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But not everyone in Australia was a footy fan. Some preferred soccer or basketball or cricket, so he wasn’t instantly recognizable when he traveled interstate. Not like Kurt.

And in a small way, it endeared him to his brother like nothing else could.

What would it be like to have every moment of your life scrutinized? To be recognized everywhere you went?

He’d grown to tolerate the stares, the whispers, the speculation but compared to what Kurt probably had to put up with? He’d had it easy.

“So you’re a fan, huh?” Kurt all but drooled as his gaze swept over Chantal from head to foot and in an instant, Zane’s hate-on for his brother returned.

“I’m more into Aussie Rules than gridiron these days,” Chantal said, placing her hand over Zane’s.

Zane could’ve kissed her.

Kurt wrinkled his nose, like he’d smelled something bad. “That Aussie game is for girls compared to what we play.”

Zane stiffened and Chantal rubbed her thumb across the back of his hand in a slow, comforting sweep.

“Actually, Aussie Rules is more skillful. The guys have to be fitter, faster and proficient in all aspects of the game, from hand balling to bouncing on the run to kicking.” Her deliberate chuckle held little amusement. “Our meatheads just grab, run, throw and scrum.”

This time, Zane did kiss her, right on her delectable mouth.

“Looks like you have a fan,” Kurt said, eyes narrowed as his glare turned frosty.

“I’m a lucky guy,” Zane said, silently vowing to thank Chantal later. All night long.

Kurt grunted as their drinks arrived. To his surprise, Chantal picked up her wine and stood.

“Sorry gentlemen, but I need to make a few business calls. I’ll leave you to it.” She nodded at Kurt. “Nice meeting you.”

She bent low to whisper in Zane’s ear, “If you refrain from killing the dumbass, I’ll reward you later. Promise?”

“Promise.” Zane nodded and grinned, feeling like the luckiest guy in the bar as every male gaze fixed on Chantal’s sexy butt as she sashayed out.

“You’re a fast worker,” Kurt said. “Barely in the country and you hook up with a…local.”

Zane didn’t like the pause. “What were you going to say?”

Kurt sniggered. “Come on, man, you’re not that naive.” He jerked his thumb at the door. “The way she walks? Pretty fucking obvious she’s a stripper.”

Zane would’ve been on him in a second if it weren’t for two things: he’d vowed to leave the last three years behind, when he’d act first, think later, and he’d promised Chantal not to kill him. Fortunately, when he made a promise, he stuck to it. Unlike dear old dad, who hadn’t kept the marriage vow he’d made in Australia, and had ended up fathering a dickhead like Kurt.

“She owns a club in Vegas. She doesn’t strip.”

“You sure about that?” Kurt held his beer up in a toast. “No shame if she does, man. We’ve all been there. Goes with the territory of playing ball.”

Zane gulped half his beer in one shot, needing to chill before he reneged on his promise not to kill.

“If you think we’re going to bond over locker room bullshit, think again,” Zane said, eyeballing his butthead brother. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Is that so?” Kurt leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Okay, let’s cut the shit. Dad dumps the fact I have two half brothers on me a week ago. One of them’s a high profile footballer in Australia. He’s coming over to meet us, like we’re all expected to join hands and sing hymns or some such shit. And you expect me to be doing fucking cartwheels?”

Kurt’s eyes narrowed, but it didn’t hide a glint of jealousy. “I know Dad got you a tryout with the LA Owls as a kicker. Which means you’re now on my turf. And take it from me, hanging out with a woman like Chantal won’t help your cause.”

God, Zane hated this self-absorbed, sanctimonious prick.

“My cause?”

“Making it in the big league over here.” Kurt sipped at his beer, annoyingly casual when Zane was seething inside. “What kind of club does she own?”

“Burlesque.”

Kurt shrugged, his inherent cockiness making Zane’s fingers curl into a fist. “I rest my case.”

“Burlesque isn’t stripping.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s
art
.” Kurt scoffed. “Where we come from, bumpkin, when a girl gets her gear off and shows her tits, whether they’re covered in pasties or not, it’s stripping. And there have been too many scandals lately involving footballers and strippers, so if you want a chance in Hades of making it here, you need to distance yourself from her.”

