anyone who really knows me, would know I’d never fuck with my team. With my club. With this game I love more than anything else in the world.

And standing here staring at Lloyd—the man who I bust my arse for every damn day—and realizing he assumes I’m guilty like everyone else does—fucking guts me.

“I can play with Seth without incident,” I say in a low growl. “And I will bust my arse and win for this club like I always do. If you’ve never doubted me or my abilities, then don’t start now. I bleed Liverpool red. I have even before I came here.”

I stare at him for a long beat before turning on my heels and walking out, not giving my manager any chance to respond.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

LENNOX

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GO to the event tonight?” Johnny asks as he plops down on the couch beside me and turns so he can put his feet in my lap.

“Um, excuse me. I’m not a footrest.”

He leans over to make a show of looking at his feet on my lap. “Looks to me like you are.” I give him the bird and a roll of my eyes. “So . . . should I be afraid to ask what’s going on between the two of you?”

Is it weird I wonder the same thing too? Since we’ve been back from Montecito, Rush slips into my bed every night to sleep. I feel like so much has been left unspoken.