Taming the Legend (15 page)

“No wonder this place means so much to you.”

“Yeah. Saved my life.” She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the houses across the lake. “It makes me sick to think of it being ripped down so more rich Los Angelenos can have a weekend getaway.”

He’d had no idea. Her lies made more sense now. At first he’d been shocked and angry. She’d apologized and his anger had simmered down into annoyance.
But now he understood, and the weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders. Three weeks. He had three weeks to save her camp for her. The glimpses he got of the damage he’d done made him determined to put things right.

And as he got to know the woman she’d become, he grew tempted to become more than her temporary hero.

* * *

Camila’s heartbeat was slow and steady as
she and Ash walked up the steep path to the camp, and it had nothing to do with physical fitness. She’d barely written anything by the time Ash had arrived at the dock, but she still felt lighter and freer than she had in a long time. Maybe she’d been in a confessional mood because she’d been preparing to confess her confusing feelings to the pages that kept all her secrets. She hadn’t intended
to reveal so much of her past to Ash himself, but his calm, encouraging presence had worked its magic.

The sight of his hot ass and strong thighs in running shorts hadn’t hurt, either.

But her chill quickly melted into a puddle of annoyance when they crested the bluff and she caught a glimpse of fluttering white paper on one of the trees in the distance. She hadn’t glanced in that direction
when she’d gone down to the lake, but she couldn’t miss it now. The campers had been busy overnight. “Mother trucker,” she muttered.

Ash drew back in surprise. “Did…did you just say mother
trucker?
”

“I try to keep a lid on the cursing when the camp’s occupied.” Her nostrils twitched and she gestured toward the pine trees about twenty feet away. At least, they’d looked like pine trees
the night before. Now they looked like cheap mummies wearing ill-fitting bandages. Toilet paper hung off dozens of branches on at least three trees. “They TPed the trees.”

He followed her pointer finger. “Wow. What a bunch of little arseholes. Let’s—”

“I can handle it.” She heaved a sigh. “You feel free to get back to your run or go shower or whatever. This isn’t the first time a group
has done this. In fact, I’m surprised it took them a week. It usually happens the first night a group’s here.”

She started to walk toward the toolshed behind the lodge, half expecting him to follow and half to leave her to it.

He followed. “Why are we going to the toolshed?”

“That’s where the ladder is.”

He fell into step beside her as she lifted her key ring from her pocket
and found the right one.

“And you’re getting the ladder so you can make them clean up the mess? Because, personally, I’d make them do it without the ladder. If they had to scale those trees to get to the paper, they’d never do this again.”

She unlocked the shed, stepped inside and forced herself not to think about the shed’s summertime residents—big, hairy spiders—as she lifted the ladder
from its hooks on the wall. It was taller than her, so she carefully maneuvered it through the door. “Do me a favor? There’s a roll of black trash bags and a rake in there. Can you grab those?”

He stepped in front of her and clasped the ladder, looking at her through the rungs. “Why don’t I take this instead?”

“Because the trash bags are in a box next to the bench, and spiders love boxes.”
She gently tugged the ladder away from him and called over her shoulder, “Try not to get bitten. There’s a small chance they’re black widows.”

She’d expected him to help her clean, even though she’d given him an easy out just in case he was a lazy douchebag. She’d been pretty sure he wasn’t and was gratified to see she was right. Her judgment wasn’t always so great.

But she hadn’t expected
him to work alongside her for an hour without once questioning why they were doing the manual labor instead of seeking out the guilty parties or making the whole camp get involved. So she found herself telling him. “The first time they do it, I always try to clean it up before they’re awake. I’ll quietly ask the group leaders to find an excuse to bring their groups through here this morning.
They’ll keep an eye out for anyone who looks surprised to see it spotless. That way we can try to stop them from doing it again without calling attention to the fact they did it in the first place, since they probably did it for attention.”

“I figured there was a reason.”

She shoved a handful of TP into a big black bag and hid her grin. He’d trusted her to know what she was doing. That
was stupidly reassuring.

When they’d grabbed everything they could from the ground, he climbed up the ladder. She held it steady and looked up to watch him work. Damn. Those running shorts had some roomy leg holes. She could see aaaall the way up them.

