Chapter 13 Tieran
All I see is red.
With the nature of the game we play, I can’t fault Hughes for seeing an opportunity to take me down. I will, however, fault him for tackling me into a group of people, including the young boy who was now trying to put on a brave face for a crowd of people.
“Are you alright? What’s your name?” I ask him before looking behind me. “Grab him a chair!” I call out before someone springs into action.
The boy nods. “Nathaniel.” His voice shakes, but it’s the tears lining his chocolate brown eyes and the sight of Hughes walking away without checking on anyone he just plowed to the ground that makes my rage snap like an elastic band pulled too taut.
“Nathaniel, can you sit down for me? I want the medic to look you over to make sure you’re alright.” He nods, a tear escaping his eye, and I reach forward and wipe it away. “It’s okay to cry, mate. I do it all the time.”
“Really?”
“For sure! I’ve gotta go have a chat with Hughes, but I’ll check on you later, I promise.” He nods, and I turn away, chasing after Oliver fucking Hughes.
When I catch up to him, I grab his shoulder and swing him around to face me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The smug, satisfied smirk on his face makes me borderline homicidal.
“Just playing the game, mate.” He shrugs.
I step further into his space, using every bit of my six-foot-four frame to intimidate him. “The game doesn’t include knocking down bystanders, you pillock. Pull your head out of your arse, you sodding narcissist.”
He snorts, not cowed in the least by the three inches I have on him.
“That’s a lot of talk for someone who hasn’t won a game this season.
What exactly are you fighting so hard for, Stone?
You do realise your team blames you after every loss, right?
You’re supposed to be leading them to victory, and all you’re doing is making them the punchline of rugby.
Give up, or I’ll just keep taking from you.
I already have your girl warming my bed every night, and soon enough—once you’ve mucked it up beyond saving—I’ll swoop in and take your spot on the Legends too. ”
I take an involuntary step toward him, wanting nothing more than to lay him out. But Coach’s words from the start of the season sound an alarm in my head. Stay focused. No scandals. Keep us at the top of the leaderboard and your name out of the press.
Putting Oliver Hughes several inches into the turf would certainly kick up news stories, but he’s not worth it. I take a step back.
But Hughes follows my retreat, stepping into my space with a puffed out chest.
Around us, I can hear the fans cheering—taunting, hungry for blood. They probably don’t care whose gets spilled, they just want a good show.
“Go back to your side of the pitch, Hughes.” I turn, giving him my back against every instinct warning me against it.
“Yeah, I think I will,” he says too casually.
“It’s much closer to that delightful ray of sunshine sitting over in the Legends VIP box next to your sister.
” My step falters, but I keep going, giving nothing away.
“That’s your new team owner, right? Fuck, she’s fit.
Though she seems a little angry, by the looks of it.
Maybe she just needs me to fuck that frown right off her pretty face.
I bet her cunt will feel like heaven, even if her attitude is hell, and I do like it when they put up a fight. ”
The elastic band on my control snaps.
He’s laughing, walking over to a teammate when I spin on my heel, rage overriding all sense, and tackle him around the waist in a way only a rugby player could.
Surprise works to my advantage, because Hughes is too shocked initially to shake me off before I straddle his waist, pull my fist back, and land a punch squarely across his cheek.
The stands are full of riotous excitement, and it holds me suspended in my anger. My soul has left my body, and it hovers above us, watching me grip his jersey in my left hand, lifting him off the ground slightly before slamming him back down and landing another blow to his face.
My rage is nuclear, hearing him talk about Jade like that—about any woman like that, I reason with myself.
Pain coalesces across my knuckles as they split on the third punch to his face.
Blood shines across Oliver’s teeth, pooling in the crevices as he smiles up at me like a lunatic.
I’m about to land a fourth hit before I’m pulled off him, Cavan’s thick arms wrapping around my shaking body, trapping my own arms down by my side.
He’s talking quietly in my ear, but there’s a buzzing that prohibits me from hearing him. All I can hear is Hughes’ smug voice as he says, I do like it when they put up a fight.
