Chapter Three
Kyle leapt into the air as the final hooter sounded. They’d won. His first game with the Sydney Smoke since he’d started training with them two weeks ago, and he’d scored three tries. At Henley stadium. In front of their home crowd.
Who were going off in the stands, chanting his name.
The guys were slapping each other on the back and shaking his hand. One or two of them had been a little pissed at him a couple of times for backing himself and making a run for it, but they could hardly stay shitty when he’d delivered.
He knew his take-charge style of game wasn’t for everyone, that it’d take the Smoke players some getting used to. But he’d learned early to never rely on others and to back himself. Once they saw he always followed through with results, they’d let him do his thing.
And it drew the crowds. The punters loved it, which meant more bums on seats. Which meant more money for the game. Which meant he was a rugby executive’s wet dream.
He sure as hell hadn’t let what people said about him and his bright future go to his head—that shit could end in a blink of an eye—but he intended to exceed their wildest expectations.
Kyle couldn’t work out if Griff was pleased by his performance or not. Who knew? The man’s expression seemed to be permanently set to scowl. He had one for every occasion. Kyle just hadn’t been around long enough to figure out what each one meant.
He knew the terrible backstory to the coach’s infamous personality. Everyone did. And he understood why something like that could turn a man hard. He wished it hadn’t happened to Griff or his family—but it had, honing the man into a machine, into the best, and Kyle knew that Griffin King could make him into the best, too.
Unfortunately, the coach wasn’t exactly happy about having him on the team. In fact, he’d come right out and told Kyle last week that if it had been up to him, Kyle would have still been with the Centaurs. Not exactly thrilling news for someone who’d wanted to be coached by the King for as long as he could remember.
He’d been super pumped to finally have the world’s most successful rugby coach as a mentor, but Griff had told him in no uncertain terms he wasn’t interested in flashy talent, he was interested in substance. So Kyle had promised him substance, and Griff had run his ass off every day for two weeks.
Kyle had taken everything the guy had thrown at him and, with three tries under his belt tonight, Kyle believed he’d delivered on that promise of substance.
So, right now, whatever Griff’s expression meant, Kyle was ten feet tall and bulletproof, and he wasn’t going to let anyone kill that buzz.
The only thing that could make it better was birthday girl from last week suddenly reappearing. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, those freckles and that red hair, or how they’d gone slow and gentle after quick and dirty, and how she’d ridden him like a carnival ride the time after that.
He wondered absently if she’d been watching tonight. A chick who’d known his stats had to be seriously into rugby. He hoped she’d seen it, because a part of him had been playing for her.
The team moved into the locker room. The post-match, on-field television interviews were done, the victory laps had been completed, the fan merchandise had been signed. Now it was time to celebrate. But all Kyle could think about was how falling asleep with Val in his arms had been the perfect end to a sexy workout.
And how bitterly disappointing it had been to wake and find she’d done a runner.
She had left her purple thong behind, but short of squiring it around Manly on a velvet cushion, he didn’t know how to find her. All he had was her first name, the fact she was ranga, and that she’d apparently known the guy behind the bar quite well. He didn’t know if she was from the area or even if her name actually was Val.
It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had given him a false name.
But the bartender had also called her Val that night, and when he’d gone back to try and pump the guy for info, he’d been told to leave Val the hell alone. It hadn’t been particularly helpful, but Kyle had no reason to doubt that Val was a Val.
The locker room was its usual hub of activity post-game. Players and officials and members of the medical team and media all coming and going, the door wide-open for easy access. Their win ensured the mood was jovial, and Kyle was enjoying a beer and the edge of excitement that always infiltrated the winning locker room.
He looked around for Griff to talk to him. To thank him. There would be time enough for performance analysis in the coming days. Right now he just wanted to thank the man for the last two weeks and assure Griff any reservations he had were unfounded. And damn it, maybe, just maybe, there’d be a glint of something in his eyes. Some kind of recognition of Kyle’s talent.
He didn’t expect a medal or even special treatment, but he did crave a connection with the man he’d hero-worshipped since he’d been a kid.
“Where’s Coach at?” he asked Donovan Bane, the big half-Maori guy who could plough through a pack with startling power and efficiency, a contrast to the photo on the inside of his locker of his daughter, then eight years old, braiding his hair.
“He’ll be in his office watching the tapes.”
Kyle blinked. “Already?” Surely the man took an hour off to have a beer and celebrate his team’s win with them?
Dono nodded, his expression grave. “Yep.”
“Okay.” Well…in that case, he’d go to the mountain.
Shirtless and sweaty, the cleats on the bottom of his shoes clacking on the cement floor, Kyle stepped out into the bustling corridor that lead past the locker room. To his right it led to the stadium, to his left were several offices for the medical, admin, and coaching staff.
A flash of red hair tucked up under a Sydney Smoke cap caught his eye and kicked him hard in the chest. He reached for the owner, wearing jeans and a Smoke jersey, before he even knew what he was doing, turning her—instinctively he knew she was female—to face him.
“Val?”