Fury swept through Zane, swift and scorching and blinding him to everything except how much he’d like to wrap his hands around Kurt’s redneck and squeeze hard.

“Who says I want to make it here?” He kept his voice deliberately cool, ignoring the rage threatening to spill over. “I came here to meet my
family
.” He sneered. “And look how that fucking turned out. Wyatt’s the only one who’s man enough to give it a shot.”

Zane carefully placed his beer on the table and stood. “He’s got balls, which is more than I can say for you and dear old
Dad
.”

To his surprise, Kurt slumped, his overt cockiness fading. “Wyatt’s a good guy. I’m the prick of the family, but I guess you’ve already figured that out.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Zane rocked on the balls of his feet, torn between wanting to storm out and staying to see if Kurt actually had an ounce of decency in him.

“I’ve handled this all wrong. Sorry.” Kurt held out his hand. “If you stick around, I’ll shut the fuck up.”

Zane should leave. He wanted to, but something in Kurt’s steady gaze held him back: regret. And if there was one thing Zane knew, he was done living with regrets.

“Is that a promise?” Zane shook Kurt’s hand, a brief, perfunctory shake, before sitting. “Because you haven’t stopped spinning bullshit since we got here.”

“Occupational hazard.” Kurt had the grace to look sheepish. “If I’m not bellowing instructions on the field I’m mentoring the newbies off the field. Then there’s the countless interviews and appearances and—”

“I better start feeling sorry for you some time soon.”

Kurt grinned. “What can I say? Fame’s a bitch.”

“Yeah, and I can see your fragile ego is handling it so well.”

This time, Kurt laughed outright. “You know all that shit I said earlier about Aussie Rules football? I was trying to wind you up.” He glanced away, then focused on his beer, intensely interested in the label. “I watched a few games of yours once Dad told me about you. You’re good.” He looked up, admiration in his stare. “You’re a fucking gun.”

“Thanks.”

And Zane meant it. Because against his better judgment, he did have something in common with Kurt. Their love of an oval shaped ball.

“You on the other hand?” Zane shrugged. “From the video clips I’ve seen, your game’s pretty average.”

Sadly, he couldn’t keep a straight face after delivery and he joined in Kurt’s laughter.

It felt good to laugh with his half-brother. Great, in fact. Maybe now they’d got past the pissing contest to establish who was the bigger man, they could start down the track of being mates.

“At the risk of screwing up our bonding session totally, Dad really was cut up about not being here.”

Just like that, Zane’s mood soured again.

“You think he’s a mean old bastard, but you’re all he’s talked about since he found out you were coming.” Kurt squirmed, appearing uncomfortable. “It must be shit, having him ignore your existence all these years, but give him a chance, okay?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Zane said, grudgingly, hating that Christopher wasn’t the one here, begging for forgiveness.

“Yeah, I guess you are.” Kurt held up his beer. “To friendship. And discovering which football code has the bigger balls.”

Zane nodded and tapped his beer bottle against his brother’s. “I’ll drink to that.” He took a slug. “But it’s no contest. Aussie Rules wins every time.”

“Don’t make me beat you.” Kurt grinned.

“Like to see you try, big guy.”

With that, they drank their beer, their silence comfortable. Until Zane remembered he had another place to be: holed up in his suite with the woman who may be the first to rock his world.

Chantal didn’t think things could get any worse.

Her romantic tryst with Zane in LA had been a bust the last two days. Forty-eight long hours when she’d been holed up in her suite with a stomach virus, alternating between visits to the toilet and curling up in bed in a fetal position.

She’d banished Zane after he’d tried to play nursemaid for the first hour, too embarrassed to be seen in such a state. No guy wanted to see his girl writhing around in agony or with her head over the porcelain. He hadn’t wanted to go but she’d vowed to withhold sexual favors for the rest of his stay in the States. Considering they hadn’t got that far yet, it was a hollow threat, but he’d cottoned onto her misery pretty fast and had left her in peace.

He’d texted and called several times, ensuring she was hydrated and medicated. He’d even knocked on the interconnecting door between their suites a few times asking if he could help but she’d driven him away with a few choice curses when he wanted to linger.

Thankfully, she was past the worst of it now and had agreed to meet him in the lobby bar before his tryout with the LA Owls.