Bile crawls up my throat, threatening to spill as my breathing comes in heaving gasps.
“Settle down,” Cavan’s deep voice says calmly. “Settle the fuck down. Take a breath in.” I follow his instruction, inhaling sharply. “Good. Now, out.”
I repeat his order a few more times, absentmindedly thinking he’d make a better captain as I inhale and exhale. Cavan always kept calm, always delivered on the pitch. His presence is a balm to my anxiety riddled mind, and the team could probably use that more than me.
“Are you with me?” His gravelly voice is barely audible, but I nod, and his arms loosen their grip around me slightly. Three taps to his sun kissed forearm lets him know I’m not going to go on a rampage, rip off Oliver’s left arm, and feed it to him—no matter how much I may want to.
My friend drops his hold, and I hazard a glance over to the VIP section, where Jade’s sitting, but…
she’s not there anymore. Only Lottie remains, yelling expletives at me too colourful to repeat, and I swear, I think I hear Cavan chuckle.
I must have hit my head during the scuffle and I’m imagining things, because Cavan Darcey never laughs.
“You saw him tackle me—card him,” Hughes berates the referee when I rejoin the fray.
The ref pulls a red card out of his shirt pocket, holding it up in the air for fans and announcers to see. “Red card, Stone.”
I accept my fate with as much grace as I can, turning to walk off the pitch and prepare myself for the reeming I’m about to receive from Ballard for being kicked out of the game.
“Red card, Hughes.” The crowd goes insane with a chorus of cheering and dissent.
“You’re taking the piss! For what?” he’s shouting.
“Your illegal tackle and,” he pauses, searching for the words, “ungentlemanly conduct.”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest, fighting a smile the entire walk to the sidelines. But it falls off my face when I see it’s not Ballard waiting for me.
Jade stands at the mouth of the tunnel, arms crossed over her chest, a severe scowl lining her impossibly beautiful face. She looks like she’s contemplating taking off her stiletto and giving me a lobotomy with it.
“My office. Now.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument, so I follow her, passing Harry, who hands me a towel and a bottle of water to cool down as I go, praying the whole way I don’t finally get the sacking I’ve deserved for the better part of a year.
The silence blanketing the office is actually starting to frighten me, but not quite as much as Jade’s singular focus as her right eye starts to twitch.
To an outsider, one might think she’s calm, but I can tell that underneath the mask of neutrality, she’s a viper ready to strike—something under my skin is humming for her to sink her fangs into me.
“Do you want to explain to me why my captain, England’s best fly-half, just got red carded out of a game?”
“That middle bit’s debatable, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.” Her tone is sharp as a knife, quick to defend me even as she looks angry enough to chop off my balls and wear them as earrings.
“Careful, boss. That sounds suspiciously like you like me.” The urge to flirt can’t be stymied anymore.
At least not tonight, while adrenaline from the game is still coursing through my body.
I should probably feel some sort of remorse for my behaviour—for getting thrown out of a game for the first time in my career—and I probably will tomorrow, once the sense of failure starts to creep in.
But for right now, all I feel is a strange sense of calm.
“I tolerate you at best,” she hisses.
We’re in a face off like two gun slingers in an old-time western film, and I won’t be the first to draw.
She lets out a beleaguered sigh. “You have to be above reproach, Tieran.”
My name falling off her lips is the first shot fired. Fuck. Has she ever said my name before? The two syllables have never sounded so appealing, like smoke barrel bourbon with a bite of vanilla. Bold, smooth, and subtly gentle.
“I know you have…personal issues with Hughes, but the team looks to you for guidance. Scouts for the National Team are randomly attending games, and they’re going to hear about this.
You don’t want to lose your chance because the asshole who stole your girlfriend got under your skin.
You shouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of seeing you angry.
I empathize with your situation, and I’m sure it must be hard to see them—”
“It’s not about Olivia,” I interrupt her.
She blinks. “Are you telling me…they’re called Oliver and Olivia?” I purse my lips to keep from smiling. “Does that feel…incestuous to you somehow?”
