The Mighty Anchor: Rogue Academy, Book Three Page 3

  My mobile burns in my hand, and part of my brain thinks it’s trying to kill me, with the text from Vance still sitting in my messages, unanswered.

  He’s back in town, and now I’m going to have to face the music. Maybe there is a way I can pander to him, convince him to forget about what he saw and leave my satisfactory life intact.

  The logical part of me knows there is a hell-storm coming, and I’m going to perish or survive.

  “Yes, she’s coming. I have to run out before the meeting, but I’ll be there,” I tell him, not alluding to the reason for my upcoming early Saturday morning disappearance.

  In truth, missing the meeting with the caterer sparks a flame of hope in my chest. If I’m not there, I don’t have to hear about the wedding. If I’m not there, I don’t have to make active decisions about marrying a man who, as awful as it sounds, is my second choice.

  I wonder what Charles Dickens commentary would be on those actions? On taking a back seat and witnessing my own life …

  Instead, after I ring off with Louis, I open up my messages and begin to type.

  Lara: Fine. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning. The café by your parent’s new house, 9 a.m.

  Pandora’s box has been opened, and my heart thumps at the knowledge that I probably won’t be able to snap the lid on tight again.

  4

  Vance

  A blaze of struggling breath, incinerated muscle, and waning adrenaline push me through the last of my sprint; the end of the pitch coming into view as my feet carry me closer and closer.

  Once I reach it, the far end of the grass crying out to me like a welcome mattress, I collapse onto my knees, sucking in lungfuls of air as if I’m about to slip under the ocean.

  The soreness sets in, a rage of wildfire licking up my legs and into my back, down my shoulders and even out into my fingers until I’m flexing them to get the cramps out.

  Just because I’m not at the academy doesn’t mean I don’t need to train. There is a match I’m expected back for in just a week and a half, and if I’m not in top form, I’ll risk the clean sheet I’ve been working for. I already have three this season, not that it means as much when I’m playing for the secondary squad at the academy. But I’ve never been a slacker or one to rely on talent alone.

  Which is why I am up at the crack of dawn, punishing my body through an intense conditioning session in hopes that it will not only strengthen my body, but my mind.

  In just an hour’s time, I’m having a sit down with Lara. My hands shake with the knowledge, and to my very core, I’m rattled. I’m not an easily affected person … I pride myself on the steady, fair approach I take to life.

  But when it comes to Lara Logan, I’m never bloody prepared. The woman throws me off my game, every time. It’s why I left. It’s why I’ve thought about her every goddamn minute since I walked away.

  Somewhere within the bowels of the stadium, a sound echoes, making me look up.

  I know a few of the blokes who suit up for the premier league squad in Brighton, simply through the channels that most athletes know each other … or I played with them or against them in their academy days. So it’s with their blessing that I’m allowed access to the facilities for the two weeks I’m in Brighton on leave. None of them know, or bothered to ask, why I’m here, but I’m grateful that I get to keep up my regimen in peace while using state-of-the-art equipment. The Brighton by the Sea Football Club is in the premier league, but not typically referred to as being among the elite, like Rogue and the others that reside in London. It’s looked upon as second tier, though it competes annually with the more posh clubs.

  When I walked in two hours ago, I was the only soul around, but now there is someone walking across the pitch to me as I catch my breath. Standing, trying to appear as if I didn’t almost just honk my protein shake onto the pitch.

  “Vance, right?” A vaguely familiar-looking bloke sticks out his hand, a Brighton kit slung over his bare shoulders, matching shorts on his hips, and boots strapped on.

  “That’s right.” I nod, shaking his hand.

  “I’m Theo Binket.”

  Ah, their keeper. This bloke has the job I want, only at a different club. I’ve heard of Theo, he’s mentioned in the same sentences as some of the up-and-coming goalies on the English football scene. Nowhere near as brilliant as Remus, or me I’d argue, but he’s good in the net and seems like a decent bloke in his interviews.

