Chapter 6
VINCENT
“Help. I’m dying.” Stevens sank onto the changing room bench with a groan. “I swear Coach is a masochist because who comes up with drills like that? They’re inhumane.”
“Stop whining,” Samson said. The Nigerian winger gently shoved Stevens’s shoulder. “You’re a professional. Act like it.”
“A professional sufferer.” Stevens looked up at me with puppy dog eyes. “Captain, do something.”
I laughed and pulled my shirt over my head. “Sorry, man, Samson’s right. You gotta toughen up or we’ll never beat Milan this weekend.”
“Fuckin’ Milan. Don’t worry. We’ll beat ’em.” Stevens raised his voice. “Right, boys?”
“Fuck yeah!”
“We’re going to kick their ass!”
“Blackcastle til the end!”
Raucous agreement filled the changing room. It was interspersed with laughter and the usual shit talking, though it was more subdued today than usual. Training had been brutal, and the pressure was on to deliver during this weekend’s match.
Since we topped the Premier League last season, we’d automatically qualified for this year’s Champions League, or UCL, Europe’s most prestigious club football competition.
Our next hurdle was clearing the knockout stages to make it to the semi-finals in the spring.
I felt good about our odds, but we had some tough matches ahead.
“How’s the new flatmate situation going?” Asher asked. He’d already showered and changed. How the fuck was that possible when we only finished training ten minutes ago? “Did Brooklyn spike your protein shake with laxatives yet?”
“No, and don’t give her any ideas. You know she’d do it.”
“Don’t tempt me. I have plenty of ideas, but I’ll keep them to myself for Scarlett’s sake. Just don’t piss me off, yeah?”
“Fuck off, Donovan.” But I was smiling.
I’d been living with Brooklyn for almost a week, and it was going surprisingly well. We had the same schedule, the same cleaning habits, and the same diet. She took an absurdly long time in the bathroom every morning, but I hogged the television every other night, so it was a fair tradeoff.
That being said, I was never letting my protein shakes out of my sight again.
I was about to head for the showers when the changing room fell silent. “DuBois!” Coach’s voice boomed through the sudden quiet. Every head swiveled toward me. “My office. Now.”
A low chorus of oohs sprang up from the rest of the team. I swear, it was like captaining a bunch of schoolboys.
“Shit. What did you do?” Asher asked.
“No fucking clue.”
I walked toward Coach’s office, my steps heavy with trepidation.
He hadn’t called me to his office out of the blue since Asher first transferred to Blackcastle. Our rivalry at the time had cost us the league final, and Coach had been furious.
But Asher and I were friends now, so that was no longer an issue. Training had gone smoothly today, and the club’s overall performance this season was stellar.
I racked my brain for other reasons why Coach would want a sidebar but came up blank.
“Close the door and sit down,” he said when I entered his office. He sat behind his desk, his expression inscrutable.
I did as he asked, my unease growing by the second. “What’s this about, Coach?”
He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded me for a long moment. “You’ve been keeping a secret from me.”
My stomach plummeted to my feet. Shit. Had he found out I was living with Brooklyn? If so, did he think we were sleeping together?
A dozen images of my immediate future flashed through my mind, each bloodier than the last.
Me getting strangled by Coach.
Me being pummeled to death by one of his paperweights.
Me meeting the lethal end of his letter opener.
I gulped and shifted my attention to his desk. That was a mistake. The first thing I saw was a photo of Brooklyn smiling up at me from beside his computer. She was wearing a yellow sundress and her hair was shorter, but her smile and the sparkle in her eyes were the same.
“Vincent!” Coach’s voice yanked my eyes back to him. His brows settled into a frown so deep, I was afraid his face would get stuck that way. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Not particularly, no,” I hedged.
“So someone didn’t break into your house after the Holchester match?”
Fuck, I was going to die—wait, what?
I was so sure he was going to bring up Brooklyn that it took my brain a beat to process his words.
The intruder. That was the secret he’d discovered—not the fact I was living with his daughter.
My lungs expanded with air again. “It’s not a big deal,” I said, trying to hide the relief in my voice. “I filed a police report and they’re looking into it. They’re not too worried. Neither am I.” That wasn’t totally true, but I wasn’t going to whine about it to Coach.
