Page 9

Blake shook his head with his own low rumble-cum-laugh and fisted his towel.

Scrubbed the sweat from his face. Poor bastards.

He hadn’t meant to mess with the room. His only thought had been: bar bad, gym good.

That throwing alcohol on what was already a combustible mix could backfire spectacularly.

Life lesson #1 handed down by dear old Dad.

So, he’d done an about-turn in the parking lot, hoping exercise would put out the fire.

But it was still there, the heat in his veins, the pulsating panic… the realisation that he had no choice but to do what they asked. To delve into his past, the one thing he’d spent a lifetime running from. Ashbury Falls. His father. His fists.

Now they wanted him to face it all. Not just face it but talk about it. Put the truth into the hands of the public who’d been more than happy to share the gossip that had spewed out of Ashbury Falls with his success. His and his brother’s.

And it was one thing for it to come from everyone else, another for it to come from them. Unfiltered. Honest. ‘Fuck.’

‘I didn’t say it was a bad thing.’ Larsson’s blue eyes danced in the overhead lights, his neck tattoo straining as he hoisted the barbell onto his shoulders.

‘Suits me fine. The quiet. The space. Less rookies and their silly talk. But if you want to talk, get whatever it is off your chest, I will listen.’

Blake blinked. Had the Big Man just offered to lend him an ear? ‘What is it with everyone wanting to listen to my problems today?’

‘Someone once said to me, the more you talk about it now, the less you’ll have to apologise for later.’

Blake gave another rumble. ‘I can’t believe you just said that to me.’

‘I think it makes sense, no?’

The words chased around Blake’s head: talk, be honest, let it out…

He ran a finger through the collar of his compression tee, struggling to breathe as the memories tumbled free, one after the other, his past fighting through the wall he’d erected long ago. He didn’t want to revisit those days because, sheer misery.

‘I think’ – he got to his feet, tearing the tee over his head and cherishing the chill of the aircon against his sweat-drenched skin – ‘you talk too much.’

Words he never thought he’d hear himself say about Edvin fucking Larsson.

‘And you talk too little, Pretty Boy.’

Blake shook his head and crossed the room. ‘Bite me, Big Man.’

He exited the gym on Larsson’s chortle, straight into something soft and warm and yelping like a pup.

‘Blake!’

He frowned down at the woman rebounding off his chest. ‘Astrid, what are you…?’

Her eyes collided with his, two slashes of pink riding high in her cheeks. ‘You’re sweaty!’

Laughter fizzed its way through the fire in his veins. ‘I am.’

Her honeyed eyes flitted down. ‘And naked .’

If her voice reached any higher the dogs would come running…

‘Not quite, sweetheart, but that can be arranged.’

She swallowed, the tiniest squeak just audible over the heavy metal bassline pounding through the gym wall.

‘You’re funny.’

‘I was being serious, and did you just… did you just squeak ?’

‘No, of course not.’ She scrunched up her face and hugged her notepad tight against her chest, so tight that her cleavage heaved above the neckline and he had to fight to keep his eyes up. The way her babies were shifting… she was struggling to breathe. Something he could relate to. Roll with even.

‘If you want to drop the pen and paper, I can give you something more engaging to tangle with.’

Her lips parted as she drew in a shallow breath. ‘I don’t think that’s…’

The words faltered as her gaze fell to his right pec, to his tattoo. Slowly, her hand lifted towards the ink. ‘ Est suae quisque fortunae. ’

His chest twitched in response, anticipating her touch. But just before her fingers met his skin, she stopped, curling them into a tight fist.

Shame.

‘It’s Latin,’ he said. ‘It means?—’

‘Every man is the architect of his own fortune.’

Of course Foxy Journo would know what it meant…

‘Yes.’

She wet her lips, her inquisitive gaze lifting to his. ‘Which explains the compass too.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the eagle…?’

It took him a second to steady his pulse, another to fight the urge that wanted to respond to the appreciation cutting through her curiosity.

Was this her trying to detract from the heat? Trying to change the subject? Or was this a cunning ruse to get him to spill something personal? Well, fuck that!

‘Fortune favours the brave and the bold.’

Blake stiffened at the sound of his brother’s voice, turning to see him approach with Harry their latest recruit by his side.

‘And those who escape the trappings of their past to reach for a better future,’ Aiden added, more than willing to give up all the detail.

‘It’s my tattoo, bro,’ he threw at him. ‘You think you can leave me to explain it?’

Not that he’d been about to…

‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

Both Astrid and Harry watched the exchange with interest and Blake was done being interesting. ‘I’m going to shower.’

He moved off and his brother stepped in his path.

‘I figured we could take Astrid for a drink, get acquainted on a more casual level before she?—’

‘Be my guest. I have better things to be doing with my time.’

He pushed past him on a mission to get clear of the scene that had changed so swiftly. From desire to despair – the chill of his past too ready to take over.

‘Blake…’

‘Maybe it’s best to let him cool off,’ Astrid interjected, her soothing tone trailing after him. ‘You and I can go for a drink though. It’s been a day.’

Great. Now he was the cause of ‘the day’ and his brother was taking Foxy out for some one-on-one time.

You were the one who said, “be my guest”!

Didn’t mean he had to like it though.

Didn’t mean he was jealous.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t as messed up as everyone said.

He stalked through the locker room, stripping as he went, every player present parting like the sea did for Moses. He hit the shower and slammed it to cold.

Let Aiden do the talking; it’s safer that way.

She’d only hate you if she knew you.

The real you.

He scrubbed at his chest, his nails raking over the tattoo she had taken such time over and its meaning… his brother’s apt description…

‘Tell me that I’m wrong.’

No, his brother wasn’t wrong. The eagle was about him, the compass was about him, the words too. It was all about breaking free of the past, the pain and his mistakes… the problem was, he still felt as chained to them as ever.

And here he was, hiding out in the locker room like he had as a teen, anything to avoid going home. To avoid the drunken onslaught, the fighting and the shouting…

The noise that never ceased.

Until he’d made it cease.

His gut rolled and he pressed his palms into the cold tiles, willing the memory away. The police, the blood, the?—

‘You alright, Blake?’

It was Harry, the young rookie Aiden had been with in the hallway. The lad looked nervous as hell as he stood in the doorway. Not too dissimilar to the boy he’d once been in these same four walls. Green, freshly drafted, trying to find his place in a team of peers and idols alike.

Took some balls for the lad to come and ask, and he took pity on him. Gave a smile.

‘Aye, I’m alright, Harry.’

Or at least he would be once he put himself back in the driving seat of his own destiny…

‘Every man is the architect of his own fortune.’

Time to start acting like it.