Chapter 10
“Oz! Over here!”
“This way, Oz!”
“What the—” Oz cut himself off just in time. Kojo was giving him a lift and the West African hated swearing.
Kojo shook his head as he steered the car past the knot of press photographers and reporters at the entrance to Skyline’s training complex. “These people, they have no shame,” he pronounced in his thick French accent.
His fellow defender parked, and as soon as they got out of the car the frenzy increased.
“Oz, do the police have any leads?”
“Are you afraid to be in your home?”
“Is it true that Citizens First is sending you death threats?”
“Do you plan to fast during Ramadan?”
“What do you think about the growing hostility toward the Muslim community?”
He waved Kojo inside, shouldered his sports bag and walked toward the clamoring crowd. Microphones bobbed and cameras flashed, and one photographer leaned so far over the red-and-white boom pole Oz thought he would fall flat on his face.
“I’m glad to see you’re all taking an interest in me,” he began, the group hushing as they clicked on their tape recorders. “I’ve been in Atlanta for a few years now, was a CSL Player of the Year twice, and have scored more goals than any other Skyline defender, but I never seem to hear from any of you. To be honest, I even considered firing my publicist.”
He offered them the flash of a smile. A few of the reporters piped up with questions but he continued, “I assume you’re all here to discuss my footballing ascendance and Skyline’s outstanding season, right? Surely it hasn’t taken a hate crime to spark your interest in someone who plays the most popular sport in the world.”
“So you’re confirming it was a hate crime?” a reporter lobbed back, setting off another wave of shouted questions.
Oz drew breath to launch into a long-winded tirade on the lack of diverse sports reporting in America and its impact on future generations of soccer players, but before he could begin a member of Skyline’s PR department arrived at his elbow, breathless from her jog across the parking lot.
“Hi everyone, thank you, but Oz is late for training. Later this morning Skyline’s press office will release a statement regarding the act of vandalism carried out against one of our players. Any further questions or requests for interviews should be directed through your normal channel of contact with the team.”
She tugged Oz away with her hand on his forearm.
“I know,” she acknowledged before he could speak. “I heard you, and I don’t disagree. Do you know why I told them that last point about normal channels of contact? Because none of them have any, and I have piles of unused credentials for Skyline press conferences to prove it.”
The PR assistant did her best to pacify him, but by the time he entered the dressing room his mood was black. It didn’t help that all his teammates abandoned their conversations and rushed up to him the minute he stepped through the door.
“Damn, Oz, I’m so sorry. I should’ve walked in with you, or at least waited for you to give me the all clear. I went to bed as soon as I got home so it was only this morning—”
Oz raised a hand to halt Deon’s verbal gushing. “Don’t apologize. Neither of us could’ve known what was inside the house.”
“So it’s true. They were all the way inside your house.” Normally jovial Laurent shuddered. “Could you sleep there last night?”
Oz shrugged, unwilling to reveal that he’d managed only three hours of uneasy sleep during a night mostly spent pacing from one brightly lit room to the next. “It’s still my home. If I’d put the alarm on this probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“This guy? I find.” Guedes, one of Skyline’s two Brazilian defenders, smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand to communicate what his limited English apparently couldn’t.
“I appreciate that.” Oz patted Guedes on one of his enormous arms and moved to his locker, ending the conversation.
His teammates fell into uncharacteristic silence, but his thoughts shouted louder than ever as he changed into his training kit. Was he not taking this seriously enough? He never expected the press would turn up. Maybe it was a slow news day. Or maybe they were jumping on the bandwagon. There had been a few high-profile incidents of anti-Muslim action by Citizens First followers recently, and although technically no one had claimed the break-in at his house, maybe the press hoped they could link this local event to a broader national theme. Just a week ago a handful of self-proclaimed Citizens First members had burned down a Muslim family’s house in Michigan. Maybe the Atlanta media outlets were betting on a similar escalation against him and wanted to get on the story early.
Which cycled him back to his first thought. Was he not taking this seriously enough?
The training session was short and light since they’d played a match the day before. After a warm-up they ran a drill designed to quicken their reactions to teammates’ instructions. The full squad stood in two parallel lines, facing each other, with small, fluorescent discs on the floor between each pair. Oz found himself opposite Colin Russell, a defensive midfielder who never started but often came on as a substitute. Ross, the head trainer, shouted instructions about where to place their hands—ears, eyes, mouth—before randomly adding go as a signal to grab the disc. Whichever player grabbed the disc first won, and moved on to face another winner until the exercise came down to two finalists.