Coach’s eyebrows rose at my response. “Then why aren’t you living at home?”
How did he—Adil. He was the only person who would’ve spilled to Coach. That little rat. I was going to murder him.
“I’m waiting until the contractors finish upgrading my security system,” I lied. “They’re backlogged, so it’s taking longer than expected.”
“Where are you living now?”
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Hyde Regency.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed. A minute ticked by, followed by another. Beads of sweat dotted my hairline, and right when I thought he’d call me out on my bullshit, he gave a curt nod.
“Next time something like this happens, I want to hear it straight from you,” he said. “We don’t keep secrets on my team. My players are my responsibility, and I’m invested in your well-being on and off the pitch. So any time you run into trouble, you come to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my office. And DuBois?”
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t be too hard on your teammates,” he said. “They’re just looking out for you.”
Translation: don’t kill them, or you’ll have to answer to me.
As annoyed as I was with Adil, Coach was right. Adil didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. If he told anyone about my situation, it was out of genuine concern.
I sighed. I couldn’t even be angry in peace.
“I know,” I said. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Coach.”
Another nod, then I was gone.
brOOKLYN
Damn him.
I thought I could put Vincent off with his ridiculously pink room and a list of strict chores, including a full cleaning and laundry day every week, but the man was like Teflon. Every attempt I made to get under his skin bounced off him and backfired on me instead.
I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
The hum of the vacuum filled the flat as Vincent moved through the flat, oblivious to my presence.
He wore nothing except for a pair of sweatpants, which hung just low enough to toe the line between casual and criminal.
His arm and back muscles flexed every time he pushed the vacuum forward, and I hated that I noticed.
Chores weren’t supposed be sexy. They were supposed to be mundane, but watching a shirtless, slightly sweaty Vincent DuBois be domestic on a Friday night was anything but mundane.
My eyes lingered on the sculpted planes of his shoulders, and a weird sensation tightened in my stomach.
He’d lived here for only five days, and I was already desperate for him to move out. He took up too much space. Too much oxygen. If we kept this up for much longer, I was going to suffocate from the lack of air.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to have to charge admission.” Vincent’s drawl floated above the noise before he cut the vacuum off. He turned to where I stood, his mouth tugging up into a knowing smirk as I quickly dragged my eyes up to his face.
Heat blazed from my neck up to my cheeks. Not so oblivious after all. “You’re living in my flat,” I reminded him. “I should be the one charging you admission.”
“You do. I pay rent—rent that’s double the market value, by the way.”
“Well, I should charge you more for…for indecent exposure.”
His eyebrows rose. Amusement glided through his eyes. “How so?”
“It’s unnecessary to vacuum with your shirt off.
I didn’t sign up to see that.” I gestured at his bare torso.
The lighting caught on the ridges of his abs, and I couldn’t help counting them.
One, two, three…six, seven, eight. Of course he had an eight-pack.
He was such an overachiever. “If I wanted to see a half-naked man, I’d go to Magic Mike Live. ”
His amusement sharpened into a devilish gleam. He walked over, stopping close enough for his body heat to sink beneath my skin. My muscles involuntarily clenched when he propped an arm on the doorframe beside my head.
“Does my half-nakedness bother you, buttercup?” His voice was like silk, pitched so low I strained to hear it over the sudden roar of my pulse.
My unwelcome reaction to his proximity brought in a rush of annoyance. How was it possible he smelled like soap and fresh laundry when I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his chest?
“Yes.” I met his eyes and willed myself not to breathe in too deeply. “It’s inappropriate.”
“If you think this is inappropriate, wait till you hear I sleep naked.”
A lightning-quick image of his naked form tangled up in his sheets flashed through my head. It was gone in a blink, but it was enough to warm my blood.
I clenched my teeth. I hated hormones sometimes.
“What you do when you sleep is none of my business. That’s in the privacy of your room. But when you’re in a common area, please refrain from unnecessary clothing removals,” I said, well aware I sounded like a prude. “How would you feel if I walked around with my shirt off?”
I knew I’d set myself up before the words finished leaving my mouth.
