Page 6 of Hit For Six (Balls and Banter #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

Monty

It was tradition for the boys to hit the city’s bars after a significant win, but the celebrations had been put on hold until Sunday night, with everyone booking Monday off work to recover. Monty had a family gathering to attend tomorrow. His nephew, Roderick’s third birthday party.

His teammates had given him stick for putting family first when they’d all worked hard and wanted to let their hair down– Tim’s whiny voice complaining the loudest. His teammates didn’t understand the machinations of Monty’s family.

Helena Beauchamp-Carmichael was the matriarch with a capital M. Nobody pulled a sickie when Mother Hen was organising an event. From luncheons to charity galas, Monty and his siblings were expected to be there on time, tastefully dressed and fluent in eloquent topical conversation.

Monty stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, beads of water glistening on his tanned and toned torso; the remnants of the hot Spanish sun from a recent Desert Springs training camp.

He groaned at his hard on. He’d need to address that ASAP.

But when he flopped onto his bed and hit the remote control to replay the match on his TV, fast forwarding Bath’s batting action so he could freeze the scene as the beautiful stranger came into view, he knew that he couldn’t possibly cheapen her.

Yes, he needed to close his eyes and imagine doing something very intimate and X-rated with her to give himself some relief, but he couldn’t reduce her to a porn mag.

He switched the programme off but five minutes later and his frantic tossing off still wasn’t enough.

This was pathetic. She was just a girl; a girl who had caused him untold grief.

It wasn’t as if he’d never had a female in his life.

He whipped off his towel, pulled on a fresh pair of Calvin Klein boxers and padded across the bedroom, pushing up the double hung window to let in the cool evening breeze.

Surveying the sweep of lush green before him, Monty felt like one of the Bridgerton men wondering when his quarry might teeter past in a bosom-enhancing dress.

Or perhaps she’d pull up in a horse-drawn carriage, all pomp and ceremony?

The Royal Crescent was one of the most exclusive addresses in Bath.

He’d had a lot of fun here with a lot of women.

But there was one word that summed up every encounter: fleeting.

Why would the stadium siren be any different?

It was a question which pointed to one fact: Monty was the common denominator in every fling and brief relationship fizzling out.

They’d bored him. And, if he was honest with himself, despite his good looks, the women had been even more attracted to his money.

Sure, the girls had been gorgeous and the sex had been hot– taking kinky to curious heights on occasions– but there was nothing beneath the facade.

No challenge, no thoughts of a future together, no chemistry such as the kind that his sisters raved about when they watched bloody Bridgerton and Jonathan Bailey and co throwing their own brooding good looks at Regency ladies so they’d drop their calling cards and wilt into their arms.

All of this introspection was stupid. Monty wasn’t on a mission to sire an heir, FFS.

Not yet, anyway. He pulled on a T-shirt and flopped back on the bed, hating himself for toying with the idea of going the social media route to track down a certain somebody.

He couldn’t help it, though. Whilst he wasn’t sure that the concept of auras existed, there really was something about her.

He’d start by looking up hashtags on Twitter– or X as it was now irritatingly known– but he’d be drawing the line at TikTok.

And he was definitely ignoring the string of WhatsApp messages that had pinged onto his phone.

It was one thing to deal with the piss-taking of his non-cricket friends, but quite another to read his family’s cutting remarks.

He could already hear their predictable putdowns circling his head like vultures– any excuse to try to belittle his version of cricket.

Even the Barmy Army had embraced the new format, for crying out loud.

T20 may have only been introduced in 2003 at professional level.

And, yes, okay, only in England and Wales.

But look how far it had come! The Indian Premier League was massive, with Sri Lanka, the Caribbean and UAE not far behind.

Okay, the Aussies weren’t so taken with it (yet), but things were really hotting up in the US.

And last, but by no means least, women’s T20 cricket was becoming a global sport.

Sigh. Now this afternoon’s woman popped back into his head and Monty imagined her in action at the stumps.

It was obvious she had more than a little sporting prowess.

He could only imagine how that athleticism might translate beneath the sheets.

Just as Monty tried to blink away the image of him standing snuggly behind her to guide her through her batting technique, his phone vibrated.

Bugger. It was his mother. Ah, well. Best get her disapproval over with before Roddie’s party.

He turned the volume up and crossed his fingers, hoping this would be a short call.

‘Monty, darling,’ Helena purred, as was her standard opener.

‘I’m so very sorry that I couldn’t be there today.

The prep for your precious nephew’s tea party has been all-consuming!

Saskia couldn’t decide between bunting or balloon arches, so in the end we went for both…

and then the village baker had a last minute drama sourcing enough blueberries for the gluten-free cake.

But your father told me it was an impressive match.

He stayed to watch as much as he could before business called.

