Page 34 of Worth the Try
I put a finger on his lips, hardly recognizing myself, but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is right. “Hide me or don’t. Tell Rosalie or don’t. Come see me in the guesthouse at night or don’t. I will give you whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
He kisses my finger, and I pull it away with a smile. Then cups my face, kissing me, once, twice, three times. “I do not want you to be a hidden side piece, Elodie. That’s not what I’m after. It’s never been anything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m certainly not starting now. But for now, Rosalie?—”
“Doesn’t have to know,” I finish for him. “I get it.”
He looks pained. “I’m sorry.”
I straighten. “There is absolutely nothing to be sorry for. She’s your daughter. She will always be the priority. I promise you, I understand.”
His features smooth, and he places the softest of kisses on my forehead. “Thank you.”
Doesn’t stop me from dreaming about biting those thighs, though.
Chapter 12
Ansel
I’M TACKLED TO the ground for what feels like the twentieth time, and it’s getting old.
“Oh, come on! Get your head in the game!” Coach is easily two-thirds down the pitch, but there’s no mistaking his words were meant for me. When I stand and look back, he’s waving a binder in one hand and glaring at me. He is pissed.
As he should be, honestly. I leap up and run, doing my level best to re-focus. I’ve spent more of my time with my head in the Elodie-shaped clouds than with a ball in my hands, and it’s less than ideal.
Gabe skips past the try line and presses the ball to the ground, then turns around and blows a kiss at me.
Fucker. In a real game, that would have been five points.
I give him the bird, and he laughs while pretending to flip his hair. “Gotta get up faster than that if you think you’re going to catch me.”
“From the lineout,” Coach barks. “Move!”
We run back to the sidelines and get in position: two lines of opposing practice teams facing our hooker Cash, who’s on my team and holds the ball on the sideline. On each line, the two props prepare to lift a third man into the air.
Coach bellows, and the play starts. Cash angles the ball toward our line as Jake and Chandler are lifted by the guys. They’re both tall as fuck, but Chandler’s got maybe two inches on Jake, and his reach is on full display as he leans to snatch the ball from Jake’s fingertips.
“Here!” I yell so Chandler knows where I am, and he tosses it in my direction as he’s lowered to the ground.
Ball firmly in my grip, I haul ass. I get a full five seconds with it—damn near an eternity, and I make every second count, eating up the yards as fast as I can—before Xavier appears in my periphery, his only goal to take possession of the ball. I have to throw it, sending it backward to my wing, Carter. He catches it with a wink, pivoting away from a tackle effort by one of the rookies and sprinting down the pitch.
I keep running, ready to take it if needed. Sure enough, Carter throws it behind him, and I catch it, flinging it back to Sam, who tosses to Xavier while Carter performs some kind of miracle maneuver, spinning away from yet another rookie to get right where Xavier needs him. He catches it, then runs the remaining yards to the try line.
And he almost makes it, too, before getting slammed at the waist by the other team’s flanker. The ball rolls a couple of feet, and it’s a race between me and the full-back to get it. He beats me to it, turning and drop-kicking the ball way the fuck down the pitch and away from the try line.
“Motherfucker,” I curse, turning and running.
After the three-hour practice,I shower and throw on a tee with my favorite pair of black mesh shorts. They’re loose and comfortable, which is welcome after wearing the tight shorts the sport requires.
Carter’s heading out when I catch up to him. “Great job today,” I tell him.
He grins, pure cockiness oozing out of him. “That’s the name of the game, old man. Those football guys got nothing on my fast feet.”
I laugh. “Should I get our PR team on that? You versus a receiver on the Falcons?”
He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Do it. I’ll crush that dude.”
“I love your enthusiasm.”
“You mean myyouth,” he says.