She wasn’t usually a fan of men in briefs. But then, most men didn’t have legs like Ash’s. And there was nothing brief about what he
hid in those briefs.

Her mouth went dry. Her heart picked up speed. Her breathing got a little shorter, and she was hit by memories of exploring his incredible body with as much curiosity as he’d explored hers.

He was a nice man, despite his ego. A patient and gentle man, despite the aggression inherent in his career. What would be the problem with exploring him again?

He’ll break
your heart again.

But maybe this time would be different.

His future isn’t here.

Why couldn’t it be?

Because he’s the best in the world at what he does. Everyone wants a piece of him, and he can do anything he wants. Lake Sunshine isn’t a rugby Mecca. What would he do here?

Have lots of sex with me.

Oh, God. She was seriously screwed. And, sadly, only figuratively.
Yet she just kept looking up toward self-destruction.

“Mila?”

“Hmm?” She tried to shake away the visuals, but they just kept at her. When she finally managed to make eye contact, he was grinning down at her with a gleam that said he knew exactly where her mind—and her gaze—had just been.

“Need me to spread my legs a little, or can you see all right the way they are?”

“Careful,
this ground isn’t all that flat, and you’re eight feet in the air. One little kick and the ladder could accidentally topple.”

He laughed. “Topple me right on top of you. That your game plan?”

“I don’t have a game plan.” She’d
had
one, but it involved staying away from him and, therefore, it sucked because she really wanted to…suck.

And things that rhymed with
suck.

The ladder
creaked as he climbed down it. His face had grown serious, though the teasing gleam was still there. He gripped the same rung she was holding onto, his fingers brushing hers. But, other than invading her space and making her feel suddenly very aware of every curve of her body, he didn’t touch her.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he murmured.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…messy.”

“I’ll get you a bib.”

The corner of her mouth tugged up in a half smile. “Why do you do this to me?”

“Make you randy?”

“No. Make me laugh when I don’t want to.”

“It’s the curse American women have to put up with. You’re doomed to be attracted to us Englishmen.”

“Does it work the other way around too?”

“Sadly, Englishmen are doomed to be attracted to themselves
more than anyone else. We’re quite simple creatures that way.”

Her spirits dropped, growing more serious. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Good thing for you I’m a quarter Irish. We Irishmen love you American women.”

“You’re making all this up.”

“Maybe. I guess you’ll have to go out with me tonight to find out.”

He stood there looking so enticingly disheveled with bits of
toilet paper sticking to his hair and sweaty dirt streaking his morning scruff. This was what he looked like when he woke up—well, without the TP adornments. And he was usually cleaner. But those scruffy cheeks and that seductive gaze…they were seared in her memory.

“If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for me,” he said. “This place is so quiet, it’s doing my nut in. I need to get out and
see the town. I need a restaurant instead of a cafeteria or my own cooking. If I have to eat another meal of pasta and tomato sauce, I’ll kick the legs of the ladder out from under myself next time.”

Crap. She’d been negligent. With any other member of staff, she would’ve taken him out for a meal and shown him around town. She’d been so focused on avoiding Ash that she’d forgotten her duty
of care toward him. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. There’s a fantastic Mexican place in town—Los Banditos. How does that sound?”

“Excellente.”

She grinned. “Thanks for helping me clean up.”

“My pleasure. If they do it again and I’m not around to see it, come get me. I’ll help.”

Her heart filled with feelings she didn’t want to feel. All she could do was nod. “I’ll see you later,
then.”

He reached out and brushed his fingers across her cheek to her ear, and the gentle touch sent shivers sprinting through her. But when he pulled his hand back, he held a small piece of toilet paper between two fingers. “See you later, sweetness.”

Oh, God. The pet name he’d given her in Barcelona hit a vulnerable spot in her heart. She’d been surprised by it, since at that time
in her life she was anything but sweet. He’d brought out her most tender feelings and made her feel safe expressing them. Until him, she’d never cried in front of anyone—not even Gabriel. She’d never smiled genuine smiles. She’d grown up believing that showing emotions like happiness, joy and excitement just made her vulnerable. If people knew how much she wanted things, they would have an incentive
to take them away.

