Authors: Kat Latham
She shook her head, mute.
“I think you did it because you remembered the power you had over me.”
Shock forced her to speak. “The power
I
had?”
“Yeah.” He surged to his
feet and shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he really wanted to punch a wall but had enough mental wherewithal to stop himself. “You thought if I saw you again, I might remember how amazing you felt. How amazing you made
me
feel. And I’d be so swept away with lust that I’d say yes to everything. That I’d forget how you cried over me at the airport and promised to write and never fucking did.”
Her breath seized in her lungs. She opened and closed her mouth like a guppy, but stupider. Like a brain-dead guppy.
“You thought I’d be retiring, probably feeling all nostalgic and wondering what might’ve been.”
She drew in a shaky breath, her voice hoarse from trying to hold everything inside until she could be alone, examine what it all meant. “No. I came because your agent told
me to stop bothering him.”
Ash blinked. “You talked to Steve?”
“I emailed him, called him. I would’ve sent a carrier pigeon if I’d thought it would get through to him. He just kept telling me you weren’t interested.”
“Good on him. I’m
not
interested in forking over a ton of cash—”
“I don’t want a handout. Please just listen to me.
Please.
”
He glanced at his watch and sat.
“You’ve got two minutes.”
Drawing in another shaky breath, she tried to calm herself. “I run a camp, a really amazing camp. Every year we help dozens of kids straighten out their lives.”
He shot another look at his watch. “Ninety seconds.”
“I inherited it from my dad, along with a load of debt I can’t get on top of. We’re in danger of being sold to developers who’ll rip the camp
down and build luxury lakeside houses.”
“Where is this?”
“L.A.”
Sort of. Not really.
“Sounds nice. I might buy one. One minute.”
“I found a way to save the camp, but I need someone who can coach a rugby team and help us win a tournament.”
His nostrils twitched. “A rugby tournament?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“In San Diego.”
His gaze sharpened. “The San Diego
Sevens?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Uh, yeah.” Judging by his tone, she was a moron for asking. “I take it you don’t follow rugby.”
Never. He’d taught her a little when they were in Barcelona, but after that she’d never wanted to hear about the sport again. Wasn’t too difficult to avoid in America. But earlier this year she’d given in to curiosity and searched for information about
Ash. It was something she’d done a few times, usually when she was feeling really low and desperate for a drink that she wouldn’t let herself have. He was apparently her answer to alcoholism. This time, she saw he’d announced his upcoming retirement, but she also saw an ad that had probably targeted her because of her search term. That ad had followed her around the internet for days. And when her
bank manager contacted her to say she needed to pay up, she’d decided that desperate times called for desperate gulps of pride.
Now was one of those times. “All I know is what I read in an article online. Rugby’s growing really quickly in America, and there’s something called rugby sevens that’ll be an event at the Rio games for the first time ever. The San Diego Sevens is trying to capitalize
on that and boost the sport’s profile in the U.S., so they’re giving the winning team in the high school bracket half a million dollars for their school or sports club.” She spewed all the words out so quickly, just like she’d practiced, except with panic beating faster than her heart. “I need most of it but can pay you ten grand if we win. My camp really needs that money, Ash. Badly.”
He
stared at her with such intensity that she fought not to squirm. “How old are your team?”
“Seventeen.”
“Have they ever played before?”
“Yes. They’re incredibly talented and very determined.” Not a complete lie. She was sure they were talented at playing something—hooky, probably, since they’d all been given final warnings by their school administrators. The chances of them having
played
rugby
before were about as good as Camila winning the World Cup all by herself. In fact, they might not have played
any
sport before. She bit the corner of her lip. Best to keep that bit of info to herself.
“You want me to coach a team I’ve just met to win the San Diego Sevens in five weeks?”
Okay, so apparently the tournament was big enough that he knew the exact date already.
She started feeling like even more of an idiot—and, from the look of astonishment on his face, even more hopeless about her chances of saving her camp. “Four weeks, actually, by the time the kids show up. I know how you like a challenge.”
She meant it as a joke, but he clearly wasn’t in a humorous mood.
“You don’t know anything about me, Camila.”
“I know a lot more than you think.”
Bit by bit, confidence began creeping back into her. She’d been in tougher situations than this. She bore deep scars—literal and figurative—but she’d survived. She could do this. “When I was talking to your agent, he told me you weren’t interested. That you had better offers coming in, things that didn’t require you volunteering on the off-chance you’d make some money.”
“Off-chance? He said
that?”
