Chapter 39
Colin
SHE STOPS. LOOKS at me with a pained expression.
It makes me hesitate. Makes the words choke in my throat. Clawing to get out. I love you. Please forgive me. I’ll tell the whole world if you’ll just take me back.
I clear my throat and swallow hard, stretching my neck and pleading with my body to fucking behave. Nothing comes.
She shakes her head and walks the rest of the way in, the door shutting with a click behind her.
“Great job, asshole,” I mutter, because of course those words come out just fine, then let myself in.
I’m early to dinner, but that’s nothing new. Early is on time; on time is late. The Las Vegas Lights’ coach is also there, and he grins knowingly at me from where he stands in front of the closed banquet room doors.
“Coach Thicke,” he says, striding toward me for a handshake.
“Coach Brenson,” I answer, gripping his hand.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he continues. “Been watching what you’re doing down there.”
“Thanks. And, same,” I tell him.
“Will you be mad if I admit I’ve got my eye on some of your players?”
I raise a brow. “Yes.”
He laughs, but it’s too brash and loud. Asshole. “Just kidding with you.”
“Are you?” I cock my head and study him.
The blunt response seems to catch him off guard, and his smile slips for the briefest of moments. “Of course. Your work on the collegiate level is legendary. Without your coaching, I’m not sure pro rugby would be at the level it is.”
I know he’s blowing smoke up my ass to make up for the earlier comment, but I roll with it.
No need to stir drama with a fellow coach; we have enough of a hill to climb as it is.
“Legendary is a bit much, Brenson. But we need a better pipeline – we need more colleges playing and we need to engage more with the community leagues. That’s where we pick the kids up from soccer and football. ”
Brenson rubs his jaw and assesses me. “Seems you’ve got it all figured out.”
I chuckle. “It sounds good, sure. Executing is a whole different story.”
Ansel and Lennox appear, both dressed in slacks and button-downs, same as me. My trusty khakis got a reprieve this evening; we may be a bunch of hooligans having dinner together, but we’re having it at the Fontainebleau.
I turn to make introductions, but Brenson is ahead of me, smiling and glad-handing the men before I can say a word. Happily, neither of them seems inclined to tolerate much more of him, and players from both teams are appearing and milling in the hallway.
The doors open, and the men stream in without waiting for instructions. I give it a bit longer, not quite ready to go in.
And…maybe I’m waiting on Sam. I realized way back at the Atlanta airport that she was the only other woman besides Neesha to come, and I don’t like the idea of her surrounded by a bunch of ruggers I don’t know.
Moments later, she rounds the corner with Neesha, and I nearly swallow my tongue.
She’s in a yellow knee-length dress that seems more gauze than actual fabric, far more of her tanned skin on display than normal.
Her hair cascades down her shoulders, out of its ponytail and delivering a gut-punch with memories of the way it spilled across my pillow.
Her gaze finds mine immediately, and her stride falters.
It’s subtle; I’m almost certainly the only one who notices.
Exactly like I’m the only one who notices a lot of things about her.
Even from here, I see the way her shoulders rise with tension.
The way she forces them down and back, a nervous tell that’s as familiar to me as my own face.
And when she laughs at something Neesha says, I know it’s forced.
She’s more on edge than usual.
I greet the women with a warm smile. “Good to see you both.”
Neesha smiles back. “I’m just glad to have another woman with me on the road.” She waves a finger up and down. “And don’t you clean up nice, Coach. I was beginning to think you didn’t own anything other than khakis and the occasional track pant.”
I grin wryly. “Close.”
“Fewer clothes just mean fewer decisions,” Sam says, gracing me with the quickest of glances.
“If you say so.” Neesha rolls her eyes and smiles playfully.
I follow them in. The buffet line is short, and the women peel off to an empty table by themselves once their plates are filled. I don’t miss the server approaching to take their drink order, and I don’t miss the glass of wine he sets in front of Sam a few minutes later.
“Coach? Did you hear me?” Ryan prompts.
I nod. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow, so you two enjoy the golf without me.”
“I thought you liked golfing?” Elliott says.
I choke back a laugh. “Since when? My man, I have never liked it.”
“But –”
“It’s a life skill, and one I knew I needed to learn. Just because I can swing a golf club doesn’t mean I like it.”
He shrugs, letting the topic go. “What appointment?”
I grunt. He’s not getting that info. Too many people know as it is.
Brenson weaves through the tables, angling our way. He gets too close, forcing me to move back and look up. “Mind if I say a few words?” The question is entirely performative, because he slaps his hand on my shoulder and calls the room to attention before I can react.
I push my chair back and rise, not about to let this asshole pull whatever dick move he’s trying with me sitting down.
“We’re so excited to welcome the Granite to our city,” he begins, a politician’s smile on his face.
“Happy to be here,” I interject. “And grateful for the snazzy rooms – right, guys?”
A rumble of laughter in response.
I keep going, well aware of the attention that sharp-eyed Adams is paying.
