56. Beth
I absolutely hated watching Callan get into an altercation with another player. The match had been tense from the moment it started. The opposing team’s fans were taunting Caley United, and I wished this wasn’t the game I’d attended alone for the first time. There was a definite threat of violence in the air.
It filtered down into the players.
I always watched Callan like a hawk at his games.
So I saw when one of the opposing players jogged past, shouting taunts at him. It had been going on for the entire match, and it was pissing me off.
Then one stopped to murmur something in Callan’s ear, and Callan exploded. He shoved the player so hard he went down, and then that player made an arse of himself by pretending to be severely injured.
The ref showed Callan a red card, and he stormed off the pitch to boos from both sides of the stadium. As he bristled, marching past his gaffer without letting him talk, I pushed my way past fans.
“Oi, you’re Keen’s bird, ay?” someone shouted as I passed.
This was followed by a few sexual comments I’m glad Callan wasn’t there to hear.
Thankfully, those comments were followed by irate fans telling them to watch their mouths.
The security guards knew who I was now and even though no one was allowed into the locker rooms but players and coaches, I sweet-talked my way in.
I gaped at the space for a second. It was swanky, painted in the team colors—maroon and white. Each player had his own cubicle, and graphic artwork with the team’s name and logo decorated the wall.
In the middle of the room sitting at his cubicle was Callan.
He looked up at my entry.
“What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly, clearly still very pissed off.
“I came to check on you, Captain. That guy was a prick.”
Callan shot to his feet, anger blazing on his face. “They were making fucking comments about Baird all through the game.”
Pained anger flushed through me. “Arseholes. Who does that?”
“I was holding it together,” he seethed, taking a step toward me.
Suddenly, my neck prickled as I realized … was he mad at me?
“And then that fuckwad whispered something in my ear I’ll not repeat.”
“Okay?”
“About you.”
Oh no.
“I lost my temper.” Callan gestured to the door. “I got a fucking red card for the first time in my entire career!”
I scowled. “That’s not my fault!”
His eyes flared. “It is your fault!”
Hurt scored through me. “How is it my fault?”
“Because I love you so much, it’s changed me!”
So what? That was life! “Well, I love you so much it’s changed me! I’m at a fucking football game, for goodness’ sake!”
“You don’t have to be here!”
“Fuck you!”
He charged toward me, hooking his hand around my neck to jerk me up into his kiss. It was hungry and wild and punishing, and I let him take it.
This had been building between us. I’d felt the intensity after he asked me to move in with him. Like he was on edge about something. Now I knew it was us. He smelled of sweat and soil and rain and he tasted hot and dark, and I wanted to crawl inside him.
Suddenly, I was up in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist to hang on as he kissed me, all the while carrying me somewhere. The sound of a door slammed shut and then my arse hit something solid. We broke apart and I was vaguely aware of being in a room, sitting on a desk.
I didn’t have too much time to think about it.
Callan needed to fuck his frustration out, and I was quite happy to help him do that.
He yanked the zipper on my short winter puffer jacket, pushing the sleeves down my arms. I hurriedly yanked it off and then leaned back on my palms to give him access to take off my jeans. As soon as the jeans and knickers were out of the way, he shoved down his shorts and guided himself between my legs. I sat on the edge of the desk, arching my hips into him, my back bowing with pleasured relief as his thickness filled me.
“Fuck, fuck,” Callan panted, holding my hips in his bruising grasp.
I gripped my thighs against his hips, my fingernails digging into the desk behind me, and I braced.
He fucked me. His expression dark, his upper lip curled in a snarl as he watched my face as he thrust into me in fast, hard, powerful drives.
Cries fell from my lips as I gasped for breath, the tension tightening and tightening with lightning quickness.
There were no words, none of his usual encouragement to come.
Just intense, needful fucking.
My climax tore through me, my inner muscles clamping down hard on Callan.
He shuddered with a long, gruff groan as I felt him release inside me.
I reached for him, planting my head against his chest as I tried to catch my breath.
After a moment or two, he gently pulled out. “Stay there,” he said quietly as he tucked himself back into his shorts and rounded the desk, searching through the drawers for something.
“Where are we?”
“Assistant coach’s office.”
I grimaced. “Oops.”
Callan chuckled, apparently far more relaxed now that he’d expelled his anger into my body.