“Mmm-hmm. But let me say this. I know you can do this. I wouldn’t have used a chunk of my savings and flown all the way over here if I thought there was a chance in hell we’d lose.” Except that was before she’d realized this tournament was a much bigger deal than she’d thought.
“A brand-new team, Camila. In a month.”
She changed tactics. “America’s a huge market. We love
our sports and we love our athletes. Breaking in over there could lead to an amazing new career for you—and just think about what having you participate would do for growing the sport.”
She knew the exact moment she hooked him. His mouth had been moving as if he were chewing on the inside of his cheek while he thought, but once she’d mentioned the good he could do for his beloved sport his
imagination clearly sparked. He tipped his head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Before he could give her any kind of answer, though, the delicate chime of a doorbell rang through the room. They both glanced at the door as if they could see through it.
“The butler?” Camila asked.
“Go away!” Ash shouted.
The lovely melody chimed again, and Ash cursed as he strode
across the room and threw open the door. “I said—”
Whatever he said was drowned out by about a hundred people flooding into the room. Camila jumped up and stared, recognizing some of the faces from the party downstairs. Over the din, she just barely heard Cally shout to Ash, “Sorry, mate! We’ve got one more thing for you, and I couldn’t hold them back.”
If Camila had been on the receiving
end of Ash’s murderous glare, she would’ve pissed herself. Cally just grinned, slapped Ash’s shoulder, stepped onto a chair and split the air with a two-fingered whistle. “Ladies and gents, could I have your attention please?”
Intrigued, Camila wove through the crowd to stand next to Ash. As the crowd shushed each other, he grumbled, “Fuck. This is not going to be good.”
Cally announced,
“Earlier the lads and I presented Trenton with a collection of small gifts. I guess you could call them tokens of our affection.” A few of the men chuckled. “We’d now like to widen the celebrations and show a short film featuring some of our favorite moments of his career. Most of us know him for the brilliance of his later years, but not all of us are old enough to remember where he came from.
So here’s our highlights reel of the last twenty years. Enjoy.”
The television screen turned on, and the lights dimmed. Ash leaned down and murmured, “On second thought, you should probably go now. In fact,
run.
”
“Not a chance.” For the first time in a long while, she felt the beginnings of a smile.
Footage came on of Ash intercepting a ball at one end of the field and sprinting—
sprinting
—the whole way to the other end, zigzagging around men almost twice his size before flying like Superman into the other end and smashing the ball into the ground. Superimposed over the video were the words
Ash Trenton, The Man…
That was followed by a montage of him lifting and kissing various trophies and medals, along with the words…
The Myth…
Then footage of him when he was
probably in his early twenties as he flexed and posed in front of a photographer. He was naked—or, at least, she assumed he was, since he held a rugby ball in front of the good stuff. Camila’s cheeks heated as she remembered how good that good stuff was.
Suddenly another player in full uniform flew into the shot and tackled him, making Naked-Ash drop the ball and fly into the air. The video
froze with him midair, the camera managing to catch the view between his widespread legs as his penis and testicles flip-flopped from the impact.
… The Legend.
The room exploded with laughter, and so did Camila. Next to her, Ash dropped his face into his hands and muttered, “God, I wish my career had ended through injury.”
She patted his arm in mock comfort, never taking her eyes
off the screen. The video continued in the same vein, making a big deal of Ash’s amazing moves and intercutting them with shots of him asleep on the bus with his mouth wide open and drool cutting a path down his chin. Or singing horribly off-key in the shower. Or running on a treadmill as one of his teammates walked past with an ice cream sundae smothered in chocolate sauce and captured his attention,
making him stumble and crash face-first into the black running mat before being thrown to the floor.
Asking him to move to the wilderness didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. He’d probably welcome the offer with open arms.
When the lights went back up, everyone cheered and clapped, and Ash raised a hand to acknowledge their delight at his expense. Cally climbed back onto the chair,
and the room hushed. “Mate, you’re a good laugh and a good sport. We hope you’ll make the most of this suite because we know how much you earn, and you’ll have to get a proper job soon.”
Ash’s grin looked just a little forced as he took the thunderous applause gracefully. Then he went forward, gave Cally a quick hug and stepped onto the chair. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking—”
The whole room groaned, and Ash laughed. “I hadn’t planned to make any great speeches—”
“So make a shit one!” someone shouted, and Ash flipped him the V.
