Page 15 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

I ’M TACKLED TO the ground for what feels like the twentieth time, and it’s getting old.

“Oh, come on! Get your head in the game!” Coach is easily two-thirds down the pitch, but there’s no mistaking his words were meant for me. When I stand and look back, he’s waving a binder in one hand and glaring at me. He is pissed.

As he should be, honestly. I leap up and run, doing my level best to re-focus. I’ve spent more of my time with my head in the Elodie-shaped clouds than with a ball in my hands, and it’s less than ideal.

Gabe skips past the try line and presses the ball to the ground, then turns around and blows a kiss at me.

Fucker. In a real game, that would have been five points.

I give him the bird, and he laughs while pretending to flip his hair. “Gotta get up faster than that if you think you’re going to catch me.”

“From the lineout,” Coach barks. “Move!”

We run back to the sidelines and get in position: two lines of opposing practice teams facing our hooker Cash, who’s on my team and holds the ball on the sideline. On each line, the two props prepare to lift a third man into the air.

Coach bellows, and the play starts. Cash angles the ball toward our line as Jake and Chandler are lifted by the guys. They’re both tall as fuck, but Chandler’s got maybe two inches on Jake, and his reach is on full display as he leans to snatch the ball from Jake’s fingertips.

“Here!” I yell so Chandler knows where I am, and he tosses it in my direction as he’s lowered to the ground.

Ball firmly in my grip, I haul ass. I get a full five seconds with it—damn near an eternity, and I make every second count, eating up the yards as fast as I can—before Xavier appears in my periphery, his only goal to take possession of the ball.

I have to throw it, sending it backward to my wing, Carter.

He catches it with a wink, pivoting away from a tackle effort by one of the rookies and sprinting down the pitch.

I keep running, ready to take it if needed.

Sure enough, Carter throws it behind him, and I catch it, flinging it back to Sam, who tosses to Xavier while Carter performs some kind of miracle maneuver, spinning away from yet another rookie to get right where Xavier needs him.

He catches it, then runs the remaining yards to the try line.

And he almost makes it, too, before getting slammed at the waist by the other team’s flanker. The ball rolls a couple of feet, and it’s a race between me and the full-back to get it. He beats me to it, turning and drop-kicking the ball way the fuck down the pitch and away from the try line.

“Mother fucker ,” I curse, turning and running.

After the three-hour practice, I shower and throw on a tee with my favorite pair of black mesh shorts. They’re loose and comfortable, which is welcome after wearing the tight shorts the sport requires.

Carter’s heading out when I catch up to him. “Great job today,” I tell him.

He grins, pure cockiness oozing out of him. “That’s the name of the game, old man. Those football guys got nothing on my fast feet.”

I laugh. “Should I get our PR team on that? You versus a receiver on the Falcons?”

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Do it. I’ll crush that dude.”

“I love your enthusiasm.”

“You mean my youth ,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Get outta here with that shit.” He’s probably in his early twenties, along with a good half of the team. “Don’t let Lennox hear you say that stuff.”

Carter laughs. “Facts. He’d kick my ass just to remind me he could. But speaking of the Scot, how is he? Heard from him?”

“Good. Happy to be home for a bit but also wishes he were here training with us.”

Carter opens the door of his Jeep and winks. “Tell him I’ll kick his ass when he gets back.”

I chuckle. “Will do.”

The second I’m alone, my thoughts turn to Elodie. I have no idea what I’m doing, but for once in my life, I’m going to try to relax about it.

Which, in all honesty, is laughable. There’s no way I’ll relax. I don’t do relaxed.

Although I was happy to relax last night with Elodie. That woman’s lips are sent from heaven. And the little noises she made? The gasps and whimpers? Fuck me. I spent an extra five minutes in the shower this morning just so I could be certain I wouldn’t immediately get hard the instant I saw her.

It almost didn’t work.

She’d breezed into the kitchen like she always does, fresh-faced and beautiful, a wild mess of wavy curls piled on top of her head, one shoulder bare from the oversized tee she wore.

A shoulder I’d had beneath my lips for a glorious moment last night.

Then I caught her vanilla and sugar scent.

It was the same scent I’d breathed last night, the same scent she always wears.

Probably something simple like a lotion, but damn , it gets me every time.

Thankfully, I’d been making breakfast for Rosalie, so I simply focused on sprinkling cheddar cheese into the scrambled eggs and pretended everything was fine.

Everything is not fine.

“Get a grip, Miles,” I murmur, merging onto the interstate and beginning the thirty-minute drive home.

Atlanta traffic is, hands down, the worst. The only bonus is that, even though every person on the road drives like a crazed lunatic, most of them pay attention, so the experience is just this side of chaos.

A shot of adrenaline to start and end your day.

That’s what I tell myself anyway. In reality, I’d love to pull the city planners to the side and shake them.

When I exit the interstate, I head to the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner. I’ve never asked Elodie what she likes; for all I know, I’ve been stocking the house with things she’s allergic to, or at the very least, despises. I pull my phone out before I think too much about it.

“Hello?” Elodie’s voice sounds fucking delicious over the phone.

“What do you like to eat?”

She huffs a surprised laugh. “Um, food?”

I hear a splash in the background. She must be by the pool.

“If this is about dinner, Rosalie is demanding pizza. I haven’t committed one way or another, but figured you’d want to know.”