Now she wanted Ash. But his casual comment about how the camp’s quietness was making him crazy gave her a stark reminder that he was just a temporary resident here—she wanted him, but he would eventually take himself away.

She had to decide what she should do with him in the meantime.

Chapter Fourteen

“Come on! Hustle, hustle!”

The girls continued their painfully slow one-mile walk-jog around the pitch while Ash shouted himself hoarse to get their arses moving. After a week as their coach he’d never had such a strong urge to beat his head against a brick wall. At least that might get their attention.

What the fuck would it take to get them motivated?
He’d shown them videos of some of the greatest matches he’d ever played in. Most of them had just yawned. Jen the Goth had shown morbid fascination in the injuries, and Tori—a precocious blonde who wore clothes so tight he worried about her circulation—had only perked up for the part where Oggie’d had his shorts ripped off and ran the length of the pitch in his very brief briefs. The only one who’d
paid any attention to the matches at all was Hannah, and she’d grilled him afterward about every rugby term the commentators had used, as if she were compiling a dictionary. His head had nearly exploded from all her questions, but at least she’d shown some interest.

He’d tried using fun games to teach them basic skills, but they’d made such a half-arsed effort that he’d ended up exhausting
himself demonstrating the drills over and over, while they’d looked bored.

He was on the verge of giving up, a feeling he’d never experienced in his life. He whistled for their attention. “Gather round!”

They sauntered toward him and stood there glaring with their arms crossed, a couple of them so red in the face he feared he might have to do CPR in a minute. Was it possible to do CPR
on more than one person at a time? He didn’t think so. He’d have to save his favorite first. Who would that be?

Right now, no one.

He was about to lay into them, but the sight of Camila approaching the pitch and sitting on the stands captured his attention. After their conversation on the dock and while they cleaned up toilet paper this morning, he hadn’t expected to see her until this
evening. He was a little surprised…and embarrassed, if he were honest. He was failing miserably at coaching her team, and he couldn’t bear for her to witness it.

Sitting several meters away, she was a distraction. He couldn’t tell her to leave, and he didn’t want her to watch, so he would have to involve her. If she stood much closer, she might actually be a help rather than a hindrance.

He beckoned with his hand. “Hey, Camila! Come on over here a second, will you?”

She hesitated, as if she worried he might say or do something inappropriate in front of everyone. But then she stood, swiped her palms down her jeans and crossed the pitch, pointedly keeping her focus on him rather than the girls. “I was just going to watch for a few minutes from the sidelines.”

“It’s
the touchline, and since we’ve got such a small team we need all the help we can get.” Plus, he wanted to get his hands on her. And he didn’t want to wrap his arms around any of the girls. “I need you to help me demonstrate some techniques.”

Her brows drew down. “I’ve never played rugby.”

“Neither have any of them, which makes you perfect. Just stand there.” He pointed at a spot a few
meters away from him and turned to the girls. “Right. Up till now, we’ve been focusing on our ball-handling skills—”

Tori snickered.

“And we’ve been working on your evasive running skills. Today we’ll be learning about tackling.”

“What!” Camila braced her hands on her hips.

“You’re going to help me demonstrate a good tackle.” He turned to the girls again. “Tackling’s an essential
part of the game, and it can be great fun or it can be dangerous, depending on how you do it. We’re going to start slow, but by the end of today you’ll be tackling like a pro.”

Pro what, he didn’t know.

He handed Camila a rugby ball. “Hold that, walk back a few meters, and then run and try to get around me.”

“You’ve obviously taken too many hits to the head.”

The girls snorted,
their eyes darting between the two grown-ups. Camila clearly noticed, as she pressed her mouth shut and took several big steps back. Good. The last thing he wanted was to undermine her authority, but he wouldn’t let her undermine his, either.

Holding the ball with both hands, she jogged toward him at a speed a dead turtle could beat. He simply stepped in front of her, and she stopped.

“No offense, Camila, but that was rubbish. You want this team to learn how to play rugby, right?”

She nodded.

“Then try again, but this time make the kind of effort you’d like to see them make.”