Oz was the reigning champion, a title only occasionally threatened by Uruguayan winger Nico Silva. There was a reason his Fantasy CSL player profile had a full ten points for agility. This drill was made for him.
They crouched in their positions, forearms on their thighs.
Colin winked across the short space between them. “I’m glad I got you. Means I can sit out the rest of this.”
“Try to give me some competition. It’s lonely at the top.”
Ross blew his whistle, then shouted in his Liverpool accent, “Mouth! Nose! Mouth! Go!”
Oz snatched at the disc, then sat back in astonishment when his hand came up empty.
Colin leapt up, staring in astonishment at the disc in his hand. “I won. I won! I beat the Wizard!”
Oz stretched his legs in front of him, joining his teammates’ applause. Then he made his way to the sideline and, for the first time he could remember, sat out the rest of the drill.
His performance went downhill as the training session progressed, until Ross pulled him aside.
“The boss wants to talk to you, and you look like you could use a week of sleep. Hit the showers, speak to the big man, and then head home.”
Oz didn’t argue. He trudged into the empty changing room and showered quickly, missing the camaraderie of his teammates. He dressed, made his way to Roland’s office, and quickly scrolled through the notifications on his phone while he waited for the manager’s PA, Michelle, to give him the nod to go in.
He flicked through the usual series of comments on his Instagram account. Links to porn sites, comments in Arabic, fans imploring him to transfer to one team or another.
His thumb paused above the screen as he read the next one. The username was AU5ONIU5, the comment an address. It took him a second to understand what it meant, and when it did a wave of nausea nearly dropped him to his knees.
The door opened and Roland leaned out, gesturing for him to enter. “Sorry, got stuck on a call.”
Oz followed him into the familiar office on shaky legs, then stopped short as he saw the person seated in front of Roland’s desk.
“I asked Kate to join us,” Roland explained as he took his own seat. “We should make a plan for the away match in Charlotte on Friday.”
“Okay.” He inclined his head in greeting to Kate as he eased into the other chair. An image of last night’s kiss lodged at the front of his mind. He hoped his arousal wasn’t as obvious as it felt.
He stole a glance at her, then wished he hadn’t. What was it about her? Why did he want to rip off her ill-fitting suit? Why did she threaten twenty-seven years of ironclad self-control so badly?
“Unless you suggest otherwise, Kate, I think we should keep the same protocol as in Boise. We’ll leave it to you to subcontract local security personnel, and if at all possible, we’d like you to travel with the team again.”
She nodded her agreement. “I don’t think last night’s incident should change anything, except to remind us to be vigilant at all times.”
“Good.” Roland turned to him. “Anything from your side?”
“Just this.” He opened the AU5ONIU5 comment on his phone and passed it to Roland.
His manager squinted at the screen, frowned, and swore colorfully in Swedish as he passed the phone to Kate.
She looked between the two of them. “What does it mean?”
“It’s the address of the hotel the team booked in Charlotte,” Roland explained, removing his glasses and rubbing his hand over his eyes. “And the name is a reference to—”
“I told her.” Oz shifted in his seat. “It’s not the first time I’ve gotten a message from a similar username.”
“And you didn’t tell me? Özkan,” Roland chided, with more weariness than anger. “We should move the team to a new hotel as discreetly as possible. I’ll ask Michelle to work on it this afternoon.”
“I’ll liaise with her to inform both hotels of the issue, and do what we can to keep the switch confidential,” Kate suggested. “In the meantime, Oz, can I borrow your phone for the day? I’d like our cyber security guy to take a look at it, see if he can find out anything.”
“I guess, but I’ll need it for the next couple of hours. Nico is giving me a lift to the dealership to pick up my car, but he has a physio appointment so if there’s any delay I’ll need to call someone else to bring me back.”
“I’ll take you,” she offered. “And I’ll follow you home. Give the security system another sweep to make sure everything’s working as it should.”
A twenty-minute drive in her car, after which she would be inside his house. He swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Thanks to you both,” Roland said, concluding the meeting. Kate rose and left the office, and as they heard her speak to Michelle, Roland grabbed Oz’s arm.
