Hooked: A Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

Adam shrugged. “Helping the poor? Feeling better about himself? Trying to popularize rugby in the States? Who knows? The guy’s decent, though. Easy to talk to. He’ll fit right in.”
 

“Popularizing what?”

My arms fell to my sides like lead as Adam’s words washed over me, a knot building in the pit of my stomach. Of course I’d misheard. I
had
to have misheard.

“Rugby. You know. Like football, if football was a blood sport.”

“Rugby?” I echoed. The joyous heartbeat in my chest had crept upwards, into my ears, strumming an ominous beat of anguish. I recognized the feeling. Anger, fierce and irrational. Suddenly, I was possessed by the urge to flip over Adam’s desk and scream.

“Oh, I was just kidding. It’s no worse than any other team sport, really. In fact, after speaking to our benefactor, I think it'll be quite good for everyone…”

I just stared blankly at Adam, a twinge of pain stabbing at my belly as he listed all the wonderful advantages of joining the team. Rugby. The mere word made my skin crawl, an old wound resurfacing in the part of my soul I’d buried years ago.

Adam’s lips kept moving, but I was no longer listening. I grunted, backing out of his office and heading back to the gym.

Rugby. No way was I going to teach fucking
rugby
.

No way.

I directed some of my rage at the swinging doors, ramming into them with my body and slamming them wide open.

No way.

I closed my eyes, trembling in silent fury for a moment as hundreds of questions echoed in my head.
 

Was I really going to spit in the face of all this money, offered to us when we so desperately needed it? It was either this, or allow the center to close. How could I explain to everyone that I’d had a chance to save their safe-place and refused? And why? Because I still hadn’t gotten over hurt feelings from when I was their age?

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, leaving wet footprints as I squished my way back to the far corner of the gym. A shiver ran down my damp skin as I looked over the rugby equipment, knowing now what hid beneath the plastic wrap.

Tackle bags. Shields. Protective gear. Speed ladders. I’d seen all of it before, complete with sneers and taunts. I was almost dangerously underweight back then, terrified of getting too heavy to stay on the track team. Meanwhile,
he
was tall, athletic, and gorgeous. His exotic accent and future-sports-star body had made him wildly popular, and I was an easy target. He’d hated me at first sight.

I kicked the bundled up gear with all my strength, the muffled thud giving me a thrill of pleasure. I wanted more, fighting an urge to take my revenge by abusing a pile of defenseless equipment. I knew it wouldn’t actually make me feel better, any more than my assault on the door had, and I stepped back with a sigh of defeat.

I hated rugby as much as I’d hated
him
. The way he’d managed to convince the school football team to try rugby over the summer. The fact that he would always come back from games with scraped knees and black eyes. The ugly, grass-stained jersey shirts and ridiculous striped socks littering our clothesline. His cocky smile and the piercing blueness of his stare. How he always made me feel like I was made of glass whenever he looked at me, and worst of all, the perpetual sneer on his face any time I came into the room.

I’d hated all of it, and then I’d managed to put it all behind me when I finally left for college. Now, because some eccentric rich guy wanted to feel good about himself, it was all back in my life.
 

I sat on the foam-and-leather tackle tube, pinching my nose and rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger. Taking a large breath, I ran my hand along my forehead, up to the top of my skull, and tried to relax.

I could deal with this. I could. I couldn’t give up. The stakes were too high. Besides, it was only
rugby
that was back in my life. Not the asshole who’d ruined it for me, just the game itself. Hell, maybe I could even learn to like it, replacing bad memories with good ones.

I leaned back, resting on the sharp curve of the tackle tube. I could handle all of this, I knew. My eyes closed and I imagined the center’s regulars doing rugby. Passing the ball sideways like freaking crabs, kicking goals, tackling each other, hating every minute of it…. Yeah, I could do this. It was, after all, a small price to pay for keeping the center open.

