Page 5 of Worth the Try
I stand and face Coach. “Almost isn’t good enough.”
“No shit, Miles,” Coach fires back.
“So quit saying wealmostwon,” I growl in return. “We lost. We played our asses off. But we lost. That’s the end of it.” I look at my teammates. For so many of them, this is a part-time job, never mind that we’re Major League Rugby. The pay isn’t great.
“Not really the inspiring speech we’re looking for,” Cash mutters from the bench beside me. He’s our hooker. Great guy. Does the job. Huge heart.
I look at him. “Since when have I been known for inspiring speeches?”
He grins. “Good point.”
“When is our next practice?” I ask Coach.
He gapes at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Today was the championship game.”
“That we lost.”
The locker room is deadly quiet as Coach and I have a staring contest.
Finally, he dips his chin in the barest acknowledgment that I might actually know what the fuck I’m talking about. “Two weeks.”
Noise erupts as I nod my thanks to him and head to the showers, ignoring the protests from my teammates that we were supposed to get the summer off.
The bus ride home is brutal. The team rarely puts us on planes—not even the economy ones, not that our bodies would fit in those seats, but still—so if it’s an eight-hour or less drive between cities, we’re making the trek in a chartered bus.
It’s not the bus that’s the problem. It’s Lennox, who won’t shut up.
“Are you a fecking gowk, Ansel? I thought there was more in your brain than that. Or did that last hit knock the sense off you?” It’s late, and his Scottish burr is really coming through.
I take the good-natured swat to the head that he delivers from the seat behind me before raising up to look back at him. “Define ‘gowk,’ Len.”
He huffs. “You know what it means, you ass.”
I do. But I love making him explain things because it drives him crazy. “If I’m a gowk, then you’re a lavvy heid.”
“I regret the day I taught you anything about my language.”
I laugh, then grow serious. “We have to practice, Len. You know these guys need it.”
He shrugs his massive shoulders. “I know. But I wanted to visit home.”
Glasgow. “So go. If anyone doesn’t need the practice, it’s the guy who’s been playing since he could walk. It’s the Americans who need the help.”
“You’re American.”
I flash him a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, but I’m not normal.”
“Ye can say that again,” he says with a chuckle. “What about you? Thought you had plans to work.”
“I’ll be fine.” But I don’t know if that’s true. Then again, I never know if that’s true. For the past five years, ever since Rosalie landed in my life like my own personal flower bomb, I’ve had to take things month by month. Hell, sometimes week by week and day to day.
I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one second of it. I mean, yes, it’s shocking to open your door and find your neighbor asking why the hell there’s an infant on your doorstep, but once I got through that initial surprise, I dove into fatherhood without hesitation. I needed help—a lot of it at first—and my mom jumped in, teaching me everything I needed to know. Once I got my feet under me and Mom was certain I could do it myself, she went back to Charleston, with promises to visit with Dad. And they have. Rosalie has a wonderful relationship with them.
But being a professional rugby player and single dad isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m the best-paid player on the team, and I definitely have the best sponsorship deals, but living in the suburbs of Atlanta means everything is expensive—especially childcare. Which is why I was beyond thrilled when Mom and Dad offered to take Rosie for the entire summer this year, starting next week. I’d planned to use the time to find some construction work or even use my finance degree in some way. Admittedly, I was a little behind on locking something down, butgiven the way I opened my big mouth earlier today, I guess that isn’t the worst thing.
Lennox gazes at me with those all-knowing eyes of his, and I stare right back. “I’m talking to Coach, then. I miss the cold.”
I roll my eyes and slump in the seat. Hours later, we’ve made it back to our own stadium and I’m in my SUV heading home. It’s the wee hours of Sunday morning by the time I’m sliding my key into the lock and walking in the front door, unwilling to open the garage door and risk the sound of it waking Rosalie.