  “Nice to meet you. I’ll get out of your hair, was just doing some training.” A quick wave of my hand, and I’m off.

  I’m not one for overstaying welcomes, conversing with strangers, or any other general niceties. That’s Kingston’s task in our trio, the charmer. The one who diverts attention from both Jude and I so that we don’t have to extend ourselves. He takes pleasure in it, not sure why. And when he’s not around, the honor falls to Jude. I’m the last resort when it comes to brokering a conversation, and when I’m forced to, I typically opt not to do it anyway.

  “Before the sun rose, eh? Yeah, I’ve heard you’re a machine.”

  I turn, giving him a nod that, indeed, I am a machine. While I might be introverted, I’m not one to shy away from my strengths. I’m dedicated and relentless; I’m not humble enough to forego boasting about it, even if it’s done without words. After all, I’m still a professional athlete; the job requires a healthy dose of ego.

  “Hard work doesn’t work unless you do.” I quote one of my favorite sayings.

  “Ain’t that the truth. It’s a lonely world as a keeper, it’s why I’m here most mornings before all them lazy blokes arrive. You in town for long?”

  Shaking my head, I don’t let my expression convey a thing. “Not long.”

  Theo’s lips turn up in a smile. “What they say about you is true, Vance. Well, if you want to grab a pint, you know where to find me. Keeper to keeper, it’d be nice to pick your brain.”

  His words don’t even hit me, the armor I’ve placed over my heart just deflecting them with ease. Growing up in this world, you learn to develop a tough skin. I have a few close allies, and everyone else is against me. It’s not paranoia, it’s true. If I were gunning for Theo’s job, which I could, we would be enemies. It’s all the point of view of things.

  Showering quickly and slipping into the jeans and sweater I brought, I shrug on my coat as I head for my car. Brighton is downright chilly, even for October. The ocean kicks up the frigid wind, sending it rolling through the streets and around the buildings. Though my skin is thick, it’s not the hide against the weather I developed in my first eight years here. When you’re an ocean town kind of child, you have a special immunity against the harsh winters here. Apparently, I lost that badge of honor.

  The café Lara chose as our meeting spot is just a block from my parent’s home, so I park my car at the house and walk over partly to prove to myself that I could hold up against the cold. But by the time I arrive, the warmth and aroma of baked goods seeping into my bones, my teeth are chattering. The place isn’t one I figure Lara frequents often, which is why she asked me to meet her here. It caters to the wealthy part of Brighton, a small community of people who don’t dare leave their beachfront solitude for the downtown area or the more average income parts of town.

  When I’d seen her for the first time, all those years ago, it was on the lawns of our respective childhood homes, right across the street from one another. Back then, our financial situation hadn’t been all that different. I was still a young player in the academy, sending nominal amounts of money home to my family so that it justified the club in stealing my childhood.

  At least, looking back, that’s what I consider it now. It was almost hush money, the system of taking young boys out of their home to raise them to be football machines. But, my parents stepped right on board. Not that I hold any grudge, it just is what it is. I wanted to play football; they knew that. It’s the price we all paid.

  But aside from the academy money, my parents made a decent living
at average jobs. Lara was the product of a divorced household, living with her mum in the smallest bungalow-style home on the street. Her dad was around and helped to support them as I later found out. But we were both kids from middle-income families, growing up in an idyllic seaside town.

  Once I signed my amateur contract, however, all of that changed. I took my family from not being able to afford a holiday every year to vacationing in a private villa in Italy. I bought my parent’s an oceanfront home made of glass and steel, moved them away from the life they knew, and didn’t stick around to see the changes.

  It had been a point of contention when Lara and I had been together, the difference in our lifestyles.

  Heading for the counter, I order myself a double espresso, needing the caffeine, and a black breakfast tea for Lara. It’s her favorite, and I throw in a raspberry muffin knowing that might set her mood on a good track, as well.

