Hooked: A Stepbrother Romance (4 page)

Hooker
.

I never imagined Coach would make me hooker.

I hope I don’t let him down.

Johnnie’s Diner must’ve been the last place in the city to still use incandescent lighting. As far as Johnnie was concerned, fluorescent lights had been brought to earth by Lucifer himself.

What can I say? The man did not appreciate change. Besides, after a long day under buzzing CFL bulbs I usually was inclined to agree with him.

Not this morning, though. One look at Simon Ferguson illuminated by the warm glow of an incandescent bulb, and I was desperately wishing for a sterile blue glare to mute his features. As it was, he looked gorgeous. His chiseled cheekbones were highlighted by the darkness of his hair, a blanket of stubble on his chin complementing his masculinity. His body was hard, full of sharp angles and thick muscles.

I shivered, realizing that there was no way in hell I could go in. Not with him there, no way. I’d just have to skip my morning coffee with Johnnie. I had no intention of fraternizing with Simon, even if he was technically my stepbrother. He could get whatever it was he wanted from our deal, and I’d take what I needed.

His money.

It would keep the center running, and once he was gone,
then
I could give the kids new vests. Ones that hadn’t been tainted by him, ones that didn’t scream “I came here to buy you” in big bold British letters. I’d buy us all the equipment and shiny things we’d been missing out on, and besides, we could always have the place professionally sanitized after he left.

Yeah. This fall was going to be
great
.

Assuming I made it through this summer.

Because clearly, summer was going to
suck
.

I sat on the bench, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Everyone would be here soon, though I wasn’t expecting Simon for quite a while. His early appearance was disruptive, but I had to put on my best face. I needed to stay focused, and remember that I was doing this for the rec center and all the poor families who needed it.

Taking another deep breath, I cleared my mind and focused on the rise and fall of my stomach. Or at least I tried to. I’d been decent at meditating ever since learning it in college, but apparently Simon was my kryptonite in more ways than one.

Visions of last night flashed across my closed eyelids, filling my head completely. Simon was an ass, and I couldn’t afford to lose against him. That’s why I
had to
spend half the evening watching rugby videos on YouTube. Taking in the rules, learning how to teach it, studying the very best players and their moves.

Of course, it was just an obnoxious coincidence that Simon
was
one of those best players. Probably
the
best. I’d had no choice but to stare at his toned ass all night long, trying to burn every little detail in my mind.

Details about the game, I mean. Not his ass.

It had been exhausting, but I’d been unable to sleep afterwards all the same. Now, with half an hour before training began, the man was stopping me from meditating as well. Great.

Bulging shoulders under rose-emblazoned jerseys.

Thick thighs straining up the field in victorious dashes.

Confident smiles a mile long.

Adoring fans shouting his name.

I could feel my fingernails biting into my palms as I fought a losing battle to pretend Simon Ferguson didn’t exist. It was infuriating. With an annoyed grunt, I snapped my eyes open and gave up on meditating.

Mistake. Big mistake. Now I didn’t need to imagine him, because he was right in front of me. Through the window, I could see his bulky silhouette looking in my direction. I barely managed to avert my eyes, suddenly fascinated by my running shoes and my fingernails.

Damned if I was going to be caught red-handed staring at Simon. No way.

“Hi, Coach.”

The look on Theo’s face brought me back to hard reality.
 

“Hi, Theo. How are you, today?”

“Not bad.”

As difficult as last night had been for me, it was obvious he’d had an even worse time. I did my best to maintain a pleasant smile, even as I winced internally and wondered what the hell I could say to him. The truth was, I
didn’t
know what he was going through.

My own youth had been wonderful, for the most part. Simon’s father had married my mother and adopted me when I was small, and things had been great for the most part. At least until Simon made his grand entrance, spending his first summer with us thirteen years ago. That had been hard, though not as hard as what some of the rec center’s regulars had to deal with. I opened my bag and gave Theo a cookie, hoping it wasn’t the only breakfast he’d get this morning. The badly-hidden gratitude on his face told me it was.

At least I’d never gone hungry.

Half an hour later, a couple more players arrived with sleepy eyes. I opened up the bag of vests with a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. My plan was immature as hell, but there was no way I was going to let Simon win round one.

Thirteen years without as much as a phone call, and
now
he wants to be my dad?