Her shoulders slumped a little, but she backed up again. And then she sprinted. He crouched low, dancing as she got closer. And when she gave a head fake to the right, he leaped to the left,
wrapped his arms around her, yanked her into him and fell to the grass.

Her breath whooshed out, but Ash knew he’d taken most of the impact. He lay half on top of her and stared down into her eyes, and suddenly he was breathless too.

“You’re in such big trouble,” she whispered. But the fire in her gaze told him it was the kind of trouble he’d like.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he whispered
back, somehow managing to keep himself from kissing the tip of her nose. He rolled away and jumped to his feet. “Did anyone see how I did that?”

The girls all stared with big grins. Apparently they’d never seen an authority figure tackled before.

“Right,” Ash said as he helped Camila get to her feet. “I’m going to break this down step by step so you can see how it’s done. Camila, stand
here next to me a minute. Okay, when Camila runs toward me, where should I be looking?”

“Always keep your eye on the ball,” Tori said.

“That’s the rule if you’re trying to catch the ball. But when you’re tackling, you’re trying to catch the player. The ball will deceive you. Camila can move the ball to the left but run to the right, and then I’ve missed her. She can also fake me out
with her head and her legs or feet. The one part of her body that will tell me the truth is the bit right between her hips.”

He motioned toward her crotch. Camila glared at him and he realized what he’d said. “Her core, I mean. The core of her body is just below her belly button—”

Oh, Jesus, he wasn’t making this any better. But he couldn’t really help it, either, so he decided to ignore
the dirty implications of what he’d said. Hell, if he stopped every time he used a filthy-sounding rugby term, they’d never get around to actually playing a match.

“If you focus on the core of your opponent’s body, you’ll know which way she’s going to run. She’ll be much less likely to get around you. Next, you want to keep your body low, almost a crouch. You’re not allowed to tackle above
the shoulders—that’s how you accidentally break someone’s neck. The best place to hit your opponent is around the thighs. That’ll completely unbalance her. But you can also tackle her around the chest or waist. Now, let’s look at how you position your body for a tackle.”

“This won’t hurt, will it?” Camila asked.

“No, we won’t tackle at speed today. We’re going to make sure we get the
basics right. Just stand there with the ball and face me, as if you were running at me.” He planted his right foot forward and crouched, putting him eye-level with her breasts. “See how low I am? You want to lunge in with your lead foot and keep your elbows close to your body. That’ll give you more strength and power. Plus, swinging your arm around is illegal. So, I’m low and my elbows are close
to my ribs, and I punch my arms out, wrap them around Camila’s ribs, clasp my hands behind her back and hug her to me hard.”

Camila gasped as he yanked her against him, but he held her tight.

“Notice how my head is to the side of her body, right next to her ribs.”
And breasts. Fucking hell, this is torture.
“When we fall, I don’t want my skull squished between her body and the ground.
And if she’s sprinting toward me, I don’t want to run into her headfirst because I’ll jar my neck. Okay, I’ve clasped my hands and hugged her to me so she can’t get away.”

Tackles shouldn’t feel this good.

“Now that I’m holding on tight, I power through the rest of the tackle and take us both to the ground. Sorry, Mila,” he said a split second before sweeping her legs out from under
her. She squeaked as he laid her on the ground. Unlike last time, he didn’t linger. He wanted to too badly. “The tackle’s not over till you get back on your feet, and right now’s your best opportunity to gain control of the ball.”

“Because she’s fumbled it?” Hannah asked, and a weird rush of excitement burst through him that at least someone was following his explanation.

“It’s possible,
but also because in rugby you have to let go of the ball as soon as you’re tackled.”

“What?” Tori squeaked. “That’s ridiculous.”

God in heaven, he’d explained this rule a dozen times. What more evidence did he need that they ignored almost every word coming out of his mouth—unless those words sounded dirty?