“Emilia?” a familiar voice resonated in the empty gym, bringing a smile to my face. It was eight o’clock, and he was here like clockwork.

“Good morning, Theo,” I said warmly. “Front door not locked?”

“It was, but…you know.”

Of course I knew.

Theo was smiling, his warm and sweet expression so endearing that I sprang straight to my feet and adjusted the hem of my damp shorts. Time to act like the professional everyone expected.

“Want to give me a hand?” I asked. Theo was our youngest, but there was hardly anyone else here who was as reliable as him. He was a rock.

A rock who had the annoying habit of picking our lock to get in a few minutes earlier, but still a rock.

Theo’s face lit up even more as he nodded with excitement; he loved helping.

“Please go see Adam, and ask him to call everyone. Let them know there’s been a change in plans. They need to wear their sports shoes today. Emphasis on
need to
.”

As soon as I finished speaking, Theo turned around and ran out of the gym.

I followed him as far as the corridor, eyeing the cardboard boxes littering the hallway. Suddenly, they didn’t look heartbreaking anymore. We’d get our old PCs back up and running, or at least as running as the ancient copies of Windows XP could handle. We’d restring the badminton rackets one more time, and we’d be back in business.

Such as it was.

I rummaged through the smallest box, pulling out a paper bag filled with old, washed-out red and blue vests emblazoned with the same garish yellow ad on the backs.

Johnnie’s

Homemade food at Johnnie’s diner open 24/7.

Of course, everyone had balked at having to wear them. Johnnie’s was popular with seniors, who took advantage of the 5 a.m. breakfast specials and thus drained the place of all its coolness with anyone under 60, let alone under 20.

Still, Johnnie himself was a good guy, all 400 pounds of him. He always supported the center whenever he could. I still remembered when he’d given us the vests, a cigarette between his lips, fighting off a coughing fit while declaring we did good work by keeping “the young’uns” off the street and out of trouble.

Five years later, the vests smelled a little rotten and had clearly seen better days, but they did the job. With a bit of luck, I could find two sets that had faded into roughly the same colors. I pulled the most heavily worn out first, separating the pinks from the reds and the baby blues from the navy.
 

“There’s no need for that. Haven’t you found the new vests yet?”

The low, masculine voice came from behind me, a couple feet away. It echoed off the hallway, a hint of an English accent floating in the air. I tensed up, my limbs feeling like stone as I tried to turn and stand. I looked over the speaker’s massive body; he was at least a foot taller
and
a foot wider than me, and when my eyes finally reached his, they were the bluest I’d ever seen outside of one other British guy.

Actually, they were the
same
blue eyes.

My palms curled into fists, a bolt of fear and animal hate piercing my heart. I stared, looking for the air of indifference I knew had to be lurking beneath his chiseled exterior. It had been thirteen years, but it was
him
. The aristocratic nose, the strong jaw, the jet-black hair framing a high brow, there was no mistaking it. I’d have recognized him, and the streak of arrogance in his bright blue eyes, anywhere. My heart sank, its beating slow and heavy.

Simon Ferguson
.

Biggest asshole in two countries.

The planet.

The fucking galaxy.

Here. Standing in front of me. Talking to me. Again.

My skin erupted in bumps and shivers of disgust. What the hell was he doing here, after all these years? I’d run a thousand miles away from home, and he never left England anyway. I felt like throwing up. “Home” was such a fucked up word for me, thanks to him.

Oh. Oh. Of course. The realization hit me like a punch in the face. The rugby deal, the money. Suddenly, Mr. Big Star had blitzed his way back in my life.

“You,” I said flatly, my voice icy. “What. the. hell. are
you
doing here?”

“I take it you’ve heard about a certain donation,” he quipped, unbearably smug. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, its short sleeves showing off his bulging muscles as he took a drink of coffee from Adam’s office. He quirked an eyebrow at me in defiance, daring me to criticize him.

Of course he was loaded. I’d heard all about his success in England—his many selections as hooker for the English national team, his titles, his popularity. The money and the women. My head was swimming with shock and disgust, my mouth open but silent.