To join his perfect little life, so I can see how much better it was without me?

Without Mom?

He can burn in hell, and take his new fucking family with him.

“Get ready to warm up and run around the field,” she called, her voice resonating through the early morning air. With a whistle around her neck, ball cap atop her head, and binder in hand, Emilia looked every inch the coach. All around her, players were dispersing on the field, dragging their feet or sauntering their way around the edge.

I came up next to her, noting the way her nose wrinkled in distaste at my approach.

“I thought we’d agreed to start practice at eight,” I began, trying my best to keep any hint of reproach from my voice.

Emilia rolled her eyes, not even looking at me. “Let’s not pretend, Simon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Acting civil with one another. It’s all just an act; we both know that we are far beyond politeness and manners. Frankly, I don’t want to waste my time acting like we’re colleagues. We’re not, and we never will be,” she said, spinning around and yelling at a cluster of stragglers to start running.

“All right,” I answered, doing my best to sound icy and terse rather than despondent. Hostility always was my best camouflage. Pulling a ball from one of the bags, I called out to the group who’d managed to pull ahead in the run.

Emilia’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Leaning in close to her ear, I whispered my answer. “Following your suggestion. Being an asshole.”

“I didn’t tell you to take the initiative. You’re working under
my
command here, Simon.”

“Working with you—”
 

“—
Under
me,” Emilia corrected, cutting me off.

“Whatever,” I said, staring straight into her deep green eyes. “Working alongside you would require being your colleague. Which is it going to be, Coach Jones? You can’t have it both ways.”

“Oh nice, asshole,” Emilia spat, snatching her whistle and shattering my eardrums with its shrill noise. I took the opportunity to lie low, sitting on the bench and observing how everyone reacted to the situation and Emilia’s sudden drill-sergeant routine. She was explaining — shouting, really — the deal we’d struck, still making it a point to avoid introducing me even as several curious eyes looked me over.

There was a wave of grumbling and raised eyebrows at the mere mention of rugby, until a tall girl with a distinctive multi-hued orange mohawk raised her hand.

“Yes, Shauna?”

“What do you mean, rugby?”

“It’s a team sport. You know — massive guys scrumming it out on green fields, kicking past H-shaped goals, tackling each other, acting like Vikings terrorizing the coast….”

I burst out laughing, even as Shauna’s expression shifted from bewildered to outright concern. “Um, I’m not so sure about all this,” she said.

“Don’t listen to her,” I interrupted. Emilia shot daggers at me with her eyes. “She’s exaggerating. A little. Besides, we’ll be dividing the teams by gender, keeping you safe from rampaging Norsemen.”

After I finished my explanation, Emilia’s expression changed. The open hostility vanished, her eyes sparkling with barely-contained amusement even as her lips curled upwards. It was the same look she’d had earlier, when she was giving out the old vests.

I shivered.

Half an hour later, everyone was sorted into one of two circles, passing an oval ball around. I could see the tension in Emilia’s small frame as she walked around the players, trying to keep the most rebellious ones in line. Clearly, no one here was overly enthused about having to play rugby.

Rummaging through my bag, I pulled out a can of spray paint. A couple teens eyed me with curiosity, though they didn’t say anything. Nobody had really spoken to me at all; they’d noticed Emilia’s refusal to introduce me and were snubbing me accordingly. I wondered when the happy, smiling girl I used to know had turned so cruel, but I already knew the answer.

She’d learned it from me.

I put that thought out of my mind as I sprayed two blue lines down the field, a hundred feet long and joined together at a right angle. Emilia’s closed-off face glared at me in suspicion as I went back to my bag and pulled out a can of red paint, drawing two more lines and forming a large square in the dry grass.

By now, I’d drawn enough attention to myself that just about everyone was staring. I waved my right arm at a nearby group of players, projecting my voice in their general direction.

“You lot, get in there,” I shouted, gesturing towards the square. “When I call a color, you’ll try to score a try below that color’s line.”

“What’s ‘scoring a try?’” called a voice, and I smiled. It was the girl with the orange mohawk, the one Emilia had referred to by name earlier. Despite her best efforts to keep me in the dark, I still had a chance to make a connection.

“Thanks for asking, Shauna. Think of it like football. I’m going to give everyone a ball, and you need to run with it. Get it behind the line as quickly as you can.”