A flare of heat darkened his eyes, and the warmth in my blood turned downright scorching. “I don’t know,” he drawled. “Why don’t you try it and I’ll tell you?”
A flame flickered low in my stomach, but I raised my chin, my tone cool and clipped. “No, thank you.”
I couldn’t think of a wittier reply. I was too furious with myself for letting him get to me.
It’s almost like you’re scared.
Scared of what?
Of not being able to control yourself around me.
Vincent had baited me into letting him move in because I wanted to prove that he didn’t affect me, but was he right?
Was taking off his shirt and having a sexy voice all it took for me to lose our invisible challenge?
I didn’t even like the guy in that way. He was objectively gorgeous, but arrogant.
Funny, but annoying. Charming, but utterly infuriating.
No. The dust in the air must be clogging up my common sense. I could absolutely control myself around Vincent, and there was no way in hell I’d let him think otherwise.
“While we’re on the subject of impropriety, you might want to wear a thicker shirt,” Vincent said, his voice suddenly strained. “Or…something else.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
His gaze flicked to my chest. I looked down, horror consuming me when I discovered what he was talking about.
I never wore a bra at home, and I’d resisted changing that habit after Vincent moved in. Underwire was too uncomfortable to bother with even when there was man in my house.
It hadn’t been a problem—until now. Despite the warmth in the flat, my nipples had hardened to the point that they were clearly visible through my thin cotton T-shirt.
I instantly crossed my arms, my skin flushing hot and cold. The flame in my stomach flickered again, but I ignored it and looked up at Vincent.
His gaze lingered on mine, all traces of amusement gone. His jaw was tight, and the weight of his stare sent a shiver ghosting down my spine.
For a second, neither of us moved. Silence stretched between us, thick and charged, until I forced a reply from my throat.
“It wouldn’t be inappropriate if you didn’t look.
” My heart beat a little too fast for my chest. I wasn’t making sense, but any words were better than that taut, electric tension from earlier.
“You shouldn’t be staring at…them anyway.
” I couldn’t bring myself to use the anatomical term.
It sounded too sexual for an already precarious situation.
“It’s hard not to,” he said wryly. “They’re right there.”
Fresh embarrassment washed across my face. “Who’s the one who can’t control themself now?”
“I never said I could control myself around you.”
My pulse tripped.
“I can,” he added with a hint of roughness. “But I never said it.”
“Semantics.” It came out breathless and a little angry as I tried to wrangle my runaway hormones back into submission.
Maybe I was ovulating, and Vincent’s soap was infused with some sort of weird pheromone. That was the only possible explanation. We’d known each other for over a year, and I’d never reacted to him this way before.
Then again, we’d never been this close before—his breath grazing my skin, his scent filling my lungs, the warmth between us a palpable, living thing.
The corner of Vincent’s mouth tipped up, but the amusement in his eyes was still buried beneath a flicker of heat.
“I’m not a saint. If you walk around looking like that, I’ll notice.
” His jaw flexed again. “So I’m merely suggesting you find a way to remedy the problem, or I’ll think you’re purposely trying to tempt me. ”
Trying to tempt him? He wished. I’d only try to tempt him if I wanted him, which I didn’t.
This had gone on long enough. I needed to regain control of the situation.
“That sounds like a personal problem. If it bothers you so much, you can always move back home,” I said.
No more semi-flirting or sexual innuendos.
We had to return to our regularly scheduled programming of insults and verbal spars, ASAP.
“Forget your new security system. I bet your personality is enough to ward off any women who might think of setting foot in there.” There. That was better.
I expected Vincent to counter with his usual cocky grin and a flippant remark.
Instead, he froze, the color draining from his face.
His breath quickened before he dropped his arm from the wall and stepped back, chest heaving.
Tension ran up the cords of his neck and across his jaw, and any sparks from earlier evaporated.
It all happened in the space of seconds.
Confusion bloomed. My insult had been a standard one, as far as our relationship went. Why was he reacting like I’d punched him?
“Vincent?” I asked tentatively. “Are you—”
“I’m going to take a shower.” He cut me off.
He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving me alone to wonder what the hell just happened.