“As I was saying, I hadn’t planned this, so be gentle if I say something daft.” His gaze met hers, and he went quiet for a moment, making those fireworks go
pffttzz
again in her tummy. “Over the past few months, I’ve been asked over
and over to reflect on my career. On the men I’ve played with and against, and on the people who have helped me along the way. But one question has cropped up more than any other—what am I going to do next?”
Camila’s throat tightened, and she silently begged,
No. No. Please don’t turn me down. Not without giving me a chance to convince you. Not in public. Please.
Without breaking eye
contact, he said, “The answer is…”
Camila held her breath along with everyone else in the room.
“I’ve got no fucking clue.”
The crowd laughed and applauded Ash as he thanked them for their support, stepped off the chair and made his way back to Camila, who leaned against the wall for support. She felt like her lungs had been ripped out and then shoved back in backwards.
The
corner of his mouth twitched as he reached her. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Here,” she said, her voice rough.
One eyebrow arched as if to say
the fuck you are.
“I don’t mean in this room. At this hotel. Room four nineteen.”
“When’s your flight?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Good. Meet me in the hotel restaurant for breakfast.”
Her heart thudded painfully. “So
you’ll do it?”
“I’m going to think about it tonight.” He leaned forward, invading her space. “If I’m going to work alongside you for a month, give you my time, my blood and my sweat so you can make money off me, I want to know you’re the kind of person who should benefit off my hard work. I’ll give you an answer after breakfast. See you at eight.”
Chapter Three
The feather mattress might as well have been stuffed with actual geese for all the sleep Ash got. Tonight’s surprise haunting from the past left his skin electrified with sensation, making him keenly aware of every bump and spring in the mattress, every rough patch of the sheets. Forcing memories on him that he hadn’t thought of in years.
Eighteen years.
No, that was a lie. Camila had stayed in his mind long after they’d had to say goodbye. She was literally inked in his skin, though she would never know it.
At first he’d waited eagerly to hear from her. As time passed with no letters, he grew certain Royal Mail had lost them. Surely she couldn’t have moved on so quickly. Not after the way she’d clung to him as he’d said goodbye. He’d had
to change shirts in the airplane toilet before takeoff because she’d messy-snot-cried all over him. The display had shocked him, though he’d been fighting overwhelming emotions of his own.
For months afterward he’d wanted to kick his own sorry arse for refusing to ask for her address. He’d known, though, what would happen. He would write her. He would wait for her letters. He would obsess
over her. And he would be crushed if she didn’t write.
Of course, that ended up happening anyway, but at least Ash had been able to tell himself the notebook she’d written his address in had been stolen. Or the letters had been lost in the post.
But she’d been on a big adventure, a trip on her own to babysit distant cousins in Spain for the summer. She’d only been sixteen, while he’d
been eighteen and full of excitement that he’d just signed his first professional contract with Legends. He and his best mate, Alfie Hardwick, had saved their meager earnings from Legends Academy and flown to Barcelona for two weeks of sunshine before preseason training began. Two weeks of sunshine and a mission to rid Ash of his pesky virginity. They were sitting on the beach scanning the women
when he first met Camila.
“How about that one?” Hardy jerked his chin toward a woman emerging from the water in a bikini that barely covered her bits. Water streamed off her, and her tits swayed as she raised her arms over her head to wring water out of her hair.
“Too obvious.”
Hardy screwed up his face. “What the fuck does that mean, too obvious?”
“I don’t know. She just doesn’t
look like my type.” She looked a bit frightening, actually. Like she’d eat him after she’d finished…eating him.
“We’re not looking for the woman who’ll bear your children here, mate. We’re trying to find you a good first shag.”
Ash watched the woman walk out of the sea, waves of water rushing between her thighs and throwing her charmingly off balance. Could he picture himself inside
her? Oh fuck yes. But something held him back. “I don’t know. She’s just not my type.”
Hardy cursed and lay on his side on his towel. “Okay, I’ve never said this to you because I didn’t know if you were ready to hear it. But I want to say it now. If you’re into blokes, it’s okay.”
Ash crunched up. “Wait—what? I’m not into blokes.”
“It’s all right, mate. Seriously. Just let me know
and I’ll start looking for guys that’ll get you off.”
“Yeah, I know it’s all right, but I’m
not
gay.”
“You sure?”
Ash laughed. “I’m around naked guys every day. I’d have figured out if hairy arseholes did anything for me. I appreciate it, though. Really. But my problem isn’t with that woman’s equipment. Or
any
woman’s, for that matter.”
“Then what is it?”
Ash scrubbed
a rough palm over his face and lay back until his head pillowed on the shirt he’d stripped off. He laid his hand over his eyes to block the bright sunshine. “I don’t know.”
