Page 4 of The Hellion and the Captain (Scandals and Scores #2)

Chapter Four

R hys sat back in his oak captain’s chair, stretching his arms far above his head as he attempted to ease the aches in his shoulders.

His secretary, Mr. Underwood, had just shown out Rhys’s last client of the day.

Rhys hadn’t relished declining the man’s loan, but in the end, he couldn’t grant the man’s request. He had made a decent case, but Rhys used the same instinct that he did on the football field to know that it wasn’t a proposition that would ever work, as much as the man was trying to prove – even if it was just to himself – that it would be so.

Rhys considered that he was doing the man a favor.

Some days, he truly hated this job, even though he knew how fortunate he was to have risen to such a position, considering where he had started.

The quarters where he now worked seemed worlds away from the crumbling brick and tumult of the factory district.

He didn’t take it for granted for a moment, and at times, he could still feel the shadow of soot and steam on his shoes.

He was thankful for the relentless drive his father had instilled in him .

He wished that all of his success was due to hard work, but he had to provide credit where it was due. He had played football for a man who owned a bank, who had decided that he could use the leadership Rhys exemplified on the football field in his business.

Rhys looked around his office. It was spacious and well lit, thanks to large windows lining two walls.

The desk was a polished mahogany, merging seamlessly into the shelves filled with leather-bound books.

The carpet underfoot was thick and plush, a deep burgundy color contrasting with the neutral walls.

A serene landscape painting hung above Rhys’ desk, the only touch of nature in the otherwise sterile room, a room in which a movement-oriented man like Rhys found difficult to spend nearly the entirety of his days.

He shouldn’t complain—not when so many of the people he lived next to and played football beside spent their days in a mill, a factory, or a mine that would likely take years off their lives due to the conditions.

But the bank was not where his mind was. His mind was still on the football field, specifically the grassy stretch beyond the Harcourt Mill.

He had a big decision to make today. While he was not the final judge, he knew the club committee would consider his recommendation for which player should complete their eleven.

He ripped a piece of paper from the ledger on the desk before him, not feeling guilty about focusing on football now that the bank hours were over.

Sometimes he felt like he was two different people, acting as one of them for half the day and the other for the other half.

He had three options.

He wrote the names of each player over the top of the page. James Anderson. Montgomery Jones. Emmett Williams.

He listed the best qualities of each of them as well as the less redeeming qualities. He couldn’t help but return to Williams. He was the most naturally talented of the bunch, that was for certain, but he lacked conditioning more than the other two.

Still, Rhys was drawn to him more than the others, for reasons he couldn’t determine.

He would see how this final practice went today, he decided.

From there, he would make his decision.

It seemed there was more than one man’s fate he would determine today.

Rhys stood to the side of the field, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the players before him.

Those who had played together for the past year, if not longer, moved seamlessly. Colin and Tommy rushed up one side of the field, passing the ball between one another as though they had been born knowing how to do so, with an innate sense of where the other would be at all times.

Almost all of them were paired up, but with Hardy standing in the goal and Rhys to the side, one was excluded.

Williams.

Of course.

The right winger had avoided the rest of them as best he could since he had first started practicing with them. Perhaps that was what most bothered Rhys. Even if Williams was skilled, if he couldn’t truly be part of the team, would this work?

Rhys couldn’t, however, deny the man’s talent.

Williams was currently dribbling around invisible impediments on the ground, the ball seeming one with his feet, his silhouette backdropped by the dusky sky behind him.

His movements were almost feminine, in a sense, but perhaps that was just the grace with which he moved.

There was the endurance factor, however. If only Rhys could determine whether that would ever come.

Suddenly, he realized how he was going to test it.

He might not be able to judge how Williams’ stamina would unfold, but then, there was only one way to increase running condition – hard work. He could certainly determine if the man had any of that in him.

He placed his thumb and ring finger of one hand on opposite sides of his mouth, letting out a hearty whistle that the players all recognized, and they began a slow run toward him.

“Hurry up, let’s go!” he called out impatiently, and soon enough, they all circled around him.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled. “Now, listen up. We’ve had some good practices, but we must decide on the final roster to prepare for our first game against the Athletics.”

Muttering sounded through the players at that.

“I don’t want to play them again so soon any more than the rest of you do, but they’re in the same city. We can’t help but play them more than any other. I, for one, would rather be the better team from the start.”

He received a great deal of agreement to that.

“Today is going to be different than most early practices,” he said, trying not to smile, for he knew none of them would enjoy this.

None but him. He loved this shit. “I don’t want to work on plays yet, and you’ve practiced passing and shooting enough that if you miss the goalposts now, you should go home to your sofa. ”

“Is this not football?” Felix asked, and Rhys shot a warning glare his way, but didn’t bother responding. He didn’t need his leadership questioned right now.

“You all know the hill rise at the end of the field?”

Most of them nodded, although some stared at him stoically, as though if they refused to acknowledge it, he would forget it was there.

“You’re going to run across the field and up the rise. I’ll have weighted leather balls on top. Pass them back and forth to a teammate five times each. Then back down the hill. Stop at the goalpost, where you will hold your body in a squat position for a minute before returning to the start.”

Most of them were looking at him with eyes so wide, it was a wonder they didn’t fall right out of their heads.

“Then what?” Mickey asked.

“Then you do it again.”

“How many times?” asked Tommy, scratching the side of his head as though he was trying to figure a way out of this.