  I had plans for this conversation. It didn’t surprise me that she wasn’t pleased about my return to Brighton.

  Just a minute after I take a seat at a table in the corner, the bell over the door jingles. And then there she is.

  My lungs completely deflate, as they usually do in my initial time of seeing her at any given meeting. Lara is simply stunning.

  Her sun-kissed hair is still skimming her shoulders, that sexy, modern cut making her appear, somehow, even more feminine and cutthroat at the same time. Her cheeks and nose are red from the wind, and I have the urge to walk to her and blow warm air on her hands, helping her adjust from the cold. That face, the one composed of sharp angles and creamy skin, has always captivated me. I think it’s her eyes, how large and doll-like they are in a face that would otherwise be harsh. Big, blue as rare sapphires, and framed with thick black lashes, she aims her eyes right at me.

  Butterflies, nasty, big bugs claw at the inside of my gut as she strolls to the table, a cream-colored sweater dress hugging her brilliantly as those brown boots make the toned legs eating up the distance between us look impossibly long.

  “Vance.” She says my name, not hello or some other variation of it.

  So, that’s how it’s going to be. I swallow my ire, knowing that I’m not here for any other reason than to get my family back. I love this woman, when she isn’t acting like the spawn of the devil, and I want to know my son. To get those things, I have to put every practiced behavior when it comes to Lara behind me.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I say, my hands folded on the table as she sits.

  I know that Lara is spiteful. The way I ended things, so cold and sterile as if our relationship was some business agreement that had run its course, was despicable. She deserved more than that. Hell, I did, too … but I couldn’t war within myself anymore. I’d gone mental, trying to choose between my love and desire for her, and the passion I have for football, that I couldn’t bear it any longer. So I’d chosen the thing that had been the most constant in my life. The thing that didn’t hurt so bad or make me question every facet of my life.

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice.” She huffs.

  “You didn’t tell me I had a child, so let’s not start accusations here,” I shoot back, my anger bearing down like a gorilla sitting on my shoulders.

  Lara is both the girl next door and the elusive cheeky bird; she’s a good girl with her sights set on the straight and narrow. But there is this underlying mystery, as if she’ll surprise you at any moment and veer of course just because she can. It’s what drew me to her, and what makes her so difficult to understand. She cares deeply about other people, but can also go weeks without needing the interaction of another person.

  At least that’s how she was when I knew her.

  “I don’t even know where to start. How could you do this? When was he born? What is his birth date? Is he … is he okay? Are you okay? Do you need anything? What does your mother say about this? How is she keeping this secret from my parents? I mean, I know they don’t live across the street from each other anymore, but they’re close, Lara.”

  She chews on her bottom lip, a behavior I know means she’s extremely nervous. Tapping her fingers is when she was anxious, she shuffles on her feet when she’s lying, lip chewing is for extreme nerves. When something is so funny that she belly-laughs, it’s a silent noise, almost as if the hilarity is more than her body can produce a sound for. And when I put my lips on a certain place behind her ear, the raspy moan that emanated from her throat …

  Christ. I know all of her little tics. I know all of her.

  “Well, it’s not a secret she has to keep.” She rubs the back of her neck, not daring to meet my eyes.

  In the center of my chest, something wriggles free, and suddenly I understand what she’s saying. This is worse than I thought it was.

  “They don’t know who his father is?” I snarl, the rage reaching a breaking point in my chest.

  5

  Lara

  Vance looks like he might flip the table between us and begin trashing the entire café.

  “Tell me, Lara. Tell me that you’ve hidden the fact that I’m his father from—bloody hell, everyone!”

  Bloody hell, why does he still have this effect over me? Even sitting across this table from him, with all the guilt, hurt, and loathing floating around in my heart, I wish I could crawl into his lap, take his beard in my hands, and kiss him until we’ve both lost all thought.

