Page 30 of The Hellion and the Captain (Scandals and Scores #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

R hys surveyed the bathhouse. Everything was as ready as could be.

In two days, they would take on the Athletics for the title.

When they had lost last season, he had been more disappointed than he had ever let on, but he had been determined to keep a brave face and encourage his players to be ready for next year.

It was part of his role as captain, and one that he didn’t take lightly.

Still, it was hard to believe how far they had come once again.

And he had Emmaline, in part, to thank. She had stuck with him, time and again, had spent hours improving herself to contribute to this football club and help them secure all of the wins possible.

He still hadn’t allowed himself to believe that she might one day be his. Part of him worried that she might change her mind once she fully realized what she was giving up to be with a man like him. But if this were ever to work, he had to believe in her.

He walked over to inspect the uniforms. Each player’s was laid out in their spot on the bench, the cream and maroon crisper than ever. He did a slow circle around the room, his gaze landing on the corner spot where Emmaline always sat, although in reality she was mostly hiding away from the men.

He narrowed his eyes. He could see something on her uniform, which didn’t make sense. They should all be pristine, clean and folded perfectly on the bench.

As his steps toward it became more hurried, the door behind him opened, and he stopped, surprised to find Emmaline standing there. She wore her practice gear, but she hadn’t taken the extra care to darken her feminine features or eyebrows. Her cap was so low that she had pulled it over her brows.

“Emmaline,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d like to say that I came for extra practice, but the truth is, I think I came for a little comfort.”

The volume of her words decreased as she spoke, and he realized then that she was showing him a moment of vulnerability she likely never let anyone see, for she was always so strong, so insistent on her ability to tackle whatever came her way.

The uniform forgotten, he walked quickly toward her.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured, reaching out and stroking her cheek, pleased that they were alone and he had the opportunity to do so.

“I’m just nervous about what’s to come, I suppose,” she said with a slight shrug and a forced smile. “There is much waiting for us in the next few days.”

“Ah, yes, your meeting tomorrow,” he said, chagrined that with all the anticipation for the Cup, he had forgotten.

“Yes,” she said, releasing a forceful breath of air. “What if they say no?”

“Then they say no.”

She nodded, her jaw clenched .

“Rhys?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I could have a hug?”

“Of course,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close and tucking her into the crook of his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how long he held her, his entire body relaxing into the feel of her, so perfect in his arms, but the moment he felt her stiffen, he knew something was amiss.

She jerked backward.

“What happened to my uniform?”

Oh yes, he had forgotten about that.

He swivelled around, following her gaze to the bench behind them, his pulse picking up at the horror on her face.

They were closer now, and he realized his mistake.

There was nothing on her uniform.

It was shredded into pieces.

Emmaline stepped back, and before Rhys could stop her, she was running over, gathering the material in her hands.

“Who would have done this?” she asked, but she noticed what was beneath it before he could respond. It was more clothing in the same maroon and cream as the uniform, only it wasn’t another shirt or a pair of pants.

It was a skirt.

Someone knew her secret.

She looked at Rhys, horrified.

“Was this Reeves?”

“It has to be, unless someone else discovered the truth.”

“The truth,” she practically whispered. “What are we going to do?”

“We are going to be prepared,” he said firmly. “We don’t know where this is coming from, and we cannot confront him if this wasn’t him.”

“We know it is,” she argued .

“There’s only one way to fight this, Emmaline. No rules say that a woman can’t play the game.”

“What are the rules?”

“The only rule is that all players have to be registered with that particular club.”

“Which I am — as Emmett Williams.”

“Yes,” Rhys said. “That is the one difficulty. You are not entirely who you say you are. Emmett Williams is registered. If you are discovered, you could be denied playing on the grounds that Emmaline Whitmore is not registered.”

“So, what do we do?”

He leaned in.

“You continue on as you are, and you show everyone what you are capable of.”