Unforgiving fluro lights from above turned eyes that had been a clear hazel the other night to a muddier shade and hinted at the freckles, which were now mostly concealed. Some kind of gloss shone on her lips, accentuating the contours of a mouth that looked reddened from being out in the cold for the last couple of hours.
Christ…she was fucking beautiful.
His heart thumped in his chest. A surge of triumph similar to what he’d just experienced out on the field flowed through his veins.
“It is you.”
She licked her lips as her gaze flicked over his shoulder, like she was trying to see past him into the locker room, before returning her attention to his face. “Kyle.” She shook gently out of his grasp and didn’t exactly looked thrilled to see him, but he didn’t care—he’d found her.
“Jesus…what are you doing back here?” She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, halting her before she got it out. “Oh Christ, I don’t care, I’m just pleased you are. I went back to the bar to try and get Chuckers to tell me where you worked or lived or even your last name, but he wasn’t very helpful.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You did?”
“I did. The man threatened to throw me out.” He grinned at the memory. He’d been plenty pissed off at the time, but despite that, he’d been pleased to know Val had people who looked out for her.
“At least he didn’t pull his shotgun.”
Kyle laughed, still not believing the evidence of his eyes. God, this Saturday night had ramped up from awesome to spectacular. “Did you see the game?”
Another flick of her gaze over his shoulder before it was back on him. “Yes.” She was nervous, like she’d been the other night, but she smiled at him then, and he was back in that bar with her, playing secret agents. “You were on fire.”
Her compliment totally went to his head. And his dick. And he couldn’t keep his hands off her any longer. She was smiling at him, and it’d been too long, and she was here.
He grabbed her hip, hauled her forward, her Smoke jersey cool against the heat of his chest as he kissed her long and hard. Her hands pushed briefly against his naked chest, then they stopped, and she melted against him, a little whimper at the back of her throat escaping as a full-throated moan.
His hands slid to her ass to stop her melting away, pressing her close to a groin that was already stirring like Pavlov’s dog. She smelled incredible and tasted better than he remembered, and fucking A he was dragging her home tonight and picking right up where they left off.
There was a thing on at Tanner’s—the Smoke’s skipper—but he could blow it off. Or maybe she’d come with him?
He wasn’t aware of the hush that had descended in the corridor or the locker room behind him. He was only aware of Val. The press of her, the taste of her, the pertness of her ass cheeks in his hands. And his own body. The thick, loud thud of his heart banging in his chest and reverberating through his ears, the harsh catch of his breath as he tried to supply enough oxygen to his brain and kiss the hell out of her at the same time.
“Leighton, if you ever want to play rugby again for the Smoke or any other team in the southern hemisphere, you better take your hands off my daughter’s ass immediately.”
Kyle froze as dread slid down his spine slick as sweat. My daughter? What the fuck? His hands fell from her ass as Val tore her mouth away with a muttered curse, stepping out of his arms. He stared at her, his heartbeat galloping madly. Now he was aware of the silence in the corridor and from the formerly raucous locker room behind him. He was also aware of about a dozen very hostile eyes burning into a spot between his shoulder blades.
He supposed he should be addressing Griff, but he couldn’t think beyond the incredible revelation. Val was Griffin King’s daughter? Val, who he’d known for less than one hour when he’d taken her to his bed and done…
Crap. He didn’t even want to think about the things he’d done to her. The things he’d fantasised about doing to her again, should their paths ever cross.
And here she was, eyes downcast, not even able to meet his gaze. “You’re his daughter?”
What a fucking idiot he’d been.
She peeped up at him from under the brim of the cap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He gaped at her. She was sorry? He had ignorance on his side…what was her excuse?
“The two of you. My office.” Griff’s voice could have frozen lava, and Kyle had thought he’d already heard the entire range of Griff’s pissed off. “Now.”
Kyle followed Val into the office, excruciatingly aware of the blatant curiosity they’d left behind in the corridor. Aware, too, of how she wore the Smoke jersey tucked in, which gave him a bird’s-eye view of how her skinny jeans clung to her hips and thighs and, god help him, her ass.
An ass that was so off-limits it might as well have belonged to a Kardashian.
He’d been with the Smoke for two weeks, and one of the first things he’d learned from the team was the coach’s daughter was strictly untouchable. It had seemed a straightforward kind of rule, one he didn’t have any issue with.
Obviously he should have enquired further as to who she was, in case he’d somehow accidently sleep with her.
Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder she’d known so much about his stats and his career…
Griff was standing behind his messy desk, arms folded, glaring at both of them, his jaw tight, his mouth a grim slash. They stood next to each other on the opposite side of his desk. Kyle opened his mouth to apologise. This was going to be an uncomfortable conversation—trying to defuse it before it even started seemed like a good strategy.
But Val beat him to it.
“I can explain.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Valerie.”
If anything, Griff’s jaw got tighter, and Kyle seriously worried it might shatter.
“It wasn’t Kyle’s fault. He didn’t know who I was when I went home with him—”
Griff’s fist smashed down on the desk. “I am not,” he roared, “interested in hearing the nitty-gritty.”