A raucous laugh bursts from my mouth, surprising even me, as I bend at the waist trying to catch my breath. When I straighten, I can see a glimmer in her eye, even as her face remains neutral.
“A bit, yeah,” I chuckle.
“If it’s not about them, then why the visceral reaction?”
I sober, shaking my head, refusing to answer. To have her brilliance, and drive and strength and beauty, whittled down to what her body can offer isn’t worth repeating. She doesn’t need to be subjected to that.
“Was it worth it, at least?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
She reads my eyes—weighs the speed with which I answer her question. “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“I trust my team. If you say he deserved it, then I’ll handle the fallout around it.” She nods to the chair opposite her desk. “Sit.”
I do as she says, grateful to be off my feet after running, dodging, and jumping around for roughly three quarters of an hour.
Jade rounds the worktop, rummaging through a low drawer before she pulls out a first aid kit and walks back over to me, slightly perching on the lip of her desk.
“Do you expect to get into enough trouble to warrant a medical kit in your desk?”
Jade pops open the sage coloured lid to show every item perfectly lined up and organized, all labels facing the same way.
“I figured it was only a matter of time before a hulking brute came traipsing through my door, needing assistance. Hand.”
I reach out my hand, and she grabs it none too gently. I welcome the bite of pain even as a frizzle of excitement shoots up my arm from the contact.
Her face sets into a mask of concentration, her brow furrowing slightly as she hunches over to clean and disinfect the cuts scattered over my knuckles.
“Will there be a lot?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Will there be a lot of fallout for you to deal with because of what I did?” It’s probably the only thing that could make me regret my actions tonight.
“I’m sure there will be,” she shrugs.
“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to the press—”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.” The sting of the antiseptic has me sucking in a breath. “Don’t be a baby. You can handle a two hundred pound man knocking you to the ground, but disinfected cuts are where you draw the line?”
“If it’s not them, then who?”
“The press will be easy. I can wrap a PR story like nobody’s business after this long in the game. It’s the other shareholders I’m concerned about. They aren’t too pleased about my presence here and are actively waiting for me to fail so they can have a reason to kick me out.”
A fifty pound stone drops in my stomach, settling low in my gut and making me feel ill.
“That’s absurd. You’ve done more for this club in a few measly weeks than they’ve done in years.”
The soft curve of her mouth makes my heart start to knock against my ribcage. It's the closest I’ve come to getting a smile from her since the night we met.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“You have your secrets, and I have mine, Tieran.” She looks at me pointedly, referring back to ten minutes ago when I wouldn’t tell her why I went after Hughes. Fair enough.
She’s holding my hand as she continues to clean cuts that no longer need cleaning. I tighten my hand around hers, my callouses scraping against her soft skin.
Her eyes drift up to mine from beneath lowered inky lashes. Our gazes hold, and I know she’s thinking about it, that night.
“He said something about you.” My voice is a low, choked out whisper.
My heart starts pounding out of my chest, and I can’t get a single read on what she’s thinking.
She abruptly drops my hand, reaching for ointment and bandages and shoving them at me as I stand, crowding her space a little, taking a sick sort of pleasure in watching her attempt to stay calm.
“Put that on, wrap it up, and try to behave.”
“Yes, boss.” I take a step forward, and she retreats, bumping into her desk.
“You’re not wearing maroon.” I allow my eyes to drop to her navy trousers and cropped grey cardigan.
“I’ve never let a man dictate how I dress, and I don’t plan to start just because a cocky rugby player suggested it.” She squares her shoulders.
“Maybe all this drama wouldn’t have happened if you were wearing it.”
She cocks her head curiously at me, eyes narrowing in a way that says she smells nonsense, the same look that always gets me half hard. “You don’t strike me as the superstitious type.”
“I’m a professional athlete. We all have our good luck charms.”
“What’s yours then?”
My gaze drifts from her eyes down to her pillowy mouth as it pulls in an infinitesimal gasp before settling on the spot of blue in her right eye.
“I’ll let you know when I have it.”