He returned with tissues, eyes on me as he pressed them between my legs, his touch tender, his expression even more so.
It wasn’t until I had my clothes back on and we’d returned to the locker room that I asked reluctantly, “Do you resent me?”
Callan’s expression flashed with regret, and he pulled me into his arms, holding me close as he brushed his thumb over my cheekbone. “Princess, no. No, I could never resent you. I thought after a while this would feel easier.”
“What would feel easier?”
“Loving you.”
Pain ricocheted across my heart. “It’s not easy?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean … it’s so overwhelming. I’m not me without you anymore. I’m fundamentally changed, and that’s … it’s a lot.”
I relaxed, that pain turning to a pleasurable, mushy ache. “I feel the same, you know.”
“I shouldn’t have reacted like that out in the game. I need to get better at letting stuff like that wash off my back.”
“You will.” I knew he would too. Callan had a will of steel.
“But I think … come here.” He released me but only to grab my hand and tug on it. He led me to his cubicle and glanced over his shoulder as he searched through his bags. “I think there’s something that might make me settle a bit.”
“Okay …”
His hand came out of his bag, fist curled around an object, and as he turned, I saw the blue velvet peeking between his fingers.
My heart raced.
And then thundered as Callan lowered to one knee in front of me. Gaping, I watched him present the ring box and open it.
Inside was the most beautiful engagement ring I’d ever seen.
It was rose gold with a central marquise champagne-colored diamond. Two small trillion diamonds hugged either side of it and beside those were two smaller marquise champagne diamonds.
“Holy fuck,” I blurted unromantically.
Callan’s shoulders shook with laughter. “That reaction makes me feel better for doing this here rather than at the bus stop where we had our first kiss, like I’d planned.”
I gaped. “You planned to propose at the bus stop where we had our first kiss?”
“I did. But I’m a selfish, impatient bastard and I can’t wait.” He raised the ring closer to me. “After my parents died, I felt like I had no one. So I threw myself into football and the team became my family, football became my everything. And I used to really worry about what would happen to me when I had to retire.” Callan licked his lips nervously. “But I haven’t worried about that in months. Since you. Because the truth is, Beth, you’re everything now. I will always love this game and everything it’s given me, but I don’t need it like I need you. I don’t need anything like I need you. And I don’t want to wait until some stupid, fucking appropriate amount of dating time has passed. I want you to be my wife. Immediately.”
He said the last so impatiently that laughter broke through the joyous tears clogging my throat.
His lips quirked. “Is that a yes?”
I lowered to my knees beside him, curling my hand around his over the ring. “You are moody, make the worst curry, have terrible taste in sofas, and your timing is questionable.”
Callan frowned.
“But for some reason, you love me, even though I overthink everything, catastrophize—a lot—have to work really hard to unglue myself from my phone, and have absolutely no clue what is happening out on that pitch other than that you’re hot and there’s a ball.”
He laughed, pulling me closer.
“You … you love me . The best man, the best friend, the best lover I’ve ever known loves me.” I leaned in, my lips hovering over his. “Captain … I’d be a moron if I said no. And I may be many things, but I’m not a moron.”
“So, that’s a yes?” he asked gruffly.
“I’ve been yours since I was fifteen years old. You could have slipped that beautiful ring on my finger without even asking. Because there’s no question. Yes. I’m already yours.”
Callan’s kiss was hungry and claiming and might even have led to us going at it again in the locker room if the door hadn’t burst open, interrupting us.
His gaffer marched in, face like a thundercloud. “What’s going on here, then?”
My now fiancé curled me into his side as he calmly took the ring out of the box and slid it onto my finger. It was perfect. So perfect. “I just asked Beth to marry me, and she said yes.”
The gaffer blinked rapidly, gaze bouncing between us. Then he ran a hand through his hair with a beleaguered sigh. “Well, that’s one way to get out of a rollicking for that red card.”
Callan grinned unrepentantly. “You can rollick later. Right now, I need to get changed so I can take my fiancée home to celebrate.”
“The rollicking will come,” his gaffer promised. “But congratulations to you both.”
“Thank you!” I yelled giddily as he stormed back out of the locker room. I turned to Callan and grinned, wiggling my new shiny ring on my finger. “Saved by the ring, Captain.”
His expression softened to tender adoration. “In more ways than one, Beth Carmichael, soon to be Keen. In more ways than one.”
****