“You
want
to have sex, right?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“Hey, I was where you are just a year ago. I can imagine.” But then Hardy had met Jill, a clever girl who’d left him tied in knots until they’d officially
become a couple and discovered the joy of sex. She was back home studying now, even though it was summer—something neither Hardy nor Ash could understand. She wanted to be a barrister and was about to start her last year of school before taking her A-levels and going to uni.
Ash didn’t want a girlfriend. He’d seen enough of his older teammates fucking up their careers because their personal
problems bled into their professional lives. Even Hardy was a perfect example of what he didn’t want. A year ago, the thought of Ash getting a professional contract and Hardy being left at the academy would’ve been laughable. But this past season, Jill had filled his head, his heart and his bed, distracting him from what really mattered.
Rugby was the only thing Ash wanted in his head and
heart. His bed was another story—one embarrassing time he’d dreamed about fondling a woman’s breast and woken up to find himself licking the tip of a rugby ball.
God he hoped no one ever found out about that.
He wanted nothing more than to play; he would accept nothing less.
Which meant he never spent time around girls—except the occasional stripper—or the places girls went. Which
meant he was about to join the team as a virgin.
Couldn’t happen.
So far, only Hardy knew. Wouldn’t take the others long to figure it out, though, and then he’d find prozzies in his bed when he checked into hotels.
He shuddered.
“What about her?”
Ash unshielded his eyes and sat up enough to watch a couple of women walk past. “The one with the bubble butt?”
A feminine
snort drew Ash’s attention away from the bikini-clad women and toward a girl on a towel about a meter away. Unlike the other women on the beach, she was in a one-piece. Well, some
of the others wore one-pieces, but only because they’d removed their tops. The girl’s gaze was fixed on the book in her hands, something about a squatter and a don. The author’s name was long and Spanish. The cover had
a boring landscape painting on it. It didn’t look like a comedy, but what did he know?
She turned her head and pierced him with brilliant green eyes over the tops of her dark shades. “Make sure you compliment her bubble butt when you hit on her. Women
love
that.”
Hardy leaned around him. “Private conversation, okay?”
“Then turn the volume down…
okay?
”
Ash bit the inside of his
lip to keep from laughing. Most women seemed to shift into two modes when they saw him and his mates—seduction or stammering. This girl went for sarcastic.
He liked it.
She hadn’t been that way tonight though, sitting across from him in his lonely oversized hotel suite. Nor had she gone the seduction route, which kinda disappointed him. Instead, she’d punched him in the face and then
shocked him even more by asking him to spend a month coaching her rugby team.
In California, for fuck’s sake.
Did he want to spend five weeks living in the past when he needed to secure his future?
Not likely.
But did he relish the opportunity to make Camila squirm a little?
Oh fuck yes.
* * *
Camila walked into the hotel’s dining room bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed
from jet lag and stress keeping her up all night. Ash was drinking tea and eating a breakfast that exceeded American proportions with Cally and another big man she assumed was his teammate.
So much for her hope/worry they would be alone.
When he noticed her, his gaze turned warm and speculative. Was that a good thing? Had he made a decision already? Or would he let her dangle till the
end of breakfast before revealing her fate?
He stood and pulled out the empty chair next to his. The gesture nearly made her stumble. A man who stood for her? She’d never—
But no. The memory came back to her. He’d done that when she’d known him in Barcelona too. She’d thought it funny at first, his manners as foreign as his virginity. Along with his posh British accent, they’d conjured
a false image of a Victorian gentleman. She’d mostly grown up on the rough-and-tumble side of the tracks in a small Montana town, till she and her twin brother Gabriel got old enough to fly on their own to L.A. and spend summers with their dad. Most of the men she’d known as a girl were considered gentlemen if they turned their heads before they spat their tobacco juice. In L.A., the gents were
the ones who didn’t call girls
dude.
“Good night’s sleep?” His voice was low and rough, a whisper that tickled her inner ear.
“Mmm. I slept like the dead.”
The walking dead.
He seemed to catalog her face, probably finding the same bloodshot eyes and dark circles that would’ve made her reel in horror when she’d looked in the mirror, if she’d had the energy to reel. But, other than
a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, he said nothing, turning instead to the two guys sitting across from him. “You might remember these two. Last night you briefly met my skipper—”
“Not your skipper anymore, mate.” The guy with wavy dirty-blond hair gave her a lady-killer smile and stretched out his hand to shake hers. “Liam Callaghan.”
