Authors: Kat Latham
Chapter Ten
Mountain birds slept later than city birds.
It was a bizarre thing to lie in bed thinking about, but Ash’s jet-lagged brain had latched on to that detail to avoid all the others he should be stressed about. The resignation on Camila’s face when she’d left his cabin the previous night. How his mum was coping and whether his dad had confessed his sins to her yet.
What he would be doing a month from now. How badly he needed to win the San Diego Sevens for Camila and her staff. His need for a game plan to win everything and make everyone happy.
Back home in Greenwich, he often woke up at two or three in the morning to the manically chirping birds who were fooled into thinking it was daylight because of the street lamps. Right now it was 5:00 a.m., he’d
been awake for two hours with only his crazy thoughts for company, and he hadn’t heard a peep. He’d decided he wouldn’t get up before the birds, but they slept really fucking well, forcing his thoughts to wander.
Camila had been lovely with her staff last night. Friendly and confident but also clearly in charge—just the way he’d tried to be with the teams he’d captained. The way he would
continue to be as a coach. It was strange witnessing her in her element, as if seeing her all grown up was the most jarring culture shock of all. He was getting insights that made his picture of her more complete. The picture had gone from one of a lost girl who’d been the victim of an unintentionally cruel decision to one of a strong, capable woman who treated her staff with respect and expected
it in return.
Cheep cheep!
Ash twitched at the noise. The birds were finally awake. He stretched, yawned and gave himself a good scratch before getting out of bed and pulling on his running gear. His head was too full of the past. He needed to run it out.
He started with a warm-up jog through the camp. A couple dozen cabins formed two big circles in the woods. Pine trees stretched
sky high between each one, so they all felt isolated. Which one was Camila’s cabin, he wondered as he jogged around them. Had she assigned him to one close to hers? Or on the opposite side of the camp?
He peeked into a few windows—not in a pervy sort of way, as he chose cabins that looked unoccupied. The outer circle of cabins had double beds and a romantic, rustic getaway feel. Those in
the inner circle each had a common area and two big bedrooms filled with bunk beds. Presumably they were the cabins the teenagers would move into when they arrived this afternoon.
At one end of camp, a big lodge stood perched on a bluff overlooking the lake. A sign outside pointed the way to a cafeteria, and the welcome booklet had told him that staff were encouraged, though not required,
to eat there. He ran along the bluff, catching glimpses through the trees of the lake, a dock, Camila…
He slowed. Then stopped. She sat cross-legged on the dock with her head bowed as if she were…sleeping? Meditating? Praying? He couldn’t tell. He smothered the urge to interrupt her. Whatever she was doing, she’d clearly come here to be alone. He would respect her privacy.
He continued
his run and the dock was empty by the time he ran past it again on his way back to his cabin. He cooled down and cooked almost everything from the fridge, polishing it off before realizing a five-thousand-calorie diet wouldn’t be good to keep up now he wasn’t in training.
Despite his run, his legs bounced as he ate. He glanced around at the four walls. The cabin was small. Humble. No pictures
of all the places he’d traveled, like at his flat in Greenwich. No photo of him with the prime minister. No photo of him being awarded an MBE by Her Majesty the Queen for services to rugby. No photo of him holding the World Cup trophy above his head.
Come to think of it, his flat had a shitload of photos of him.
Since he’d retired, his flat was also filling up with all the gifts he’d
received from friends and opponents, like a framed Australian rugby shirt with
Trenton
across the back, signed by his old foes. He’d have to take down a few photos to make room for that one.
Oh well. He’d never liked that prime minister anyway.
Something irked him. He took another bite and tried to figure out what was wrong—other than getting so close to Camila but not close enough.
And feeling the bare walls of a tiny cabin closing in on him.
Quiet. It was too quiet. No street noise. No thumping music. No exercise equipment. No shouting men. No cheering crowds.
Just those goddamn lazy-arse birds.