“Don’t give her a hard time,” his manager instructed.
“I won’t,” Oz promised. He intended to give her a whole lot more.
* * * *
Kate gritted her teeth and pressed the accelerator, fighting to keep up with Oz on the drive to his house from the dealership. His high-performance car sailed down the highway while her third-hand subcompact shuddered if she pushed the speedometer over sixty. Occasionally he deliberately slowed to wait for her, only to shoot off as soon as she caught up.
Following his sleek, white Mercedes was difficult and annoying—and sexy as hell. He drove as he seemed to live, with precision, control, and a muted impatience that hinted at the full-force wildness that made him so fast and aggressive on the pitch.
She imagined his hand on the gearstick, elegantly yet mercilessly putting the car through its paces. His feet instinctively, smoothly working the pedals. His expression cool and calm, unmoved by the hum and purr and roar of the engine.
They stopped at a light and she pressed her thighs together, desperate for some relief from the pressure that had built between her legs from the moment he slid into her car at the training ground.
He had shoved the seat all the way back but still dominated the small space. Her heart thudded as she maneuvered out of the parking lot and toward the dealership, every breath filling her lungs with his eucalyptus scent.
He said little on the drive, apart from the occasional direction. She was too nervous to carry the conversation. Her fingers stayed tight on the wheel, paranoid she’d say or do something to shatter the strange, sensual harmony that seemed to have settled between them.
“I was surprised when I saw this car at my house last night,” he said eventually.
“Really? Why?”
“I assumed you drove a pickup truck.”
Her cheeks heated at what she took to be his insinuation that she was some country girl from the sticks, and because she intended to buy a pickup if she ever saved enough money. “What does that mean?”
He glanced over, startled, as if it had only just occurred to him that she might take offense. “I meant you seem practical. And you’d want a useful vehicle, not a pretty one.”
“Oh.” She put on her blinker, grateful the dealership was in sight. “Well, this is what I can afford.”
She winced as she recalled that statement, following Oz through the light and down the street toward his neighborhood. She was so attracted to him, and she let stupid shit like that roll out of her mouth?
She followed him into his driveway. She coached herself as they both waited for the garage door to open.
Go inside, check his alarm system, get the hell out. You cannot be with this man. Don’t let your horny-ass heart overrule your head.
Oz pulled into the garage and she parked behind him. She waited while he unlocked the door to the house, then disarmed the alarm that gave a warning squeal as they stepped inside.
“Glad to see you’re using the system,” she remarked, quickly scrolling through the panel screen to check the history. “Have you had any trouble with—”
He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her against the wall, his lips finding hers, his kiss hot and impatient.
Well, shit.
Her foolish, horny-ass heart won out as she flung her arms around his neck and drew him closer, his body flat and hard against hers. No beer belly, no exaggerated gym muscles—he was lean and wiry and perfectly proportioned.
He raised his hand to the nape of her neck and threaded his fingers through her hair. She parted her lips and he responded hungrily, his tongue finding hers, retreating, then seeking it again with renewed vigor. He tasted like mint and smelled like eucalyptus and he was so exciting, so different from anyone she’d been with that she moaned in sheer delight.
Ruddy color stained his cheeks when he pulled back. “Over here.”
He led her to the white-leather sofa where last night he’d sat with his head in his hands, shocked to silence by the act of hate committed on his property. She pushed that image of him from her mind and focused on this one instead—the sexy tilt of his mouth as he smiled, the evidence of her touch in his slightly mussed hair, the dark shimmer in his eyes as he motioned her down beside him.
She hesitated above the pristine piece of furniture. “I feel like I’m going to get this thing dirty just by looking at it.”
“Is that a promise?” He took her hand and tugged her into his lap, then replaced his mouth on hers.
She let her shoes slide off her feet, hiked up her too-big pencil skirt around her thighs and straddled him, steadying herself with her palms flat on his chest.
They both groaned as the bulge in his jeans met the cotton of her panties. Oz shoved her suit coat off her shoulders and ran his thumbs down her arms, which were bare in the sleeveless, fake-silk top she wore underneath. He squeezed her biceps, then broke the kiss so he could study them in greater detail.
“How much do you bench?”
She rolled her eyes to mask a wave of self-consciousness. “If I had a dollar for every time I was asked that in the Army I wouldn’t be fighting with professional athletes about where to install their alarm panels.”