“Did I hear you say ‘That’s brilliant’? You’re right, it is. The tackled
player has to let go of the ball, but in reality you usually hold on for a second so your team has a chance to get to you. You can’t hold on longer than that, though, or you’ll be penalized. If you’re the tackler, you’ll be closer than any of your opponent’s teammates, so try to grab that ball. Just make sure you’re on your feet when you do it, otherwise you’ll be penalized for killing the ball.
Worse than that, if you’re lying on the wrong side of the tackle and you’re an obstacle to your opponents getting the ball, they will stamp on you, and that’s a pain I hope none of you ever experience—especially since you’ll have deserved it. Ready to try it yourselves? Pair up and grab a ball. You’ll take it in turns to be the tackler. We’re not knocking anyone to the ground yet. Just practice getting
your body position right, wrapping your arms around your opponent and pulling her against you.”

The girls wandered toward the ball bag several meters away, and Ash leaned down and clasped Camila’s hand. Lifting her to her feet, he tugged her a little closer than he should have and dropped his voice. “Thanks for your help.”

“I feel like kicking your ass.”

“Sounds like we’ve got an
exciting night ahead of us.”

“About that—”

“You’re not backing out,” he said. “I’ve ironed my prettiest dress and have a corsage waiting for me.”

“Do you even know what a corsage is?”

“Not a clue. Is it a knock-off version of a Corvette?” He glanced up and shouted across the pitch. “Don’t just crouch and lean forward. Plant one of your feet forward,
then
tackle.” Back to Camila.
“I didn’t think I’d get to see you till tonight. This is a nice surprise.”

“I wanted to see if I could figure out how to motivate the girls. And I felt bad this morning when you pointed out I’ve basically dumped you here and left you to fend for yourself.” The look on her face was so guilty that
he
almost felt guilty.

“I’m not sure I was
quite
that melodramatic. But it’s always nice
to see you.”
And tackle you.
He glanced at the girls again and sighed in frustration. “I swear to God, we won’t win anything but the wooden spoon if they continue making such a half-assed effort.”

“Wooden spoon?”

“The prize for the worst team.”

Camila stared at the girls. “They look like they’re scared of touching each other.”

He watched them for several seconds before the
truth of her words hit him. Fucking hell, she was right. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what was wrong, but they were too tentative, backing away almost as soon as they’d wrapped their arms around the other person. “Do you think they’re scared of hurting each other?”

She rubbed her chin with her forefinger, thinking. “I’m no counselor, but I’ve met a lot of teenagers and I remember
being their age. It’s really awkward to touch someone you don’t know well. You might hug your best friends, but other than that you pretty much keep your hands to yourself.”

Another glimpse into her youth that made him hurt all over. “Who were your best friends when you were that age?”

“Gabriel.”

“That’s it? No girls?”

“I didn’t really develop friendships—
real
friendships—till
I went to college. I was a bit of a loner.”

He rubbed his chest. It ached right where his heart was. He couldn’t imagine getting through his teenage years without his mates, especially Hardy. Picturing Camila with no one to lean on outside of her brother…it broke him.

“I think you need to help them become more of a team.”

He blinked and focused on the girls again. He’d been coaching
them for a week and expected the team spirit to develop naturally. But most of them weren’t used to being part of a team. Unlike the teams he’d helped out before—where the lads had been eager to play and mostly needed to work on their core rugby skills—these girls were here because their
social
skills sucked.

But one thought haunted him more than the rest. If they couldn’t go through the
motions of tackling each other convincingly, how could they ever form a line-out without someone breaking her neck?

“Damn. You’re right.” He whistled sharply. Camila slapped her hands over her ears. “Sorry,” he murmured before shouting, “Come back over here. Time for a team talk.”

The girls took a few lazy steps, and he yelled, “If you’re here in less than three seconds, Camila will
explain what a monkey’s toss is! Three! Two! Well, hello there, everyone. Thanks for hustling.”

Camila was shaking her head beside him, making her I-seriously-hate-you face. But when he grinned at her, she rolled her eyes and relaxed a little.

“Team, I’ve been remiss in my duties as your coach, but I’m going to fix that now.”

“What’s a monkey’s toss?” Hannah asked. Camila practically
swallowed her lips.

“Camila will tell you in a second. First of all, I want you to join me in congratulating her.”

That brought her head up, and she stared at him.

“She’s just agreed to be our assistant coach. From now on, she’ll be at all our training sessions and help me run the drills. Camila, is there anything you’d like to say to the team?”