Determined to look fabulous even if she didn’t feel it, Chantal applied lashings of mascara and coral lipstick, zipped up a sunflower yellow halter mini, slipped her feet into matching towering stilettos and twisted her hair into a high ponytail. Glancing in the mirror, she looked like an exotic go-go dancer from the fifties. But she’d achieved what she’d set out to do: look bright and cheerful when inside she felt limp and washed out.

There were a few post-lunch stragglers in the bar as she entered and no sign of Zane. But there was a familiar face at a table near the door. A face most of America had come to associate with anything sporty.

Christopher Harrison.

The last thing she felt like doing was making small talk with Zane’s dad, especially after Zane had told her the old man had reneged on their first meeting, but if she didn’t introduce herself now, it would be mighty awkward when Zane did show.

Damn, why didn’t Zane tell her they’d be meeting his father today? She would’ve spent another day in bed recuperating.

Then again, she could be working alongside him if she secured the sponsorship deal, so she’d have to get her game face on and do what she did best: smile, charm and ensure her business made money.

Christopher frowned as she neared his table, his steely blue-eyed gaze sweeping her from head to foot. With his shock of white hair and craggy face, he should’ve appeared old. But Christopher radiated a vitality that wrinkles and thinning hair couldn’t hide. Powerful men had an aura that couldn’t be emulated. She’d been around enough of them in her dancing days to know.

“Hi, I’m Chantal Kramer, a friend of Zane’s.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison.”

For a horrifying second, Chantal thought Christopher would snub her. He stared at her hand like she’d handled dog shit before offering it to him. His brief clasp lasted a second, barely long enough to classify as a shake before he released her hand.

“Zane mentioned you might be here,” he said, his deep voice filled with disdain. “What I want to know is why the hell are you? I’m meeting my son for the first time and he drags along some…” He shook his head, disgust contorting his face.

Shocked to her core by his instantaneous dislike, Chantal took a few calming breaths. Wouldn’t bode well if she told the old man to shove it before they’d begun.

“I’m here because my business is being considered for the sponsorship of the new Australian football competition in Nevada. And you’re supplying all the equipment, so Zane thought this might be a good opportunity for us to—”

“No frigging way,” he spat out, eyeing her like she’d proposed she do a lap dance for him here and now. “I’m not doing business with you.”

Shaken by his vehemence, and putting it down to a cantankerous old guy having a bad day, Chantal tried again. “I think it’s great that Australian football is expanding into the States and we could be at the forefront of—”

“I said no!”

Chantal jumped at his almost-yell, and oblivious to the bar patrons glancing his way, Christopher leaned forward and jabbed a finger almost in her face. “I’m not one of your clients you can dance for and expect a reward,” he hissed, eyes narrowed.

Chantal recoiled, stunned by his vitriol.

“Yeah, that’s right, missy. I researched you. Looked into your past. Discovered you used to take your clothes off and dance, before taking over that sleazy dive.” He glowered, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. “If you seriously think I’d allow Harrison Sporting Goods to be associated with anything remotely resembling your
business
, you’re more stupid than you look.”

Speechless, Chantal absorbed the implications of Christopher’s tirade.

He thought she was a trumped-up tart.

He didn’t want his business associated with hers.

He’d never approve of her.

And just like that, she was transported back to her teen years in Craye Canyon, feeling cheap and judged, growing up in her hometown. Misunderstood. Wrongly labeled. All because she chose to be nothing like her mother. She’d wanted to be the opposite of her boring mom so she’d rebelled, wearing flamboyant clothes, doing outrageous things, dating the wrong boys, anything to feel alive and not bogged down by her mom’s mundane drudgery.

When she was twelve and learned her step-dad had more
lady friends
than she had skinny jeans, Chantal understood her mom’s motivation to constantly strive for normality. It was her way of putting on a brave face to the world, being anchored in everyday trivialities to ignore the hurtful stuff.

While Chantal understood, it didn’t make living with her mom’s boredom easier. Rebelling was much more fun. But eventually the small town mentality and gossip got under her skin. She’d hated feeling unworthy so she’d fled, determined to make a life she could be proud of. Yet in less than a minute, Christopher had succeeded in tearing that all down and thrusting her back to the past, back when she hid her insecurities behind bluster and boldness.