“This might be my first year as head coach of a pro team, but it’s not my first time as head coach.
In fact,” I slap my hand onto Brenson’s shoulder just a little too hard, “I’ve been one longer than Coach Brenson here.
By about, oh, five years. Give or take a season.
Right, Coach?” I grin at him, reveling in the murderous look he’s giving me.
“It’s funny,” I continue, “how small the rugby community is. Have you noticed? Even with the incredible international talent we’ve managed to secure, the U.S.
rugby world is small. No chance of secrets around here, huh?
” I shake his shoulder good-naturedly, then drop my hand.
“Anyway, we’re looking forward to the match tomorrow, aren’t we, guys? ”
The Granite pound the tables and give a round of “hoo hoo hoo” as I look back at Brenson. “Anything you want to add?”
He glares at me before giving a tight-lipped smile to the room. “See you on the pitch.”
The men clap, then conversation takes back over. Brenson leaves my side without another word, and I tuck back into my meal. Fuck that guy. I learned to trust my instincts decades ago, and I won’t stop now.
The dinner breaks up fairly quickly after that. It’s not that late, barely past eight o’clock, and I know plenty of the guys will spend the next few hours roaming the Strip before curfew. I will not be one of them.
Sam and Neesha stand to leave, but they’re caught by table after table of guys.
As I expected, they’ve been the only women in here, and the looks they get as they extricate themselves from one table only to be caught at another is unmistakable.
It’s only the other team stopping them, which doesn’t surprise me.
What does surprise me is how Sam and Neesha allow it to happen, table after table, despite Sam’s obvious rising irritation and Neesha’s exhaustion.
“I’m on it,” Lennox murmurs from behind me.
I turn, sipping the same vodka tonic I’ve been nursing the entire time. “She can handle herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Lennox counters. “And they’re two small women in a room full of feckin’ huge men.”
I grunt, conceding his point and hating that I hadn’t thought of it that way first. “You’re right. I’ll take care of it.”
His eyes gleam. “Aye, go on, then.”
But when we turn, they’re nearly out the door, Ollie right behind them.
Lennox huffs in something that sounds like he’s pleased, then asks, “When’s your appointment?”
“None of your business.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Ansel offers.
I scowl at him. “I just added more stadiums to both of your workouts.”
Lennox grins cheekily. “Don’t threaten us with a good time, Coach.”
“I need a fresh drink,” I mutter.
“Great! Join us.” Ansel loops his arm through one of mine as Lennox does the same with the other.
“I shouldn’t be fraternizing with you two,” I protest, but it’s weak and they know it.
“We can’t let these outfits go to waste,” Lennox says. “Who knows the next time we’ll see you in real clothes?”
“What is it with everyone and my clothes?” I ask, more to myself than anything. “And Lennox, you’re one to talk. You showed up to practice in a kilt the second week.”
He cracks a smile. “Gotta liven the place up every now and again.”
“With nothing on underneath.”
His grin widens. “Aye. Didn’t get tackled much, either.”
I chuckle at the memory and let them take the lead. But I regret it as soon as I realize where we’re going: the bar where I met Sam. “One drink,” I tell them as we take our seats at the bar. “And then I’m going up. I want to review the plan for tomorrow.”
“We’ve got those assholes’ numbers, don’t worry,” Ansel says.
“The whole team’s full of pricks,” Lennox adds.
“So’s their coach.”
“Oh, we know,” Ansel agrees.
We order a round and settle in, watching the college basketball that dominates the screens above the bar. I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
I mean, of course it is. I’m in the same fucking bar I met the woman of my dreams in, and instead of celebrating that fact, I’m staring down an eleven a.m. divorce proceeding. There is nothing remotely “on” about any of this. It’s all bullshit, and it’s bullshit I made.
I had so many chances to do the right thing.
I could have stayed in the room when I woke up, but I ran.
I could have given her my real name, but I chickened out.
I could have given back the necklace, but I kept it like a lovesick puppy.
I could have come clean with Scott and simply figured out a way to make everything work.
I could have told her I loved her.
“You good?” Ansel asks as I chug the last of my beer.
I level a look on him. “I am the opposite of good. But I made this bed, and now I’m lying in it.” I stand to leave, tossing a hundred onto the bar and look at each of them in turn. “Thank you. But after tomorrow, we move forward.”
“Is that what you want?” Lennox asks.
“Not even close.” The confession tumbles out. “But it doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what Sam wants.”
Ansel raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true.”
I hold up a hand. “Please stop. Whatever it is that you’re going to say, don’t.”
He stares at me for a good five seconds before nodding. “Okay.”
I get close to the bar’s exit before seeing Sam. It looks like she’s going to the restroom, and one of the Lights’ ruggers is following her. She doesn’t look too happy about it. I pivot around and speed up, watching as Sam rounds a corner and the guy follows.
“I said I wasn’t interested.” Her words ring out loud and clear, even before I can see her.
“You’re just playing hard to get.”
Then I round the corner, and all I know is blind fury.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.” The words are out, then my fist launches.