“Good to know,” I say, steering a cart out of the line at the front and making a mental note to get the ingredients for pizza. “But I mean in general. I’m heading into the grocery store, and I don’t know what you like.”

“Oh, I don’t care. Besides, I have food.” Another splash. “That was a six,” she calls out.

“A six?” Rosie’s voice is distant, but clear as a bell in its indignation. “That was at least an eight.”

“No, that was barely a medium-sized splash,” Elodie shoots back. “Sorry,” she says to me. “I’m judging her cannonballs.”

I laugh. “I know that game well. Back to food. What do you like?”

“It doesn’t matter, anything is good,” she says.

Well, this won’t do. What was it she said last night—that everyone always says she’s so nice? This is a classic nice girl move. “Quit being nice, Elodie.”

“I’m not being nice; I’m just saying that…”

I grin as she falters. “I heard you last night, Elle.”

She’s silent on the other end.

Shit. “Did I say something wrong?” I ask.

“No!” she blurts. “No, it’s only,” she exhales. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“Right. Sorry. I mean— crap —I’m not sorry. I mean that I say sorry too much, and I’m sorry for saying sorry?” Her voice rises as she speaks.

“Breathe, Elle.” I chuckle. “It’s okay. This is day one of not being nice, remember?”

She exhales. “Right. But I’ve actually been working on it longer than that.”

“Fair enough.”

“Excuse me?” A voice pipes up on my right.

I look down and see a little boy, probably about ten years old, staring at me. He’s wearing an Atlanta Granite shirt, and his mother stands a few feet away, grinning. “Hi,” I say.

“Are you Ansel Miles?” he asks.

I smile. “I am.” To the phone, I say, “Hang on one sec.”

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“You like rugby?”

He nods furiously. “You’re my favorite.”

“Really?”

“He’s got a poster of you in his room,” his mother says.

“That’s pretty cool,” I say. “Do you play?”

“I want to, but there aren’t any teams my age in town,” he answers, his disappointment clear.

“Well, that’s no good,” I say. “We need to fix that.”

He nods again, his eyes still wide as saucers.

Behind him, his mother asks, “Mind if we get a picture?”

The boy whirls to his mother and back to me, but all I do is nod and grin. “Of course.”

We take the picture, and they disappear down the aisle. I pick the phone back up and hear Elodie call out, “So close! That was a nine!”

“I’m back,” I say.

“That was downright adorable,” she gushes. “How often does that happen?”

I think about it. “Eh, depends. When season is in, it’s fairly common. But I’ve never been recognized in the grocery store.”

“Wait, are you famous?”

I laugh. “I’m a professional athlete, Elodie. So…sort of? Nothing like the pro footballers or basketball players in the city, but I’m known enough.”

“Huh.”

I can’t decide if I’m insulted or charmed that she’s utterly clueless. “Anyway, back to me being in the grocery store. I need you to tell me what you want to eat.”

“You.”

I skid to a stop in the canned food section. Holy shit. “Did you?—”

“Oh my God,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean that.”

I grin. “I don’t know,” I tease. “I think you did. You find out I’m famous and suddenly?—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No!” I laugh, starting to walk again. “Please don’t. We’ll move past that.” Even though I most definitely do not want to move past that.

“Pasta.” The word comes out as if she still has her hand over her mouth. I can picture how red she must be right now. Fucking adorable.

“You like pasta?”

“And shrimp. All seafood.”

“Look at you go—now we’re getting somewhere. What else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Are you squirming?” I tease. “I bet you’re squirming.”

“Shut up.”

I bark out a laugh, startling some of the other shoppers. I lower my voice. “Tell me what else you like, Elodie.”

She starts to cough.

“You okay?”

She gives a strangled “Yep!” Then coughs more.

I keep going, moving through the store as quickly as I can. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Are we done here? Don’t you need to focus on shopping? Price comparison and all that?”

I toss a box of Honey Nut Cheerios in the basket. “Uh, no? I just want to know what you like.”

Something between a choke and a whimper comes through the phone.

“Seriously, are you okay? Do you need water?” I prompt.

“Nope, we’re good!” she chirps. “But, ah, I gotta go. Hard work judging cannonballs, you know.”

“But—”

“See you when you get home, bye!”

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. Huh. She hung up on me. Was it something I said? Shrugging, I finish the shopping and head home.

My phone buzzes as I’m pulling into the driveway. I grin as I throw the engine into Park, figuring it’s Elodie. But the second I pull my phone from the outside kit pocket, my system floods with anger.

UNKNOWN

Ansel, you can’t keep ignoring me.

Yeah? Watch me. I pull up my lawyer’s number and dial.

“Ansel?”

“Hi, Jennifer.”

“What’s up? You only call me when things are going to shit.”

My laugh is strained. “Yeah, well, you are my lawyer. No need to call you when things are rosy.”

“Fair enough,” she concedes. “But it’s been years.”

“Five years, in fact.”

She hums. “You’re lucky I still have your contact in my cell. Must mean I like you. Tell me what’s going on.”

I hesitate. The second I say the next words, this whole thing gets very, very real.

“Listen, if it’s a criminal defense lawyer that you need, I’m not your woman,” Jennifer says, “so if that’s what this is about, spit it out and I’ll get you a name.”

I turn the air conditioner to Arctic. “It’s Rosalie’s mother. She’s back.”