He glanced at the time on his phone. Eight o’clock. His first training session wouldn’t start till tomorrow. He would spend part of today planning those sessions,
but otherwise he was at loose ends. He didn’t have a car and town was four miles away. Public transport apparently only existed
in
the town, not outside it. He could ask Camila if he could borrow her car, or he could go for another run, but what would he do in a small town at eight in the morning?
He missed the constant chatter, encouragement and piss-taking of his teammates. He missed working
so hard he fell into bed completely shattered.
He missed London.
On impulse, he grabbed his mobile and called Hardy. It would be four in the afternoon, so he’d probably be back home after picking up Chloe from school. The phone rang three times before Hardy picked up.
“Trent! Fancy hearing from you. I was just thinking about you.”
Ash grinned and relaxed back in his chair,
resting his feet on the seat opposite him. “Were you now?”
“I was. I read a good article about the San Diego Sevens while I waited for Chloe to get out of school.”
“Really? Send me the link.”
“Will do. Hold on a sec, mate.” Hardy’s voice was distant, as if he’d moved the phone away from his mouth, but Ash heard him say, “Put your book bag away. I’ll get your snack ready.” Then he
was back. “So how’s it going?”
“Too soon to tell. All I know is I’m knackered. And this place is too fucking quiet. I miss—” The words tumbled out before Ash even registered them. He pushed his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Ignore me. It’s early here. I barely slept. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying. Anyway, how are you?”
“Same old.” That was Hardy’s way of subtly
saying that Chloe was no better than when he’d left. Traumatized by her mum’s sudden death, she hadn’t spoken since November. Knowing how frustrating it was to see teammates make almost no improvement, Ash couldn’t begin to imagine having a daughter who made no improvement in seven months.
“What about that new therapist you were going to try out?”
“Hang on.” Hardy’s voice quietened again
as he said, “Here’s your milk. What kind of biscuit do you want? Chloe? Look at me, baby. What kind—” His frustrated sigh rattled the phone line. “Mate, I can’t right now.”
“Got it. I’ll let you go.”
“All right. Phone anytime, but after 9 p.m. my time’s best.”
“I think I’ll usually be in training then, but I’ve got a day off at the end of next week. I’ll call you then.”
“Sounds
good. Good luck, mate.”
Ash hung up and stared at his empty walls again. He’d wanted to ask how Hardy had coped with retirement, but the question was so laughably stupid that he’d swallowed it. Hardy’s retirement had come in the wake of Jill’s death and Chloe’s silence. The closest he’d come to a retirement party was his wife’s funeral and an informal get-together when he’d told the team’s
senior players about his decision to quit playing to help his daughter cope with her mum’s loss. He’d received no gifts, no shirts from Australia or well wishes from foreign dignitaries—only sympathy cards, flowers and donations to a brain injury charity in Jill’s name.
Ash’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it off the table, eager for a distraction—
any
distraction. It was an email from his
agent with two offers that had come in that morning. One was to be Director of Rugby at a professional club in Italy, and one was for a few guest commentator spots at Lavinia’s station. The guest commentator gig paid fuck-all but could lead to a full-time TV career. The head coaching position might be interesting, since Italy was an up-and-coming rugby country. It could be a way for him to cut his
teeth while he waited for a better team to have an opening.
He’d be coaching a team that occasionally played against Legends, which made him a little queasy, but he’d have to get over that. He’d devoted twenty years to Legends. Unlike a lot of other players, he’d turned down more lucrative offers so he could give back to the club that had invested so much in developing him. If he was going
to have a new career in rugby, he had to move on. But could he move that far from his parents? He didn’t think he could. He wanted to be there when his mum needed him. He wanted to take some of the pressure off her.
Ash glanced at the clock on his phone again. Ten past eight. Maybe if he tried to sleep again, he’d wake up with all the answers. He’d had them when he was still playing. Where
the fuck had they all gone?
At nine the camp started showing signs of life. Becca passed by his front window, strolling toward the lodge. She caught sight of him and gave him a friendly wave, which he returned. Bored and desperate to do anything other than sit around his cabin all day, he opened the door and stepped onto his porch. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she replied. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby.” In fact, just like his nephew, who’d had colic and a long-undiagnosed milk allergy that meant he’d screamed from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. every night. Or so Ash’s sister had told him—he hadn’t actually met Ruben till the tyke was over a year old.