“Of course you’re not,” she yelled back. “You’ve never been interested in anything to do with me, so why should this be any different?”
“Valerie, this is neither the time nor the place to—”
“To what?” she demanded.
Griff glanced at Kyle, then back at his daughter. “Air family grievances.”
She snorted and then gave a laugh that sounded almost hysterical to Kyle’s ears. “That would imply we’re actually a family.”
Griff ignored his daughter. “Whatever’s going on between you two,” he said, his gaze boring into Kyle’s, “it ends now.”
Kyle didn’t need to be Freud to see how much Griff’s snub had hurt Val and, despite the fact she’d ruthlessly slept with him while concealing her identity, for god knew what reason, he hated to see her hurt.
“Sir.” Kyle had called Griff Coach since day one, but this seemed like an occasion for sir.
“Or what?” Val jumped in before Kyle could continue. Two high spots of colour stained her cheeks, and her freckles were more prominent beneath her makeup. “Are you going to ground me?”
“Or he”—Griff snapped, jabbing a finger in Kyle’s direction—“sits on the bench the rest of the season.”
Kyle blinked. What? Griff was going to bench him?
Great. Just great. Perfect.
“Well that would be a monumentally stupid thing to do, considering his stats and the fact he’s a bloody genius with the ball.”
At another time her compliment may well have gone to Kyle’s head. It was certainly having an effect on his little head, which hadn’t really calmed down from the pash in the corridor, despite the gravity of the situation.
It was such a fucking wild card.
Griff ploughed on, ignoring his daughter and her coaching advice for a second time. “I don’t dictate to you who you can see, Val.”
“No, that would mean you actually cared.”
There wasn’t any anger in her words this time, just injury. The weight of them dropped like boulders on Griff’s desk, and the coach shut his eyes briefly. Not even the most obtuse man could miss the thick edge of bitterness and hurt in her voice.
Kyle’s heart went out to Val. Crap. And he thought his family was fucked up. But he never doubted he was loved. That they cared.
He felt a little sorry for Griff. He’d learned enough about his coach these last couple of weeks to know that he didn’t do messy, emotional stuff, and Val was bleeding feelings all over his office. Feelings obviously all wrapped up in their complicated father/daughter history.
Griff continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “I only dictate who you can’t. There are plenty of other men in the world, I’m only asking you to stay away from the few who play professional rugby.”
“So you can pay as little attention to me as possible? I’ve got news for you, Dad, mission already accomplished.”
Griff shoved a hand through his mane of wild, tangled hair as if he finger-combed it often. There were red highlights amidst the golden strands. “Oh, you want my attention? You keep yanking this”—He jabbed his finger at Kyle again—“guy’s chain and I’ll have you banned from Henley. How’s that for attention?”
Kyle felt Val’s gasp all the way down to his toes, and his eyes widened at what he didn’t think was an idle threat. She seemed to crumple for a second or two, her hand pressed to her stomach, her shoulders slumping, and he glanced at her, quickly prepared to pull her to him if she broke down.
But she recovered before his eyes. The atmosphere in the room shifting from injured to angry to downright ominous in a matter of seconds. Val practically vibrated with rage.
He could tell she was too pissed off to cry.
She shook her head and gave a bitter half laugh. “Gee, Dad, if I’d known all it would take for you to care enough to ban me was to fuck”—Kyle winced at the deliberate emphasis on the very deliberate word—“one of your precious players, I would have screwed the whole team a long time ago.”
She whirled away in a blur of red hair as her cap flew off her head. She didn’t stop to pick it up, she just stormed out without a backward glance, the door crashing behind them.
The slam went straight through Kyle, who turned back to find Griff staring at the door. “Sir.”
Griff held up his finger and shook his head, shooting Kyle a look he’d already learned meant shut the fuck up now. Which was probably just as well. He had no idea what to say to the man who was more father right now than coach.
After long, silent moments, Griff sat down in possibly the world’s most battered chair, his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, they were bleak and uncompromising. “I need your word that you will stay away from my daughter.”
Fuck.
Kyle held his hands out in an appealing gesture. “Look… Coach, I—”
“Your. Word.”
Griff was deadly serious. He didn’t lay out the consequences. He didn’t have to. Kyle knew from what Griff wasn’t saying that they would be dire. The man, as evidenced by the fight with his daughter, didn’t pull his punches, didn’t make half-assed threats.
He sincerely doubted Griff would be able to bench him for a season. The higher-ups, not to mention the fans, would have something to say about rugby’s most exciting new player on the sidelines for the rest of the comp. But a coach could promote or torpedo a player’s career in one big splash or, if he wanted, in a hundred small, quiet, discreet ways.
Did he think Griff King would lower himself to that? No. But still… Fuck.
It wasn’t like he and Val had a relationship, anyway. She hadn’t been honest about who she was, or the fact she was crossing a line she obviously knew her father did not want her to cross.
Had she deliberately used him? Had he been some kind of giant middle finger to her father? It sure as hell felt that way right about now.
He swallowed as he crossed his fingers behind his back. “You have my word.”