He didn’t tell her the entire truth — that, likely, there was nothing they could do now. Whether she liked it or not, her secret would likely be exposed. If someone was willing to threaten them like this, what would stop him from going further?

But he didn’t want to get in her head, at least not before her meeting with the club committee. From there, they would decide the best way to approach the game.

One thing was certain.

She wouldn’t be facing anything alone.

Emmaline tried to keep that in mind as she walked up the stairs at the back of The King’s Head to reach Manchester Central’s club committee offices, her heart beating faster with each step she ascended.

The club committee had agreed to an audience with her.

Although that didn’t mean they would actually listen to anything she said with sincerity .

“Miss Whitmore,” Lord Harcourt greeted her, awaiting her at the door as she approached. Lily’s father was professional, nodding at Emmaline as she entered, but he followed her to the table and pulled out her chair for her, helping her settle.

The other five men sat when she did, all staring at her expectantly. A bead of sweat began to form at her temple, and she pretended to push back a lock of hair as she wiped it away.

“Gentlemen,” she began. “Thank you very much for agreeing to listen to my presentation today.”

They nodded, a few smiling at her, especially the portly, older, white-bearded man, Lord Nesbitt who she recognized, as well as Lord David, a man near her own age who was promised to her friend Ada in all but actual contract.

“Manchester Central has been a well-respected club for years, made even more so last year when they nearly won the FA Cup,” she began. “I have followed the team for years, myself.”

She waited for any of them to interject, but they all were still staring at her, waiting for her to get to her point.

“While the men’s game is popular and well established throughout the country, women’s clubs are increasing in popularity,” she said, and now her words caused the men to start looking at one another from the sides of their eyes, shifting back and forth uneasily in their chairs.

“There are women’s clubs all over England, although no league has formed yet,” she pushed on. “The women’s teams have supporters. They have women of great talent playing for them.”

“That is all well and good,” a man of about her father’s age interrupted, his black, oiled beard matching his hair combed over the top, “but what does it have to do with us?”

“I will come to that,” she said, trying to smile and show patience.

“The women who play on those clubs are primarily working-class women. They are admirable players, and I appreciate their drive, but I believe there is room for more. Often, in my experience, which I have a great amount of, it is women of the middle- or upper-class who have ample time available to them. Who are constantly seeking out hobbies and activities. However, even if they are interested in football, they cannot play on a club that would be considered beneath them.”

She hated even saying that, for she wished that all could play together, but she also realized that she would have to start somewhere. Creating the team was the first step. From there, she could alter things, hopefully without any of these men noticing.

“I believe that Manchester Central could have two clubs. Partners, if you will. A men’s team and a women’s team. We could even lead the drive to create a women’s league that we could play within.”

The men did not attempt to hide their disdain, some of them murmuring to each other in low voices.

Then the black-haired man did the very last thing she would expect.

He burst out laughing. He laughed long and hard, clutching his middle, and by the time he finished, tears rolling down his cheeks, Emmaline’s anger had grown to a nearly untamed power beneath the surface.

“Ladies playing football? You cannot be serious,” he gasped between chuckles.

“I wish I could say that your reaction is opposite to what I expected,” she said, gritting her teeth together. “But all you need to do is come to one of our practices to understand. You can see for yourself how well it is working.”

Lord Harcourt leaned forward. He wasn’t the warmest of men, but he had undoubtedly become more approachable through everything that had happened with Lily and Colin over the past year.

When he patted her hand, Emmaline knew he was doing so out of kindness, but she couldn’t help but feel his condescension toward her.

“You have great dreams, Emmaline, but I’m afraid they are far off. Thank you for visiting us.”

Everything within Emmaline wanted to stand up and fight.

But she knew from all her mother had taught her that today was not that day. She would try again another time and leave with grace.

Then she would go home, allow shame to wash over her that she had ever had any hope, and decide whether she was done with this or if she still had it in her to fight for change.