Hard to Hold by K. Bromberg

Author:K. Bromberg [Bromberg, K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Play Hard Series
Publisher: JKB Publishing, LLC
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

LENNOX

“FUCKING HELL,” RUSH SAYS AS he saunters into the family room where I’ve set up shop on one end of the couch. My laptop is on my legs, a few contracts are on the cushion beside me, and a bottle of wine is half gone on the end table opposite me. “I have stamina.” He winks, adding that grin I’ve been trying to ignore. “You know that, of course, but this press thing is bullshit.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, how many meetings and press briefings and circus shows do I have to go to where I smile wide and stand there beside Cannon but don’t say anything other than sing the MLS’s praises. These people don’t love football. Not like back home. They think they do but they have no desire to put the funds and the marketing in to make it what it could be here in the States.”

I look over to him where he stands, sweats on, shirt off, and welcome the distraction as my eyes were about to go cross-eyed from all the fine print.

But now I’m definitely alert at the sight of him and the visceral punch he gives me each and every time. It’s almost as if my body knows how good he is and is trying to shock my head into forgetting.

“That is kind of what your job description is, though.” He levels me with a glare that makes me chuckle. “Poor baby. Rough day at the office, dear?”

He presses his fingers to his eyes before running a hand through his hair. “When do the questions ever fucking end?” he asks and sighs. “What about Esme, Rush? Are you going to be the chink in the Liverpool armor, Rush? Hey, Rush, who do you think the team is going to keep—you or Seth? The transfer window will be narrowing soon so who do you think, Rush? Such bollocks,” he says as he moves toward me and begins to gather up all the papers on the couch beside me.

“Hey, what are you—” And before I can finish what I’m saying, he plops down, head on my lap—where I’ve just pushed my laptop out of the way—and his feet are extended over the armrest. “Rush!”

I look down to find him looking up at me with that sheepish smile and those thick lashes framing his pale, unapologetic eyes.

“Excuse me?” I ask in mock exasperation, which I’ve given up feeling when it comes to him.

“I just needed to be with someone nice who doesn’t ask me a million questions,” he says in a sleepy voice, closing his eyes as he snuggles in and gets comfortable. “Someone who isn’t judging or questioning or wondering while I stand there with a smile plastered to my face, pretending it doesn’t affect me, since I’m the face of a whole bloody league.”

It’s the first trace of Rush’s frustration and I’m glad to see it. A part of me wonders if it stems from what I said to him at the event the other night. The function where I spoke my mind when I swore I wouldn’t.

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