Behind the Pitch, a novella: Seeking Serenity 1.5 (3 page)

He narrows his eyes first over Donovan’s spotless face then straight to the large swell on my cheek.

“Some team captain you are, Fraser.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” The coach is a good four inches shorter than me, but he’s an intimidating son of a bitch nonetheless. It was utterly daft to start a bar fight when I’m meant to be the responsible, level-headed captain of our rugby squad.

“Both of you. Outside. Now. You made bail.”

“Coach, thank you,” Donovan says.

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t post it.”

I stop before we exit the building. “Who was it then? Was it Joe?”

Coach doesn’t answer and the look he gives has me instantly understanding that I shouldn’t ask again.

But I know it wasn’t Joe. I know the only person who gives feck all about me is Autumn. And as I leave the police station, lagging behind Donovan and the coach on the way to his truck, I try to think of all the ways I could repay Autumn for what she’s given me and what devious things I’ll have to devise to get her to forgive me.

If only I could go back, to that first day in her classroom when I first
really
met her. I’d tell myself not to be an arsehole. I’d throttle myself for every insult I ever leveled at her.

And I’d never stop kissing her.

If my mum were still alive—Jesus, the Saints and Mother Mary preserve her soul—then she would have smarted my ears had she known what I’d gotten up to. I hadn’t meant to be an arsehole, but then, that’s what you get with too much drink.

So, there I was, standing outside that classroom door on campus, shifting on my feet, heel to heel, waiting for that wanker Tucker Morrison to call me in and apologize for attempting a drunken snog on a fit little angel the night before.

My fecking head wouldn’t stop pounding.

I could hear them in there, him and the girl. Mumbled words really and I wouldn’t have been the least surprised if that eegit was trying to chat her up. He thought a lot of himself, did Morrison, and it’s all undeserved. But, as captain of our squad, I reckon it was his place. Making me be there, not the chatting up the girl bit.

I wasn’t sure what I’d say to her. Let’s be honest, I had only vague recollections of her. I knew she was ginger. I knew her arse was round. I knew that because I seem to recall watching that arse bouncing as she ran, as I ran after her. But I didn’t even know her name, though I thought Morrison said it was Amy or Audrey or some such.
McShane.
That was it. Last name was McShane. That one stuck.

My fecking head, blimey.

“Fraser,” Morrison said, his body leaning out of the doorway. I didn’t like the smug fecking grin on his face or the way he snapped his fingers like I was some panting mutt. When I only managed to stare at him, quirking up one eyebrow, he returned my hesitation with a pathetic glare. “Take your medicine, dude. She’s waiting.”

Really, all I was keen to do was knock him around. It seemed to me no one’s done that enough to that wanker, but I was at the university to play, as my da constantly reminded me. Not to get into tussles with my entitled, subpar captain.

I cracked my neck, set back my shoulders knowing I was likely entering a fecking lion’s den. I don’t do apologies, normally, but Morrison threatened suspension if I didn’t, and if I couldn’t play in matches then there was little point to sticking around this God-forsaken place.

Our captain was shorter than me, but then I’m taller than most. Still, because he was, I was able to see over his head, to the gorgeous creature leaning on the desk at the front of the classroom. She was frowning and a hard line pulled along the sides of her full, pink mouth. Still looked fecking beautiful. But then she noticed me and that adorable scowl transformed to a look of outright rage.

“What the hell do you want?” she said, standing straight.

Jaysus.
If looks could kill…

I couldn’t help it. This girl pulled the “condescending bastard” right out of me and I felt my cheek dent with a smirk. She was prettier than I remembered with that long, ginger hair falling behind her back and those gorgeous gray eyes shining with anger. And her tits? Feck me, they were perfect.

She looked me over, her eyes lowering over my chest, down to my arms and I wondered if she thought me ridiculous with all the artwork I’ve covered my body with. For some reason I seemed to care, but then Morrison stepped forward and her angry frown deepened. This was bloody embarrassing, and I suddenly didn’t give a shite what either one of them thought.

Best to be done with this whole bloody mess. Right, apologize, go home, have a nap.

Then the wanker Morrison opened his mouth. “Autumn, I wanted to make sure Fraser apologized for last night.” I hadn’t asked him to speak for me and so I didn’t disguise the look of disgust that told this bollocks he annoyed me. He was speaking to this McShane girl like he was the conquering fecking hero and I was the idiot cabin boy come to collect the rubbish. Arsehole. He returned my scowl with one of his own, wiping away that stupid smile I’m sure he reserved just for this girl. “Anyway, Fraser, don’t you have something to say to Miss McShane?”

Damn.
Right.
My mouth should have been opening, should have been saying something like “apologies” or “I was an arse,” but Morrison’s narrowed, beady eyes were glistening and I had to pull my hands into fists to keep from throttling him. Finally, I looked at McShane and some of the tension left me. Just some, mind. She watched me too closely and I had to thrust my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts to keep my fisted hands still. I didn’t like her scrutiny, the hard glower of her eyes fanning over me like she was considering slapping me.