“So, Emilia Jones, are you game for a little action?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee. He seemed devilish, like he was concealing a sneer beneath the steaming hot mug.

Well, at least he’d learned to hide, pretending he was decent.

“I’d rather die,” I said, and a shadow crossed his face.
 

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass, Mr. Goodwill. What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” he said, looking down at the floor and sliding his free hand into his pocket. For a second, he looked like a boy who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar…except there was
nothing
boyish about Simon Ferguson.

“You’re a bit late for that, by about thirteen years. You’re not welcome here. What did you do? Fuck a movie star’s wife and need to do a little damage control? Go find some other charity to patronize, asshole.”

“Are you allowed to swear in front of the kids, now?”

“I’m allowed to do whatever the fuck I want. And the only kid I see here is a damned overgrown one. Now, please kindly go choke on a lemon while I sort through these vests,
Mr
. Ferguson."
 

“They’re not going to be very useful without me, Emilia,” he hissed softly, close to my ear. Grabbing the whole bag, I turned and briskly walked back to the gym, pushing through the doors as hard as I could. Maybe, just maybe, if I let it go at the right time it might slam into his face and smash some of the prettiness away.

“Emilia, wait,” he called from just behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and a petty thrill ran through me as the doors swung back in his direction. Chuckling, I dumped the bag out and spread the vests out on the floor.

“Emilia.”

“Fuck off,” I hissed quietly, focusing on the vests.

“Emilia, I—”

“I see you two have met,” Adam interrupted, standing atop a pile of minty new sports mats. “Everyone’s all caught up, Em,” he said to me, gesturing towards the pocket he kept his phone in. “Now, Mr. Ferguson, do you need anything else?”

I could feel Simon’s presence behind me, and for a second I was seized by the mad urge to slap him, resign, and spend the rest of the day curled up into a sobbing ball. The only thing that stopped me was seeing Theo’s scrawny silhouette huddled in a corner, sitting patiently. I knew what he was waiting for.

A bowl of cereal and a little compassion.

I looked down at my feet, overwhelmed and feeling tears threatening to spill.

“Everything is set for tomorrow. I’ll just need Ms. Jones to show up,” Simon said, his tone the exact cold voice I’d dreaded years ago. I shivered. “And the players, of course. In their vests.”
 

A second later, Simon was trading a friendly handshake with Adam before turning and offering his hand to
me
, as if this were somehow business as usual. His eyes caught mine, and all traces of smugness were gone. He did look boyish after all, and the breath caught in my throat.
 

“Blue” had always failed to accurately describe the brightness of his eyes, but right now, his gaze was shining with an earnest vividness I'd never seen during the two dreadful summers we'd lived together. On complete autopilot, I took his hand. He squeezed tight, and a shiver ran down my spine.

Jesus. Simon Ferguson really was back in my life.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow, then. Have a good day,” he said, his voice chipper as he grabbed a heavy leather workbag from the floor. Taking a few steps towards Theo, Simon once again offered his hand. “See you tomorrow, too. Nice meeting you.”

Theo’s eyes went wide as he took Simon’s hand and shook it, a smile on his face.

“Are you okay?” Adam whispered, his eyes fixed on me.

“Sure,” I lied, bile rising in my throat as I recognized the pattern. The seeds of hero-worship were already firmly planted on Theo’s face. Typical. Simon always did have a way of making people love him. Always.

Asshole.

With one last wave, Simon casually turned and headed for the doors, large shoulders and bulging deltoids moving just under his perfectly tailored shirt, his snug designer jeans just barely hiding his fantastic backside.

I sighed, feeling bad about being dishonest with Adam. Still, with Simon back in my life, I was going to have to get used to it. If lying to my friend was the worst thing that happened this summer, I would count myself lucky.
 

Simon Ferguson.
 

My freaking stepbrother.

He was
back
.