Page 3 of The Game

A looming mountain of disdain, with his wide arms folded across his big chest, and his leather gym bag by his feet, he looked like he was contemplating murder. With his long legs encased in navy tracksuit trousers, even the bright pink of the team polo shirt could do nothing to undermine Jase Willis’ extreme manliness.

Don't look too close. I told myself, but then looked all the same. It was hard not to; the convex muscles of his chest were like a magnet for my weak-willed mind, unable to resist the pull they held over my eyes. I wanted to puke at my pitiful attempt at self-restraint.

"What are you trying to do to them?" His words were a bark, but I forced myself to bury any reaction at his snapped words deep within the pit of my stomach.

I stared him straight in the face, ignoring the sun-induced freckles and fair stubble on his jaw. "It's called endurance. You know about that right? Didn't you run the London Marathon the other year?"

His eyes lifted from under the peak of the team's navy and pink cap and a quick flash of what looked very much like conceit marred his handsome features. "How did you know that?"

I raised an eyebrow and hoped my top lip wasn't sweating too much, not that it should matter; the guy was an ignoramus on a monumental level.

"You're the captain of the team. It's my business to know all the players." I squared up to him. "Right down to the nitty gritty." The threat in my words hammering loud.

In the dark recesses of his icy eyes, I saw a flicker of darkness, and hate. "You will kill them. They aren't used to this level of training."

I shrugged. "Then they shouldn't be playing. Training isn't supposed to be fun."

He swept from the waist in one fluid movement and grabbed his bag off the floor before barging past me, his shoulder glancing a bruising blow off mine. “Go back to your girlie teams, Rivers.” His words were a chilled blast. I watched him storm away, his legs striding with unrestrained power. That man was more of an idiot than I’d given him credit for. Shame for him.

Well, well, it looked like this job was going to be more interesting than I thought. The important thing was that I kept it. The job was mine by hook or crook and no one—not some sexist twat or a group of overpaid guys who couldn’t run to save their lives—was going to ruin it.

I shook off the Lancashire Lion's attitude and made my way home to the normality that I was beginning to call my own.

"I'm home," I called, slamming the car door shut. The French doors were all open. The afternoon breeze fluttered the voile curtains and sucked them from the safety of the windows into the fresh air outside, like a bride's veil swept up in an unexpected gale. I breathed in, filling my lungs and waited for my welcome committee. My heart did that thing it did every time I came home, where it grew and expanded until it felt like it was going to explode out of my chest cavity. Then I heard it, a screech of a call followed by the patter of four paws.

A bolt of dark hair barrelled its way into my chest and I wound my arms tight around slender shoulders and stooped so I could plant a kiss on silky strands of hair. Four paws padded up my trousers, smattering my chinos in dust and dried mud, and I stroked the golden fur. "How're my boys?" I asked.

"Did you meet him, did you meet him, did you meet him?" Sammy asked, the little guy's eyes crinkled in the afternoon sun making his freckles illuminate like paint-splattered milk chocolate droplets. I could have eaten them all up like chocolate buttons. My heart gave a little squeeze.

Holding in a groan I shuddered at the memory of the icy glare and the idiot who owned it. "Mm." I couldn't lie to a six-year-old, it's just not a done thing. "I met him." It’s all I can manage. My teeth clamp together with a snap just thinking about my day.

"What did he say, what did he say, what did he say?"

I don't know if it's a little guy thing or a six-year-old thing to repeat everything three times. I also don't know if it's cute, or a phase that I hope he grows out of sooner rather than later. Ruffling my fingers through his wavy hair, I chuckled. "He didn't get to talk. I made him run too much." Sammy laughed and then I laughed like I'd caught an infectious disease, the day forgot in an instant. That icy stare couldn't reach me here; nothing could reach me here in my little slice of unexpected heaven. "How was school?" I asked.

The little guy sighed, his freckles scrunching again. "PE sucked."

"It sucked?"

Jasper bounded at our heels like a retriever on ecstasy.

"It was Kwick Cricket." He rolled his eyes. "I told the coach that you'd come and teach them the real thing."

I chuckled again and pulled him tight to my side for a squeeze. "Now you know, not everyone likes to be beaten by a girl." I flashed back to the icy glare and the snarl from the throat of the Lancashire Lion but then blanked it from my mind. Just like the click of my fingers I could shut him and his truckloads of angry out.

Sammy nodded. "They'd all like to be beaten by you," he said, his face staring up at mine.

"Sure thing." I made a mental note to approach the school about doing an afternoon practice or the like. Sammy would love it. "Now, my little friend, have you got homework?"

Sammy shook his head, although I knew I’d need to check the recesses of his school bag. It's amazing the paperwork that could get mislaid down in the dark, crumb-filled, corners of a six-year-old’s magical vortex of a school backpack.

"Okay?" I left a questioning lilt in my voice so if he felt the need to correct the statement about homework the option was there to utilise—nine times out of ten he did. "How about after dinner we have a game of catch?"

"Yes, yes, yes." Sammy bounded in the air.

"But only a quick one before bed."

Little guy groaned. "It's hours till bedtime."