“That’s good. Would you like a tour of the camp?”
“I’ve already been out and looked around, but cheers. Although, there’s one thing.
I wondered if you could tell me where the rugby pitch is.”
Her brow furrowed. “Pitch? You mean, like—” She mimed throwing a ball like a baseball player.
“No, I mean, like, field. The playing field.”
“Oh! Sorry. Head down this path toward the lodge but turn left onto a smaller path before you get there. That’ll take you straight to the field. Want me to show you?”
“No, no. I’ll
be fine. Thanks, though.”
“No problem. If you need anything else, you can find me at the reception desk at the lodge. Stop by later and I’ll show you the office the coaches share—though, to be honest, you might not have a lot in common with them. Most of them are just out of college and building their resumes to get jobs as P.E. teachers.”
“Yeah, maybe not. But hopefully they’ll overlook
my lack of a university degree.”
She laughed and waved goodbye as she continued down to her office. He locked up his cabin and wandered through the woods on the path she’d pointed out until he emerged onto a clearing and felt his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. The pitch was…it was…
It was a travesty.
He walked around it for a good ten minutes, shaking his head in mute horror
as he cataloged the abuse it had suffered. Big dirt patches formed bald spots that made the pitch look like it had mange. The ground was lumpy. The grass was a fire hazard. He’d never seen such a sad sight.
Two minutes later, he yanked open the door of the lodge, startling Camila and Becca, who were looking at something on the reception desk computer screen.
“I thought this was a sports
camp,” Ash said, his voice shaking with anger. “Don’t you take care of your pitch?”
Camila bristled. “What are you talking about?”
He threw his arm to the side, pointing at the wall closest to the horror. “The pitch. It’s dust and straw. It’s neglected and dying. You’re
killing
it.”
Becca’s brows shot straight up and she turned away, as if to say “Pretend I’m not here, and I’ll
pretend I’m not listening.”
Straightening, Camila braced her hands on her hips and gave him the same look of death she’d delivered when he’d referred to that Italian girl’s bubble butt. “We do our best, Ash, but this isn’t England, where free water just falls out of the sky in big, fat drops. We’ve had half an inch of rain since March, and the water rates are ridiculous. We can’t afford to
hose the grass down with a hundred bucks’ worth of water every week. I might as well spray it with gold dust.”
That tamed a bit of his ire. At least she hadn’t been purposefully negligent. But he was still annoyed. “If I’d known it was going to look like this, I would’ve suggested we practice somewhere else.”
“With what money?”
“Surely you can find some somewhere.”
Her arms
flapped with exasperation. “Why don’t you bend over and I’ll see if I can pull something out of your ass? It seems to be a land of plenty, considering how much shitty advice you’re giving out of it.”
His mouth dropped, and he just stared at her. Fucking hell, he’d forgotten how bolshie she could be. And as desire tightened his bollocks, he remembered something else too—how much he’d enjoyed
it. Being with her had been like being around his teammates, but with a hotter body and fuck-all knowledge of rugby.
He tried to keep his admiration out of his voice, but he couldn’t help the suggestive timbre that crept in. “If you want me to bend over, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
Becca gasped and then practically swallowed her lips as Camila’s eyes narrowed. Camila jabbed her finger
at an office door. “We need to talk.”
She stalked away with quick, angry strides and disappeared into the office. He followed, suddenly spoiling for a fight—especially if it turned into a wrestling match. Greco-Roman would be his preference right now, with little clothing and lots of oil.
“Close the door.”
He did, and she perched on the edge of a desk with her arms crossed. Her
nostrils twitched as she clearly tried to get control of herself. But then she took a deep breath and said, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
His brows shot up. He kept quiet. He wasn’t stupid.
“But I also don’t want you to speak to me that way.”
“What way?”
She lowered her volume, but her voice still vibrated with pent-up frustration. “As if there’s something between
us. As if there ever has been.”