Chapter 38
Colin
THE JEWELRY BOX is burning a hole in my pocket. It’s got her necklace in it, the one I’ve been too chicken-shit to give back, and my ring. With a sigh, I pull it out of my khakis and toss it into the carry-on before leaving the house.
The team makes quite a scene at the airport, surrounded by people taking photos and asking for autographs.
Ansel warned me it’s like this every time we travel by plane, but admittedly, I wasn’t prepared for the scale of it.
It’s professional rugby, not basketball or even football.
But put a bunch of athletes in one spot and I guess it doesn’t matter whether they’re popular or not; just the chance of getting a picture to post on social media is enough.
“Coach.” Ansel appears at my side, drawing the attention of a group of women I’m guessing are in their thirties.
“Miles. This is worse than you said.”
“Just try to ignore it,” he counsels. “It gets easier. Besides, aren’t you used to it from the college gigs?”
I snort. “Not even a little.”
“Excuse me,” a female voice says. “Are you Colin Thicke?”
I turn and see an absolute stunner of a woman: tall, dark hair, brown eyes, bright smile. I’m so taken aback by someone knowing my name that I stare for a second before finally answering. “Uh, yeah. Yes. That’s me.”
Her smile widens. “Thought so. Can I get a picture? I’m a big fan.” There is absolutely no mistaking the suggestion in her voice.
But Ansel is watching with an amused expression on his face, so I nod. “Sure.”
“Mind if I put my arm around you?” she asks.
“No problem.”
She hands her phone to Ansel. “I like you, too,” she tells him, “but you’re taken. I follow all the pro sports in Atlanta,” she tells me, wrapping an arm around my waist and snuggling in close. “You can touch, you know.” She smiles up at me. “I won’t bite.”
I highly doubt that, but I also want this over with. So I move my arm behind her, lightly touching her shoulder and hoping I’m not grimacing at the camera.
Ansel nods and hands the phone back to the woman. “Here you go.” Then he gives me a shit-eating grin as she inspects the pictures.
“Thanks.” She pulls a card from her back pocket and smiles.
“You should call me sometime. You’re new to Atlanta, right?
I’ll show you all the good places. The ones that are super private.
” With a wink, she shoves the card into my hand and pivots away, leaving the gate area as quickly as she appeared.
Ansel laughs. “The look on your face is priceless. Has that never happened?”
I shake my head. “No. Why would it?”
He just laughs even more. “So happy I was here for that woman to pop your cherry.” Then he grows more serious as he steps closer. “But seriously. Don’t call her. She’s a pro.”
My eyes widen. “A pro?”
“She’s after your money, honey.” Lennox delivers the line in a ghastly imitation of a Southern woman, wrapping his arms around our shoulders and pulling us in for a one-two shake. “And lucky you, both Adams and Sam saw that entire exchange.”
I groan and extract myself from Lennox’s grip, straightening my jacket and finding Sam’s gaze on me.
She looks down at her phone, but her cheeks are flushed.
I want nothing more than to run over and explain, but I can’t.
Not with Sullivan Adams making his way over to me with Frank.
“Remind me to make you both run stadiums on Monday,” I mutter to Ansel and Lennox.
“Coach Thicke.” Adams sticks his hand out for a shake that I have no choice but to take. “Thanks again for inviting me on this trip. Really excited for the interview.”
I look at Frank, who’s about as subtle as a snake. He grins back at me, his expression unreadable. To the journalist, I say, “Sure thing. Will you excuse me for a moment? Need to check something with Frank.”
I pivot away without waiting for an answer, heading to the shop across the walkway to grab a bottle of water. After pulling a bottle from the refrigerated section, I turn to face Frank. “Mind explaining that to me?”
“The exclusive interview that’s going to put you on the map of the rugby world?”
“The reporter ambush you didn’t give me the courtesy of a heads-up about,” I correct.
Frank plucks the bottle out of my hand and takes it to the counter, making a show of pulling a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his money clip to pay.
It’s a shitty thing to do to the man working the counter, especially since the water is less than five bucks.
When the transaction is complete, he begins a slow walk out of the store.
“Do you know what’s interesting, Coach?”
“Do tell,” I drawl, my dislike for Frank growing by the minute.
“How absolutely squeaky-clean you are,” he answers. “I looked back at your collegiate career, and you’ve been a fucking Boy Scout.”
“I’m well aware.”
He stops in the middle of the causeway, oblivious to the curses of the people moving around us to get to their gates.
“I find it interesting. Because no one stays a Boy Scout forever. And I’m positive that you have something to hide.
And my job, Coach,” he spits the word as though it disgusts him, “is to get ahead of these things. So that the press doesn’t get wind of it.
Or if they do, that it stays as contained as possible. Deny, dismiss, redirect.”
“Do you have a point?” I press, an irritated buzz of heat beginning to pulse through me.