“Camila Morales. Nice to meet you. Sorry
about last night.”
“I’m just glad to see you’re both unbruised.”
Camila felt bruised. Bruised and sore inside and out.
Ash gestured toward the other man. “And you remember Alfie Hardwick.”
Shock dropped like acid into Camila’s stomach. Her hand froze halfway across the table. “H-hello.”
She’d never known whether to call him Alfie or Hardy, the way Ash had every time he’d
spoken of his best friend and teammate. Hardy felt too intimate, like a nickname a close friend would use. But so did Alfie. She’d ended up avoiding his name completely. She’d avoided
him
too. Every time she’d seen him, she’d intercepted the disbelieving looks he shot Ash, as if he couldn’t figure out why someone so attractive would be interested in her, leaving her feeling defensive and insecure.
God, but
walking dead
seemed a better description for him than for her. All the color had leached from his face. Dark stubble dirtied his jaw. A deep groove had worked its way between his brows. This man was not the funny, playful guy who’d done all he could to help Ash dispose of his virginity…with girls other than her.
“Long time no see.” His voice was as flat as his hair.
Right.
His feelings about her probably hadn’t changed—and no wonder, if he’d heard about her punching Ash last night. Well, that was a matter for her and Ash, not Alfie Hardwick.
She sat in the chair and let Ash push it in. When he sat next to her, his knee brushed hers under the table. Heat trickled up her thighs to gather uncomfortably at their apex.
“Hungry?”
Ravenous.
Oh, wait. He
meant food. “Maybe just some toast.” She eyed his plate, the quick-onset hunger of jet lag making her stomach rumble. “And eggs. And bacon. And whatever that round black thingy is. Are those hash browns? I could kill some hash browns, even if they’re burned.”
“It’s black pudding. It’s made with blood.”
She gagged. “Gross. Not that.”
He grabbed his fork and speared the black pudding—which
looked more like dried dung and not like any pudding she’d ever seen—and dropped it onto Hardy’s plate. Then he shoved his breakfast in front of her.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“It arrived just before you got here. I’d only had a couple bites of baked beans.”
“No, no. I can wait.” Her tummy vociferously disagreed.
“Mila. Eat.” He waved at the waitress and pointed at the plate. She nodded
and walked back toward the kitchen.
The food
did
look amazing. Not beautiful or elegant. Just very English. Thick and filling…like Ash.
Oh, God, don’t think about that.
Except, now that sex with him was in her brain, it was hard to think of anything else.
You’re in London with Ash Trenton.
She shoved a corner of toast into her mouth to keep from pinching herself. How often had she
pictured something like this, all those years ago? This fantasy had kept her going through some very dark times.
Ash turned back to his teammates. “So how do you think Jeffers’ll do filling Little John’s shoes next season?”
Liam laughed. “Fucking big shoes to fill.”
The three men chatted for a couple minutes while Ash waited for his food. Camila didn’t mind being left out of the
conversation. Talking would’ve meant several seconds without food in her mouth, and right now that was unthinkable. Besides, Ash had stretched his arm across the back of her chair as if it belonged there. As if
she
belonged there.
She didn’t, and she had to keep reminding herself of that.
Once the waitress slid a new plate of food in front of Ash, the other two threw their cloth napkins
onto the table and stood. “We’d better be going,” Liam said. “Don’t want to intrude on your first day of relaxation.”
Alfie stifled a yawn. “And I’ve got to get Chloe from Jill’s mum’s house.”
“Oh,” Camila said, surprised they were still together. She remembered him spending a hell of a lot of time on a pay phone talking to his girlfriend. “How is Jill?”
All three men went deathly
still. Alfie seemed to stare at the empty space behind her.
Ash leaned closer, his voice soft and sad. “Jill died in November.”
Camila barely managed to stifle her gasp. “Oh… Alfie. I’m so sorry.”
He gave her a curt nod before turning his attention back to Ash. “Call me later.”
“Will do, mate. Safe journey.”
As soon as they were alone, Camila said, “I had no idea. How
awful.
”
Ash nodded, silent. And what could he say? It
was
awful.
“Was it sudden?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I thought about your proposal last night.”
The sudden shift made Camila momentarily dizzy. Apparently he wasn’t ready to talk about the grief he must be feeling for his friend. Or maybe just not with her. Either way, it was okay. But
she
wasn’t ready to hear his
decision, especially not when he wore an I’m-sorry-to-disappoint-you expression. So she blurted out the only thought in her brain.