Chapter 8
MIKE
I woke up early on Saturday morning to do chores before rugby. I was in the shed getting breakfast ready for my animals, a cup of chaff in hand for Mini M, when my phone buzzed. I stowed the scoop and fished my phone out of my pocket.
Dad
Make sure you take Lyssa out after your game, son. Make sure she has a nice time.
The kid needs a bit of cheering up, I think.
I grunted, annoyed he thought he had to tell me to look after Lyssa or point out that she was down in the dumps.
No shit, Sherlock. People didn’t quit their jobs and fly across the world when things were hunky-dory.
This would be obvious even to a person who hadn’t watched every video she’d ever made, as I had (or nearly every video—I skipped a few of the sewing ones because I didn’t know what the fuck she was on about). But I’d seen all the main ones.
Of course I would make sure Lyssa had a nice time. I wanted her to find whatever it was she was in Woodville searching for. I’d already resigned myself to spending most of my afternoon holding her silly camera stick and taking pictures of her with street signs.
It was seven a.m., way before her usual rising time, when Lyssa found me out in the paddock, moving the pigtail standards holding the temporary fence to give Baz a few more inches of grass. I was holding the standards in my hands and didn’t notice her until she tapped me on the shoulder.
My jump nearly electrocuted us both.
“Wow,” she said when I yelped (in a manly way). “You’re bad for a girl’s ego.”
“ You’re bad for a man’s conductivity.”
With a wary look at Baz, which he ignored as he was enthusiastically gobbling the new grass, she asked, “I wanted to check it was still okay for me to come to your sporting game today?”
“You mean my rugby game?” I stuck the standard back in the ground and leaned on it, careful not to touch the wire. “Yeah, course.”
“I thought I’d leave my car here.” Her eyes were unusually serious. “I’m walking to the café to meet Kev for coffee this morning, then he’s going to drive me to your game.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you? Dad’s car is electric, which is cool for the planet, but it’s a bit hair-raising on these hills.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. I know you’ll be busy doing stretches and burping and fist-bumping, or whatever it is athletes do in locker rooms before a game. I’ll see you from the stands.”
“Princess, this is the Mapleford Athletic Field, and it’s a social game of touch rugby. There are no locker rooms, just a few toilets. There aren’t stands, either. People set up camping chairs along the sidelines.”
Her nose wrinkled, making me grin. She thought we were barbaric, which was fitting, because she’d been making me feel fucking barbaric since she got here.
“You going to be okay in a canvas chair?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I ran my eyes down the length of her, stifling a grin when she fidgeted.
“I know you’re used to the finer things. You’ve never had it rough, have you, Princess?”
“Wh-what?”
Stop it, Mike. Don’t tease Caroline’s friend. She can’t take it. You know she can’t. She’s a sexually inexperienced wounded bird, and therefore, not for you.
But as always, I ignored my better judgment.
“Sometimes, something rough will do you a world of good.”
Bad Mike, bad, bad Mike.
Lyssa’s cheeks flushed violently red and it didn’t stop there. Her chin and forehead warmed too. It called me. A siren’s song.
I stepped closer. “And in those instances, you’ve just got to stop thinking. Stop talking. And take what you’re fucking given .”
With a patented Mike Holliday wink, I stepped back. She exhaled slowly, looking rattled. I was smug.
“For example, my canvas chair,” I continued casually. “I already loaded it in my ute for you, along with an umbrella. Make sure you wear a good jacket—grab one of mine if you don’t have one—and take one of dad’s insulated coffee tumblers with you from the café.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You okay there, Lyssa?”
“Yes,” she said primly. “Thank you.”
I grinned harder. “Okay, see you in in a few hours. I’ll be one of the ones in the little shorts. Try not to lose your head when you see my gams. I’ve been voted best thighs three years in a row by the Mapleford Rugby Club, so brace yourself.”
She scowled at my teasing, but I had no intention of stopping. This was the most fun I’d had in years.
“And if you’re a very good girl, I’ll let you cop a little feel after.”
“Shut up, Mike.”
Ah, it was good to hear her say my full name like that. Meant we were back on solid ground.
I mock saluted and left the paddock, whistling.
It felt good to reassert myself. This gal didn’t have the guns to flirt with a player like me—it was like sending a bunny to arm wrestle with an octopus.
All right, yes, she’d had me on the hop yesterday, but that was just the element of surprise. As long as I was the one in control, there was no danger of anything more between us than a bit of spicy chat, and I flirted like that with everyone, so it didn’t mean anything.
Now that I’d successfully turned the tables on her, she’d understand how outgunned she was and go back to treating me like a giant pain in the ass—like she should treat her best friend’s brother. Lyssa was a nun compared to me, and now she knew it. She wouldn’t make another pass at me.
And thank fuck, because I wasn’t sure I could endure another attempt.
I’d cockblocked this girl twice. A third time might kill me.
My self-congratulatory feeling lasted through the drive to Mapleford, through my warm-up and stretches, and even through the first part of my rugby game.
At halftime, everything turned to custard.