Page 55 of Worth the Try
“Okay. Thanks,” I bite out.
It’s only after she ends the call that I yell, over and over in the safety of my Land Rover, until I’m nearly hoarse. It’s my fucking luck that I’d go from one of the best mornings of my life to this.
I screech into the parking lot and stomp into the building. After tossing my kit into the locker, I stalk to the weight room, desperately wishing we were running drills on the pitch instead. As usual, the forwards are the ones with the heavier weights, and the backs are practically playing patty-cake with how much lighter theirs are. My role as a fly-half would typically mean I’m lifting lighter weights with the backs, but I’ve found I perform better if I’m a bit bulkier. Not as bulky as some of our guys, but just a little.
Today, however, I’m going to pretend that I’m one of our locks, so I throw as much weight on as I possibly can. I need to get out of my fucking head. It’s not until I’ve loaded well over my usual weight for hip thrusts that Carter saunters over.
“You trying to break something, Captain?” he teases.
“Just that pretty face of yours if you keep gabbing,” I toss back, then grunt as I thrust up.
“Don’t be jealous, man, it doesn’t suit you.” He winks and adjusts the machine next to mine, then settles in. “Do we need to talk about it?”
“No,” I growl.
He raises his hands. “Okay, okay, just checking.”
The only person I’d talk to about all of this isn’t even in the damn country. Carter may be a great teammate on the field, but off? He’s not even remotely someone I’d trust with this kind of conversation. He’s young and still enjoying all the perks of being a rugger. And good for him—no judgment here.
I hit station after station, grunting and growling my way through, pushing myself to the brink every time. When Coach walks in and tells us we’re running drills to give the social media team some content, I couldn’t be happier. I need exhaustion. I need to not think. Because if I think, bad things will happen.
An hour later, Coach has run us into the ground. Stadiums, suicide runs, passing drills, lunges up and back, and a ton ofother exercises. I’m dripping with sweat and my legs are one drill away from simply detaching from me, but I still can’t shake my foul mood.
“The fuck is wrong with you, running down the field like you’re going to kill someone?” A familiar Scottish burr growls behind me.
I turn, disbelief at the redheaded man standing in front of me. But even though the tiniest bit of weight lifts at the sight of this asshole, it’s not relief I feel. Not yet. “You,” I say.
“Aye. Me,” he says, then opens his arms.
I rush him.
A feral grin splits his face as he squats, ready to take me.
I tackle him, but the fucker doesn’t go down. He never does. Could I try harder? Probably. Would one of us get hurt? Definitely.
He grips my shirt and swings me off him, and I yell in frustration.
“Ah, yer a feisty little twat when Daddy’s not around to keep you in check, aren’t ya?” he teases.
“Fuck.You,” I grunt, leaping at his waist, wrapping my arms around him in another futile effort.
He laughs. This asshole justlaughs.“I missed you, too, Ans.” He tosses me off again.
I run at him a third time, juking him and managing to wrap my arms around his waist. He steps back with my weight, letting me feel like I’ve actually done something before removing my hands and spreading them up and above my head. Without any effort whatsoever, he tucks both my wrists into one meaty palm before pointing a finger at me. “Now say yer sorry and I won’t tickle your pits.”
I spit on the ground. “No.”
“Seriously, what the fuck?” he asks, still holding my wrists above me. While I continue struggling to get free, mind you.Anytime I think I’m strong, all I have to do is go up against Lennox and I’m put right back in my place.
He squeezes my wrists, my bones twisting painfully in his grip, and I fold. “Fine! Fine. I’m sorry,” I growl. “Let me go.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you going to behave?”
“Yes,” I promise. Immediately, relief hits as he lets me go. I rub one wrist and the next, scowling at his cheery face.
Something in my expression must finally hit him, though, because his smile drops. “Ans?”
I sigh. “It’s Lauren. She’s here.” My voice hitches on the last word, nearly turning into a sob.