  The man is a giant, one of those people who not only have an enormous frame but the way he holds it makes him imposing. Vance always suck the air out of a room; all eyes go to him when he walks through the door. With his six-foot-five body towering over everyone else, the intense eyes that are so dark they look almost black, and jet-black hair and beard it’s impossible to notice anything else when he’s in your presence. Not to mention the mass of muscles that he’s carved into every portion of his body, the man is formidable.

  To most, he looks like the kind of man who could take down a bear. But when you really get to the heart of Vance Morley, he’s a gentle, observant, wise, mild-mannered person.

  And one who still makes my insides quiver with the heat of a wildfire, licking up my spine in uncontrollable gusts. The chocolate-eyed bastard always had this overwhelming effect on me, as if my heart turns to putty when he steps a hundred yards in my vicinity.

  Squaring my shoulders, I prepare for a row. “I hid that fact. No one knows you’re his father.”

  My eyes flicker to his chest, because I swear I can hear his heart audibly break. I can hear my own splinter, too. This isn’t easy for me, beyond any means. I hate that I put that wounded expression on his face, and I loathe even more that Mason doesn’t know his father.

  It might seem like I’m an arse. That my harshness, my mean streak, is strictly dramatic and uncalled for. As I’m biased toward myself, I’ll disagree, but in the timeline of everything that happened between us, it’s an evident truth that I’m not overreacting to Vance’s sudden one-eighty turnaround. And so, I have to stick up for myself. Ever since I started caring for a baby when no one thought I could do it alone, much less at all, I’ve been my only ally.

  “You wanted nothing to do with me two years ago. Said I was a weight that you couldn’t carry anymore, those were your exact words, Vance. You’re the one who ruined us, who threw everything we had away like it didn’t matter at all. What was I supposed to do when I found out I was pregnant? Tell the man who’d just told me I didn’t fit into his plan that he had a child on the way? Can’t you understand why I was hesitant to do that? You didn’t want me, you made that crystal clear. What makes you think you would have wanted anything to do with our son?”

  “Because he’s my child!” Vance nearly roars and then seems to check himself. “I-I shouldn’t have said those things. About you, about us. I was … I didn’t know how to handle it all. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want Mason.”

  Something that’s always sat like a lump in the back of my throat finally voices itself. “You wouldn’t have
told me to get rid of him? To end the pregnancy?”

  There are plenty of things I feel guilty about, plenty of things I wish I could have talked over with Vance. But this was the one that stuck in my mind. The scenario that, even now, I couldn’t help but obsess over. If I had told him all those years ago, would he have asked me to abort the baby?

  It seems like everything in the café stills, like the windows go icy and all the warmth is taken out of the room—like the dementors from Harry Potter have arrived.

  “You don’t get to make hellacious assumptions on my character when you never even gave me the option of knowing.”

  The way he says the words, it’s as if they’re curses.

  My heart withers, everything in me rolling from the tension of all of this. I attempt to gulp down the knot that’s formed in my throat, but it doesn’t work.

  When I speak, it’s with a croak. “What do you want, Vance?”

  His eyes smolder, and a crackle of electricity lights my body with a bolt. Vance blinks down, focusing on the table for a moment, and then back up, never breaking his gaze from mine.

  “There are a lot of things I want. I want to be the starting keeper for Rogue Football Club. I want to be different from how I inherently am. I want to stop being so bloody angry. I want to know my son. I want to hear his laugh and ask him everything he knows. I want to teach him to kick a ball. But what I want most of all, what I wish for more than anything, is to rip that fucking ring off your finger and put mine on it.”

  I’m not even sure he blinks when he completely destroys the world as I know it.

  Maybe I’m the sinner, and he’s the saint. Maybe it’s the other way around.

  Either way, there are plenty of fingers to point.

  When it all comes down to it, though my heart still wants to walk out of this café with him. It wants to surrender itself, no matter if he sticks a knife through it.