“I’m watching you.”
I lower my voice and lean in. “I want to be very clear about something. I’m the head fucking coach of this team, Frank.
I’m the one in the media. I’m the one who’s maintained that ‘squeaky-clean image’ you’re so dismissive of.
And I’ve done that in spite of snakes like you, repeatedly trying to get me to do things I shouldn’t.
Whatever game you’re attempting to play, stop.
It won’t work. And don’t worry: I’ll do your little exclusive interview with Sullivan Adams. But if you ever try that kind of shit with me again, it’ll be the last thing you do on behalf of the Granite. Am I clear?”
He smirks. “You bet, Coach.”
It takes everything I have not to punch his smarmy face right there, consequences be damned. Instead, I watch him go with a passive look on my face, keenly aware of the number of eyes on me.
By the time we land in Las Vegas a couple of hours later, Lennox has led the entire plane in a rousing round of the tamest rugby drinking songs, and Sullivan has eaten it up.
I don’t know if Lennox did it on purpose, but I don’t care: the man is a saint.
Granted, the clutch of old ladies who are heading to Sin City for a round of gambling might have objected to the songs, but once Lennox convinced them to have a shot of Scotch – on him, of course – they seemed perfectly content to clap their hands and go along with things.
Ansel leans over from his place across the aisle and holds his phone up, then types.
I feel the incoming buzz and pull my phone out, unsure why Ansel feels the need for secrecy.
Elodie told me what’s going on. Are you really getting a divorce?
I curse.
Beside me, Ryan doesn’t wake, the light snores continuing even as I stab out a response.
It’s none of your business.
Elodie’s begging me for information.
Tell her it’s none of her business.
Ansel laughs and leans back over. “That’s not going to work. Just answer the question.”
I glare at him, shaking my head.
He rolls his eyes and types.
Fine, but don’t blame me when you start getting texts from her.
You wouldn’t.
Already did.
I suppress a groan.
We touch down and make our way to the bus waiting to shuttle us to the pitch.
We’ll get a practice in this afternoon, then a dinner with the other team before tomorrow’s weekday match in the late afternoon.
It’s an unusual schedule, and the entire trip is different from most. Normally, we travel the night before the match and leave right after.
But the league got it into their heads that teams should get a full day in the host team’s city, getting in a practice on the pitch before both teams shared a meal that night.
It’s not consistent yet, but no one was surprised that the Vegas team was able to pull this off first.
The schedule is the reason I could make the court date happen so quickly. That, and sheer luck. The day I called, the woman said that a couple had just canceled their slot and we could have it. Otherwise, it was going to be another month.
So tomorrow at 11:00, we go before a judge. My stomach is in knots about it. Which is stupid. This is exactly what Sam wants. What I want.
What I keep trying to convince myself I want, anyway.
Practice goes well enough. The team’s not been the same since Ollie walked in on my and Sam’s argument, and I’m positive that his attitude has everything to do with the way the team is working together.
Or not working together. Other than that disaster of a match against the New England Riot, we’ve scraped by a series of wins.
But only barely, and I’m becoming immune to Scott’s near-daily appearances in my office.
The guys rinse off before we pile back into the vans to the hotel. And because my luck is nothing these days if not a petty thing, we’re staying at the Fontainebleau, thanks to some kind of sponsorship that they have with the local team.
The memory of my night with Sam hits me full force as I walk in, and I nearly drop to my knees with the force of it.
“Coach?” Neesha, who it turns out is both HR and away-game logistics manager, appears before me. She hands me my room key before turning to Ryan and Elliott behind me.
Elliott takes his card and glances at his watch. “Remind me of the schedule this evening.”
I squint upwards and think. “We’re in one of the banquet rooms here. Seven o’clock. Details are in the email from Neesha.”
“Works for me,” Ryan says. “That means I’ve got four hours to relax. Maybe lose a hundred bucks or so gambling.”
“Only a hundred?” Elliott jokes.
A flash of blond ponytail bounces by in my periphery, and I know it’s her. She moves with purpose, aiming straight for the elevators.
I go after her before I can think better of it, slipping in behind her.
She meets my gaze in the doors’ reflection as they close, then punches her floor. It’s the same as mine.
There’s no one else in here. We stare at each other, wordless, my heart in my throat, until the doors open.
She brushes past me and turns left. I give her five long seconds before following, half-dreading what I think might be happening.
When she stops at her room, I slow before coming to a halt at the one beside it.
“You’re joking.”
I drink her in like I’m famished. One of her shoelaces has come undone. I bet it’s killed her to leave it alone while I’m right here. After dragging my gaze up her legs and following the line of the Granite jacket zipper to her eyes, I give a rueful shake of my head. “No.”
On a sigh, she unlocks the door and starts to walk in.
“Sam. Wait.”