6. ROME
Chapter six
ROME
Idislike the events I’m forced to do—I just dislike dealing with people, honestly.
I love my job, but there are days I wish I could only train and play.
I’m not fond of the huge crowds watching my every move, the press conferences, the interviews, the cameras.
I’m aware it’s part of what I signed up for, but I just want to play football.
The orange lights of my white Audi blink when I lock it; I slide my keys into the pocket of my trousers and adjust my suit jacket. My stomach contorts to tie its usual knot when the door is opened for me.
“Mr Aston.”
I force a smile at the young woman. “Thank you.”
Most of my teammates prefer the front entrance lined with paparazzi, but the continuous flashing lights, the shutter of cameras, and people screaming your name in every direction is beyond a sensory overload.
Of course, a few cameras went off at the function hall’s back gate as I entered, because paparazzi are aware not all of us enter through the front.
Windows up, neutral face, is my repetitive mantra.
I love my fans, but when you have a crowd gathered around you, there’s only so many photos you can pose for, only so many hands you can tolerate grabbing at you before it’s overwhelming.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Here we go again.
The room buzzes with extraordinary wealth, the chandelier lights glinting off expensive jewellery and the orchestras’ instruments as they play at the far end on the stage.
I jump when an arm wraps around my shoulders. “You missed the excitement, mate.” Charlie shakes me, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
I give him a rough laugh. “Doubt it.”
“Winston tripped up the pavement,” he snickers.
“Watch it.” Brad Winston rubs his hand over Charlie’s blond buzz cut as he passes.
They’re basking in all that comes with their first season in the team, and while I can relate to that, they certainly don’t lack condescension.
I may be only twenty, but they act as though wisdom comes with age.
They’re four years older, but this is my third season in this league.
They’ll learn they have no ‘personal life’ anymore.
Everything is made public. Eat an ice cream oddly, and the picture goes viral.
Make a statement that could be taken out of context or misunderstood, and you can face lawsuits and public shame.
I remove myself from Charlie’s hold and bow my head, heading for a table with water bottles.
Just drown the nausea.
The now-empty bottle crumbles in my fist when my parents enter across the room, no doubt having entered through the front.
Daniel and Lucy Aston.
My mother fluffs her long blond hair, dressed in a tight white gown that is too extraordinary for this event, as she stands beside my father, who wears a tux. I believe the invitation read ‘smart casual’, not ‘dress to meet the fucking Queen.’
That dreaded knot only tightens when they spot me through the crowd.
Great.
I throw the empty bottle in the bin and meet them halfway. My mother’s green eyes light up when I step before her. “Good evening, darling.”
“Hi, Mum.” I plant on a convincing smile, kissing both her cheeks. The cool disappointment seeps into my bones as I shake my father’s hand. “I wasn’t aware you were coming.” I wrench my hand away. “This is a sponsor event.”
“I was once a player,” Dad throws back, narrowing his emerald eyes.
My father played in the league, but once he retired when I was sixteen, he became as bitter as the coffee he drinks. Some people’s names out live them, but some people out live their name. My father is the latter.
I stand quietly and make small talk when needed, refraining from apologising to those my father holds hostage with his dribble of stories. The man nods while my father talks, then glances past me, waving someone over. Most likely a sacrifice so he can run. Truthfully, I don’t blame him.
He wraps an arm around the tall man stepping up beside me. “My business partner, Aaron Weston,” the man whose name I’ve already forgotten greets.
Aaron’s dark chocolate eyes scan all of us, his matching hair well-kept and styled. “Great game, Rome.”
Again, I force a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Aaron waves a hand to someone. “This is my son, Rain.”
Hot breath fans my left ear. “Hello, Rome.”
I stiffen at the same possessive tone attached to my name, the same voice that has been haunting me for over a week. My head jerks as I slowly look left. His angular features stare back at me, and I almost wish he were wearing that mask.