“Seriously.”
“I don’t know. A hundred. And ten.”
“How much do you weigh? Don’t answer that. Sorry, I went into locker-room mode.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied dryly, but her heart sank. She was becoming one of the guys again. He was probably about to suggest they skip the sex and watch sports instead.
He lowered his head and brushed a kiss over her biceps, then trailed his lips up the inside of her arm, around her shoulder and along her neck.
“I’ll have to up my game in the gym,” he murmured, his mouth behind her ear. “I can’t have you beating me on the pool table and the bench press.”
Her eyes drifted shut as he kissed her jaw, her cheek, then found his way back to her mouth. As she opened for him his hand gripped her waist, slid up her ribs and settled below her bra, his thumb daring to brush the underwire.
She pulled back and leveled her eyes on his as she unbuttoned her top and tossed it aside. Quickly she unclasped her bra and let the straps slip down her arms, then dropped it on her discarded shirt.
Oz’s eyes widened as his gaze fell to her breasts. “Wow. Okay.”
“Okay?” she asked in mock offense. She knew she wasn’t exactly voluptuous, but what she had was perky and well-shaped.
“Good. Great. Excellent. Amazing. I’m running out of English words.”
“Save the Swedish for later.” She grabbed his wrists and brought his hands to her breasts, unable to stifle a moan as his warm palms covered her taut nipples.
He lowered his left hand and replaced it with his mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut as the tip of his tongue teased her sensitive flesh and she ground against him, desperate to relieve the ache between her legs.
She moved out of his reach and put her hand between them, slowly lowering the zipper of his jeans. He gripped her hips, his eyes never leaving her face.
She shoved aside denim and cotton to find hot, rigid flesh. He was bigger than she expected. Thicker. Longer. She purred her approval, pushing her fist down his shaft.
He groaned, an unbidden, rough sound, as he shifted on the couch. She repeated the motion and he pressed his hand over his eyes, baring his teeth.
She smiled, enjoying her control over this tightly self-controlled man. She stroked him again, and again, and again, until he arched forward and stopped her with a hand on her wrist.
“You’re destroying me,” he told her gruffly, angling to press a kiss to her neck.
“You’re doing some damage, too.” She guided his hand between her thighs. He slipped his fingers beneath her panties and exhaled raggedly.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his middle finger gently probing her slick sex. “It’s not even lunchtime.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich afterward.” She propped her hands on his shoulders as she kissed his forehead. “Go, get protection. I promise I’ll be naked on this fancy-pants couch by the time you’re back.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Really? I figured you’d have plenty. Let me check my purse, I may have—”
“Wait.” He pulled her against him, settling his hands at the small of her back. “I mean, we can’t have sex. Not today.”
Uncertainty drew her brows together. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Have sex.”
The pieces slowly came together in her mind. “Like, you’re celibate?”
“Not exactly.”
She sighed, growing more exasperated and uncomfortable by the minute. “Explain.”
“I’ve never had sex.”
It took her a few seconds to realize her mouth hung open. She snapped it closed. “Ever?”
“Never ever.”
Comprehension staggered and struggled through her thickening haze of emotions. Self-consciousness. Humiliation. Unbearable, painful awkwardness.
She snatched up her suit jacket from the arm of the couch and pulled it over her shoulders, holding it together over her breasts.
“Don’t,” he began, then stopped himself. His expression shifted from reluctance to resignation, and she knew she had to leave.
“It’s not a religious thing, or a hang-up, or anything like that,” he explained, his tone increasingly defensive. “I decided to wait until I was ready. I’m not ready. And I won’t apologize for that.”
“I’m not asking you to apologize. I wish you’d spelled out your expectations a little earlier, though.”
“I’m not sure either of us saw this going so far, so fast.”
“Letting a woman strip half-naked and grind on your lap is usually a pretty good sign that sex is in the cards,” she replied testily. She climbed off the couch and gathered up her clothes.
“Excuse me for not presuming your consent,” he shot back, zipping his jeans and rising to his feet. “As far as I’m aware, the only signal that gives the go-ahead for sex is saying so.”
She bit her lip to cover a surge of tenderness. She’d never been with a man who said something like that. Hell, she’d rarely been with a man sober. Now she’d found one who was respectful and thoughtful and he was a goddamn virgin. “I have to go,” she muttered, shoving her feet into her shoes and stumbling to the front door.