“Until I tell you to stop.”

“Rhys!” Tommy protested. Of course.

“Would you rather be doing something else, Tom?”

“No.”

“Then, this shouldn’t be too difficult a task, now, should it?”

Tommy sighed. “No.”

Williams himself was the only one who wasn’t protesting, who didn’t look completely dismayed.

At least, so Rhys could tell. It was always difficult, for the lad never looked right at him. He could see that his face appeared to be turning even paler than it had been before, which was saying something.

“Any questions?”

He should never have asked, for they were soon firing so many things at him, he threatened to leave.

“Will you do it with us?” Colin asked with a spark in his eye, and Rhys finally grinned at that.

“Of course.”

Emmaline was going to die.

She was sure of it.

She had never been so pushed to the edge before, not like this.

But she would never give anyone the satisfaction of knowing what this was doing to her.

Most especially not Rhys Lockwood – who, at the moment, she hated with every piece of her heart.

She knew precisely why he was doing this.

He was doing this to test her.

And she refused to fail.

Sweat – she couldn’t even call it perspiration anymore – coursed over her entire body, was even dripping into her eyes.

She wasn’t sure how many times they had run up this stupid hill now. Ten? Fifteen? She knew it was ten times too many, and they could stop right about now.

She was about to tell Rhys that she would gladly quit the team if it meant she could stop more of this insanity, when a figure practically flew up the hill beside her.

It was Rhys himself. Of course. He had the body of a Greek god, like one of those marble statues she saw in the museum when she had visited London a few years ago.

Did he never tire?

She had seen him from afar charging up this hill the first time, and she had thought that he would surely lose his momentum after the first one, whereas she was stretching all of her stamina over the many times she would be doing this.

At least, that’s what she was telling herself.

To her horror, he slowed, drawing even with her.

She honestly had never looked worse. Besides the sweat, her breath was coming in the most ungainly pants possible.

“How are you doing, Williams?”

Did the man even sweat? He was speaking in full sentences, his voice as even and clear as though he was sitting down having tea.

“Fine,” she managed between breaths.

“Ready to give up?”

Yes. One thousand times yes.

She turned her head just enough to meet his eye and saw how he was challenging her, waiting for her to give in, and give up.

“No,” she said, one word emerging with each exhale. “Good.”

She had much more to say than that but didn’t have the breath to say it.

“Very well,” Rhys said. “We’ll see many give out before you.”

Before her? She had the worst stamina out of all of them. Why would he think any would be done with this idiotic exercise before her?

“They might have strength,” he said, reading her mind, “but they do not have the same end goal as you, Williams. If you want this – if you really want this – that determination should keep you going even when your heart and feet want to quit. You hear me?”

They had reached the top of the hill, and now all she could do was nod.

“Good,” he said, reaching down and picking up one of the weighted leather balls. Oh, wonderful. He was to be her partner.

She braced herself, just managing to catch the ball when he tossed it toward her. He sent so much momentum behind it, it set her back a step with an “oof,” but it only fueled her resolve, and she sent it back flying toward him.

“I-” she braced herself to catch it again.

“…will—” throw…

“…not—” catch, almost dropped that one …

“…give up !” She put all her power into that last word and resolve as she sent the ball flying toward him, and when he caught it, he looked up at her with surprise.

“Well done,” he said, and she marched over to him, her hands on her hips as she tried to remember to deepen her voice.

“Test me all you want,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You know that I’m the best. Sure, I haven’t played in a while. But that will come. All you have to do is give me a chance.”

She began to back away.

“Choose someone lesser than me, and that’s on you. I will help you win, and you know it.”

They were short a few throws, but she didn’t care. She was done with this. With him.

She was here to play football games, not his manipulative ones.

“Williams!”

It took her an extra second to remember that she was Williams, and she quickly whirled around and faced him.

“Yes?” she said, her tone clipped.

“Stop keeping to yourself,” he said, his brow furrowed. “This is a team. It won’t work if we each play as individuals and the way to start is off the field.”

“Are you saying that I have to hold hands and sing songs with the other men?”

He stopped, staring at her. Likely because she had gone from ignoring him to saying whatever she felt.

But he had pushed her far enough now that her true self was threatening to emerge.

“No. But you could come for a drink now and again,” he drawled, unaffected by her attitude.

A drink. It was one thing to face men who might recognize her when she was running by them on the football pitch. It was quite another to sit across the table from them face-to-face where they could scrutinize her.

“Perhaps,” she hedged.

As he leaned in closer toward her, she backed away. He noticed and frowned.

“You’re a good player. But you’re making this difficult,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. She took a moment to study him, inspecting him from head to toe.

Rhys wore a full, well-kept beard that framed his strong jaw and lent an air of gravitas to his already commanding presence.

His dark hair was swept neatly to the side, the thick waves tamed but not overly polished.

His tan chest and a few hairs peeked out of the top of his shirt, and Emmaline had to work hard not to bite her lip.

“I want to be here,” she blurted, knowing what all of this was – concern that she wouldn’t fit in with the team, that she didn’t have what it took. “I know I seem as though I don’t belong here, but I will work on that. I promise you.”

He nodded just once, up and down, as his eyes bored into hers so intently, she felt naked.

“See that you do. I don’t want to be made a liar.”

With those parting words, he jogged down the hill as easily as if he were out for a Sunday stroll.

Emmaline watched him go, realizing, for the first time, that this might not be as easy as she had thought it would be.