Hurrah to you winning the trophy. No mean feat with that dreadful tart shedding her clothes.

I don’t even want to think about the damage she’s done to our brand.

Especially given the fact that dress is still on the rails in most of our outlets. ’

‘Thanks, Mum. Yeah, it went our way today.’ Monty furrowed his brow.

In the absence of a carpet, he elected to brush his mother’s dig at the mystery woman under the sheepskin rug at his feet.

And what was she harping on about with the dress?

He hadn’t recognised it from the collection.

She hadn’t exactly been wearing it for long enough for anybody else to!

‘Exciting stuff on the horizon. I’ve just got to sit tight now to see if a call will emerge from the head coach.

I’m not sure how many scouts were present–’

‘Right then, about tomorrow.’ Helena was already back to subjects closer to her heart.

‘If you could nip to Waitrose and pick up an extra case of Veuve Clicquot, I’d be eternally grateful.

We’re getting a little low on stock in the cellar so I need to bring up a dozen bottles to chill.

Oh, and while you’re there, darling, if it wouldn’t put you out, then a few large tubs of Mascarpone would be much appreciated.

I’m still in two minds about the giant pavlovas and I really think we need something lighter than Jersey double cream to cut through all that sweetness.

Normally we’d call in a personal chef, but Saskia and I quite fancy mucking in, and the numbers aren’t too daunting compared to my usual social events. ’

Could she sound any more like a Nigella cookbook? Although Monty was certain that the Domestic Goddess would be jumping down the phone with hugs for her offspring had they racked up so much sporting success in a mere day.

‘No probs.’

He cemented his teeth and pasted a fake grin on his face, waiting to be corrected for shortening his lingo.

Amazingly, the scolding didn’t come. Well, of course.

Helena was in full- on party planning mode.

If only he could catch his father in a similar manner when it came to updating him on cataclysmic work stuff.

Like the kind that he might, someday soon, have to pass on in the form of a resignation letter.

Alas, even the winter’s voluntary stints playing in South Africa under his current part-time contract had done nothing to drop a hint that Monty couldn’t be relied upon.

Frederick acknowledged the facts that suited his version of reality.

Still, there was no point trying to circumvent things just yet.

Nothing was for real until Monty signed on the dotted line of a much more exciting document.

‘Wonderful. Listen, I have to go. The cleaners have just finished upstairs and I want to inspect Roddie and his siblings’ quarters before he arrives with Saskia and Dante for the weekend.

’ Christ, his mother was so formal. Would it pain her that much to say all of her grandchildren’s names?

‘You will remember to bring an artfully-wrapped and tasteful something for Roddie, won’t you?

Please don’t resort to the vulgar money in an envelope gesture. A card too, Monty!’

And that was it. Sure, his brother-in-laws would rib him tomorrow for today’s unrest, and his father would take him to one side for a fat celebratory cigar. In fairness, at least he’d been present for part of the match. But then the talk would turn to shop– the literal one– as it always did.

Make that empire. Beau-re-mi was a global clothing business– an upmarket version of the fashion giant, Next– and Monty was its reluctant Digital Marketing Director, slotting in the hours around his cricket and no doubt irking the rest of the workplace by swanning in and out as time and commitment allowed.

It was a career that had been thrust upon him by his CEO father since graduation and he’d diligently worked his way into the upper echelons of management, albeit with an indisputable shove up the ladder from Frederick.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the clothes his company sold (Monty was pretty much a coat hanger for the men’s range when he wasn’t in his cricket garb) it had just never been his dream to have a career in the fashion industry.

But c’était la vie when you were born into pots of money and you were a male.

In that sense his life was marooned in the sodding Regency period, with its stubborn rules and rituals about men being primed to take hold of the business reins– as well as the ancestral home(s).

Monty tapped the notebook feature on his phone to add ‘bubbles, Italian gunk, card, gift wrap and child’s cricket bat’ to the various items on his to-do list. He knew his coach had some spare and unused kiddie bats lying about.

He’d head to the stadium in the morning to catch London before the u16s training started.

In a highly unusual situation, London was his agent, too, so it would be the perfect excuse to see if there were any updates.

London might even have been contacted by now, but the guy was too shrewd to play his cards quickly, and he’d be keen to keep Monty out of negotiations until he was closer to the figure he had in mind.

Then Monty did something he hadn’t done in forever.

He ordered a fat, greasy take-out; the type that would repulse his mother, whilst his father would secretly drool over his good fortune to behave so slovenly…

and his nutritionist would keel over in shock.

He switched off his phone as soon as it arrived, determined to put the kibosh on his stalkerish behaviour, and headed outside to the pea-green lawn of the Crescent to eat it alone as the sun set.

It was time to reflect on his crazily unconventional, ridiculously privileged and extremely confusing life.