Oz was right behind her. “Kate, stop. Please,” he implored, his tone softening. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, okay? You don’t have to go.”
She shook her head. “I really should get back to the office.”
He slid his forefinger beneath her chin, prompting her to meet his gaze. “What changed? We were having fun.”
“I’m embarrassed,” she admitted, heat crawling up her cheeks. “I threw myself at you, and if I’d known—”
“I threw myself at you first,” he reminded her, his hands linking around her waist.
“I guess.” But his attempt to console her only made her feel worse. She’d been proud of her lack of inhibition and her sexual confidence—two things she’d always struggled with. She wanted Oz to know her as a self-assured, sensual dynamo. Instead, she was back in the all-too-familiar territory of uncertainty, anxiety and regret.
“Stay. Have lunch. We’ll talk.” His thumb swept over her stomach, bare beneath her hastily pulled-on suit jacket. “Or not.”
She hesitated. He looked so good. And she was starving.
But the moment was gone. She’d be awkward and stiff if she stayed. She needed time to collect herself. If he’d waited this long, he probably wanted to wait for a relationship, and that was so far from what she could offer it was in another galaxy.
“I’m going,” she decided.
“Dressed like this?” He touched her top button. It sat high on her stomach. The jacket lapels barely covered her nipples.
“Yes.” Quickly she did up the other two buttons. It made no difference.
“I’ll enjoy imagining your drive back to the office. And hope you don’t get pulled over.”
“Thanks,” she replied, then cringed at the rigidity in her voice.
He reached around her, unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I guess I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Sure. Sounds good.” She nearly stuck out her hand to shake before she caught herself. Jesus, this wasn’t a business meeting.
“I’d tell you to call me if you want to get together before then, but you’ve got my phone.”
“Right. Of course. I’ll make sure our cyber-security guy couriers it back to you as soon as he’s done with it.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said neutrally.
She narrowed her eyes. Was he making fun of her? He wore his characteristically indecipherable expression, though it was slightly undermined by his passion-mussed hair and still-unbuttoned fly.
Whatever. She tossed an excessively upbeat farewell over her shoulder as she hurried down the porch steps and around to her car, praying none of the neighbors spotted her daring take on business attire.
She tucked into the driver’s seat, reversed down his driveway and sped along the street without noticing in which direction she’d gone. She turned the corner and pulled over halfway down the next block. Then she cut the engine and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
Regret, disappointment, humiliation, and unfulfilled lust competed for attention in her swirling thoughts. She exhaled, forcing herself to take each one in turn.
Regret. She wished she’d slowed down and presented a calmer, more contained version of herself. But would she feel the same if Oz hadn’t stopped her and they’d had sex? He certainly hadn’t minded her forward, even brazen style. She had no reason to regret. Cross that one off the list.
Disappointment. That was fair enough, frankly. She wanted to have sex with Oz, looked forward to having sex with Oz, bad idea though it was, and now it would never happen. She winced as disappointment bit even more sharply. Ouch.
Humiliation. Again, this was all down to her. Oz gave her no reason to feel embarrassed. On the contrary, he’d insinuated she could stay and get up to even more frisky behavior. She sighed. It was hard—really hard—but she had to push away the humiliation. Its roots were planted firmly in her mind and nowhere else.
Last but certainly not least, the hot pressure that still thudded between her legs. With a quick glance out of the car windows to double-check that the residential street was empty, she slipped her hand inside her suit jacket and teased her bare nipple.
Yes, just like that.
She settled back in her seat. Let her hand drop between her thighs. She thought of Oz, his clean scent, his hard body. She slipped her fingers beneath the damp fabric of her panties and rubbed slow, lingering circles against her clit.
Her eyes fell shut, her vision filling with images of him. His thick, soft, midnight-black hair. His eyes—large, hungry, shining with appreciation as he watched her. She imagined his hand in place of hers, his skillful, unhurried fingers instead of hers, his expression shifting from playful to intensely serious as he watched her breathing hasten, her mouth open, her head fall back…
She came suddenly, sharply, too briefly. She moaned her dissatisfaction as the pleasure subsided, jerked her hand up and started the engine.
She put trembling hands on the steering wheel and checked her mirrors before pulling out onto the road. That hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. And she wouldn’t get anything more.