He is undoubtedly his father’s son. Same eyes, same hair, although Rain’s has that dishevelled look, with trimmed sides and back.
I eye his black trousers and the white button down strangling his large chest and arms. The unkept look doesn’t stop at his hair, his sleeves rolled up carelessly, but at least his shirt is… somewhat ironed.
A mischievous smirk tilts his thick lips as he takes my mother’s hand to kiss then shakes my fathers with a firm grip. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Aston. I’m a big fan of your son.” A whimper tightens my throat as his arm wraps around my tense shoulders.
My father narrows his gaze to the arm holding me hostage. “Is that so?”
“Best I’ve ever seen,” Rain chirps.
I can’t move. I know my mother can sense my discomfort. I’m sure everyone can, because I can’t seem to blink or stop my eyes bulging.
“Are you a fan of football, dear?” my mother asks.
“I wasn’t until recently.” Rain’s hand glides tauntingly slow down my steeled spine.
“And what do you do, Rain?” my father asks. Though, because of the blood thudding in my ears, I’m having difficulty keeping up with the conversation.
“Security for Weston & Myer.” Rain tips his glass of amber liquid to his father. “Cybersecurity, to be exact.”
“Rain’s very good with computers,” Aaron adds proudly.
That’s how he knew I was on the phone with Connor and why the police couldn’t find any traces of the texts.
“E-excuse me,” I whisper.
The music and chatter only grow louder and more unbearable as I push through the crowd to snatch a bottle of water.
My unsteady hand brushes others, knocking a few and sending one tumbling off the table.
As I force myself to reach for it, a large hand wraps around it, the silver ring secured on his middle right finger winking in the light.
“You look incredible,” he groans quietly, taking the bottle from the floor to place it back on the table.
I rigidly straighten, and he points to the bottle trembling in my hand.
“Want me to open that for you?” I just stare, unable to move.
“You aren’t blinking.” The sloshing water threatens to spill over the rim as I uncap the bottle and take a drink. “It’s okay, Rome. Don’t be scared.”
“I-I need to leave,” I stutter and begin chugging more water.
Drown it. Just fucking down it.
“I wouldn’t suggest that. Not unless you prefer me chasing you through the crowd.”
The liquid catches in my throat, and I splutter out a cough. He flashes a devious grin as I wipe the dribbling liquid from my chin with the back of my hand.
“Why are you here?” I whisper. “What do you want?”
“To get to know you. My father is also investing in your team. I’ll be your personal cheerleader.” Please don’t tell me this twat will attend my games. “You haven’t answered my texts or calls.” He arches a brow. “Did you get my flowers?”
I’d blocked his number after each attempted contact, but I now know he was unblocking it remotely. I also threw the large bouquet of red roses in my bin.
I cap the bottle and lift my chin. “I’m not required to do so, nor do I want you near me, especially after what you did.”
He rolls his eyes, like this is some fucking game. “He’s fine, but he won’t be if you go near him again.”
“I haven’t, and don’t roll your eyes at me. Were you not taught how impolite that is?”
His smile widens, and I swear to God, he’s blushing. “You’re adorable. Want a drink?” He extends his glass, but I step back, shaking my head. “Such a good boy.”
“Don’t call me that, and not all of us are so privileged as to not need to worry about the ramifications of public intoxication.”
“I guess we both know you get tipsy off one drink. Look, I’ll promise not to make a scene if you just sit down and have a conversation with me.”
“No.”
“Then we can talk here while I try and stop myself.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I grit out quietly, looking out to the crowd, who are all invested in their own conversations.
“I want to get to know my future husband. What’s wrong with that?”
The bottle cracks in my tightening grip as I drop it to the table and push back through the crowd away from him. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to leave,” I inform my mother quietly.
Her manicured brows pinch, and she presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “You do look pale.”
I nod to the group and head for the back door. Laughter and music finally stop overcrowding my brain when I exit the room.