“I’m meant to say I’m sorry for maulin’ you last night and I shouldn’t have been so rude.” She lost the frown and I did my best not to smile. It’s amazing what a bit of an accent and mild tongue rolling does to American girls. No, seriously, it’s fecking amazing. It had been a good,
active
summer. The frown completely left her face and her cheeks flushed. Yeah, I knew what she was thinking, but then Morrison crossed his arms and I shoved any ideas I had about McShane away. Still, she had to know that I’m harmless, really. Except for the summer. No bloody excuses for that. “Also, I was an arsehole, but in my defense, I was pie-eyed as shite.” I had to fist my hands again when Morrison slapped the back of my head. That arsehole, I swear. Right, okay, dammit, he’s the captain. Be calm, Fraser. “That is to say, I’m sorry, miss. Won’t happen again.”

She made me stew a bit, rested back on her desk, those big, gray eyes again moving over me like she thought I was either an utter arsehole or some addled simpleton. I don’t make a habit of being uncomfortable, certainly not around women, but the way McShane watched me had my back up. What was she thinking? Why wasn’t she saying anything? I needed a quick “Sure, mate, fine, no problem,” and I was out of there quick and sudden. But she kept staring and it began to hack me off. My trainers squeaked against the floor when I rubbed them. Why the hell wasn’t she saying anything?

“You’re new here?” she asked, as though it wasn’t abundantly clear that I was an expat.

“Nah, born and raised in bleeding Texas. What do you think?” Another slap to the head from Morrison and that time I had to stretch my shoulders to keep from throttling him.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ve heard your apology.”

Great. So much for making amends. McShane rustled about in her bag and then Morrison launched into a tirade right in my fecking ear.

“You better fix this, asshole or I swear…”

“You’ll do what, exactly? Besides, it’s not my fault she’s pigheaded,” I whispered back to Morrison when he jabbed my arm.

“Go fucking apologize. If she tells the president…”

I jerked away from the captain, tired of his bossing. “Look, are you gonna go tell that president lady about last night because that would really fuck us over for the season and—” This time I caught the movement of Morrison’s hand moving, backed up, squared my shoulders. “Captain or no, do that again and I’ll fecking end you.”

His reaction was immediate and I matched him, looked down at this bollocks like he was a pouncy git. Which he was. My fingers itched for him to touch me. One shove and I’d have him, and this McShane girl would be my witness. I would have liked nothing more than to take Morrison down. Besides, no way was I backing down when there was a gorgeous girl in the room.

She stepped between us and I felt my knob twitch when she put her small fingers on my chest. My eyes, though, hadn’t left Morrison’s stupid face, and I was thinking of where the best place was to land my knuckles on his nose when McShane spoke, pulling my attention away.

“Okay, enough with the alpha male crap. I get it,” she said. “You were a drunken jackass and it’s not even a little okay what you did. Seriously, what were you thinking?” The thing about gingers that I loved is how easy it is to measure when they’re hacked off or turned on. From the pink blush that ran up McShane’s neck, right between those glorious tits, I could tell touching me did something to her, too. I couldn’t help it. I liked how her hand felt on me, how she smelled all girl-like and sweet. Just looking down at her had me forgetting my anger for a moment, forgetting that Morrison was in dire need of a throttling.

Honestly, I couldn’t help but feel like a slimy shite about what I had done on the pitch. That’s not me. I don’t grab girls, even drunk I’m well behaved—for the most part. So when she continued to stare at me, expecting what, I’m not sure, I looked down at the floor first before I could look at her face again. “I wasn’t. I’m not normally like that.”

“If Winchell finds out that could screw up our chances at regionals. We can’t have that. Just so we’re clear: you can’t go around attacking unsuspecting women.”

She had the smallest little twitch working under her eyelid. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or whether she liked or loathed being close to me, having me stand so close that my breath moved her hair off her face. One dip of my eyes and I had a perfect view of her cleavage. Her bra was lace and the necklace she wore disappeared into the crease. There were freckles every bleeding where. I wanted to count them. With my tongue.

“And the suspecting ones?”

“No,” she said, moving away from me, bumping into Morrison. “Not unless they want you to.”

“Like that then?”

She moved her sharp chin up like she was bold, like I wasn’t making her nervous in the least. “Yes, it’s exactly like that.”

I liked that she tried to act brave. I liked that she thought I couldn’t tell by the pinking of her face that I was doing things to her, making her just a bit hot. “So, McShane, are
you
unsuspecting?” Looking at her, watching her small nervousness had me licking my lip at just the idea of how delicious I bet she tasted.

“Knock it off.” It was just like Morrison to ruin the mood, to break the small connection I saw forming in McShane’s eyes.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, didn’t bother looking behind me as I left, which suited me just fine. But a part of me knew, as I zipped through the lobby and out into the courtyard, that my apology wasn’t the only thing I had given to that ginger angel that morning.

Within the next few days, I discovered that Autumn McShane had a bit more fire in her than I first imagined.

My “punishment” as Morrison called it, for groping McShane and giving her a half-assed apology was to “volunteer” at the library, preparing for the yearly book sale. But I was still annoyed that Morrison didn’t buy the apology I gave McShane and when I made it to the library, my attitude was a bit less than cordial. Alright, I was an arsehole to her and her best friend Sayo and I teased her about her mum before I realized that she’s dead. Just like mine.

Yep. Definitely an arsehole.

Minutes after my insult, we chatted about her injuries and she showed me what was left from the wreck that took her mum.

The scar was vicious. A red, jagged line that swept across her stomach, dipped in the center where I thought the stitches must have been. It was fierce-looking, and the only thing that disturbed the perfect contours of her creamy skin. Her stomach was tight, toned, and I couldn’t help my bleeding fingers as they descended on her skin, my hand as it rested above her hip or my thumb as it rubbed against that scar.