Page 2 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

T HE ROAR OF the crowd is deafening, powering me on as I grip the ball. I run, lungs heaving in the final seconds of the game, looking for someone, anyone , to pass the ball to.

There’s no one.

I’m not even supposed to have the damn ball right now. But sometimes that’s how it goes. Tucking it tighter against my body, I double down. I’m almost there.

I already can’t hear shit, and the packed stadium gets even louder.

Too late, I realize why: one of the other team’s players is diving at me, angling his body perfectly towards my waist. There’s another at my back.

Where the fuck is River? Carter? I’ll take anyone.

There. Coming into view on my left is our number eight, Lennox Campbell, and not a moment too soon. I toss the ball in his direction, praying he catches it as I’m taken down. It’s an effort to keep my eyes open, straining to watch the ball as my body hits the pitch.

We go down in a heap of grunts and curses, me first, then three other players on the opposing team.

There’s not enough time. I scramble up and scan the pitch, hoping like hell that Lennox caught the ball and made the try.

But he’s booking it in the opposite direction, chasing the Hounds’ winger like a man possessed.

Fuck.

I turn and sprint, knowing I can’t make it in the three seconds we have left and hauling ass like I’m going to anyway.

All our guys are running hard, doing everything they can to break through the Hounds’ defenses and make it to their number eleven.

Holy shit that guy is fast. We knew he was.

We trained to stop him. We have to stop him.

If we don’t, we lose the fucking championship.

And there he goes, flinging his body toward the try line with two seconds to go, ball gripped tight in one hand, arms outstretched, legs nearly covered by our guys.

The crowd roars, increasing in volume when the winger pops up and nearly gets tackled again by his teammates.

They made it.

We lost.

The yell that comes out of me is loud, primal, and pissed. “Fuck!”

The sounds in the locker room are muted, and I can’t tell if it’s that everyone is subdued, or if it’s my own rage drowning them out. I rip my shirt off and toss it in my bag, momentarily considering skipping the shower but knowing that Lennox will give me ten kinds of shit for it.

Besides, I played the entire eighty minutes. I stink.

Coach shoots me a glance from across the room, and I know what he wants.

I’m the captain; I should probably say something to the team.

Lucky for Coach, I don’t have it in me. We lost. We worked our asses off, we left it all on the pitch, and we lost anyway.

I’ve got nothing to say, so I shake my head and start unwinding the tape on my wrists.

Coach taps his cheek and raises a brow. “You’re bleeding ,” he mouths.

I shrug. I know. But it happened on that last hit, so I ignored it. Pretty sure I took a cleat to the face. Wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

He narrows his eyes.

I turn my back on him and sit on the hard bench, unlacing my boots with quick jerks of my fingers. Behind me, Coach calls the room to order.

“I’m not going to say anything you don’t already know,” he starts.

I peel off the tape around my ankles.

“But remember that last year, we were last place in the league. Last. Place.”

A chorus of grunts and grumbles responds.

“And this year, we damn near took the championship. Am I disappointed? Hell yes, I am. But we almost won.”

I stand and face Coach. “Almost isn’t good enough.”

“No shit, Miles,” Coach fires back.

“So quit saying we almost won,” I growl in return. “We lost. We played our asses off. But we lost. That’s the end of it.” I look at my teammates. For so many of them, this is a part-time job, never mind that we’re Major League Rugby. The pay isn’t great.

“Not really the inspiring speech we’re looking for,” Cash mutters from the bench beside me. He’s our hooker. Great guy. Does the job. Huge heart.

I look at him. “Since when have I been known for inspiring speeches?”

He grins. “Good point.”

“When is our next practice?” I ask Coach.

He gapes at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Today was the championship game.”

“That we lost.”

The locker room is deadly quiet as Coach and I have a staring contest.

Finally, he dips his chin in the barest acknowledgment that I might actually know what the fuck I’m talking about. “Two weeks.”

Noise erupts as I nod my thanks to him and head to the showers, ignoring the protests from my teammates that we were supposed to get the summer off.

The bus ride home is brutal. The team rarely puts us on planes—not even the economy ones, not that our bodies would fit in those seats, but still—so if it’s an eight-hour or less drive between cities, we’re making the trek in a chartered bus.

It’s not the bus that’s the problem. It’s Lennox, who won’t shut up.

“Are you a fecking gowk, Ansel? I thought there was more in your brain than that. Or did that last hit knock the sense off you?” It’s late, and his Scottish burr is really coming through.

I take the good-natured swat to the head that he delivers from the seat behind me before raising up to look back at him. “Define ‘gowk,’ Len.”

He huffs. “You know what it means, you ass.”

I do. But I love making him explain things because it drives him crazy. “If I’m a gowk, then you’re a lavvy heid.”

“I regret the day I taught you anything about my language.”

I laugh, then grow serious. “We have to practice, Len. You know these guys need it.”

He shrugs his massive shoulders. “I know. But I wanted to visit home.”

Glasgow. “So go. If anyone doesn’t need the practice, it’s the guy who’s been playing since he could walk. It’s the Americans who need the help.”

“You’re American.”

I flash him a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, but I’m not normal.”

“Ye can say that again,” he says with a chuckle. “What about you? Thought you had plans to work.”

“I’ll be fine.” But I don’t know if that’s true. Then again, I never know if that’s true. For the past five years, ever since Rosalie landed in my life like my own personal flower bomb, I’ve had to take things month by month. Hell, sometimes week by week and day to day.

I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one second of it.

I mean, yes, it’s shocking to open your door and find your neighbor asking why the hell there’s an infant on your doorstep, but once I got through that initial surprise, I dove into fatherhood without hesitation.

I needed help—a lot of it at first—and my mom jumped in, teaching me everything I needed to know.

Once I got my feet under me and Mom was certain I could do it myself, she went back to Charleston, with promises to visit with Dad.

And they have. Rosalie has a wonderful relationship with them.

But being a professional rugby player and single dad isn’t for the faint of heart.

I’m the best-paid player on the team, and I definitely have the best sponsorship deals, but living in the suburbs of Atlanta means everything is expensive—especially childcare.

Which is why I was beyond thrilled when Mom and Dad offered to take Rosie for the entire summer this year, starting next week.

I’d planned to use the time to find some construction work or even use my finance degree in some way.

Admittedly, I was a little behind on locking something down, but given the way I opened my big mouth earlier today, I guess that isn’t the worst thing.

Lennox gazes at me with those all-knowing eyes of his, and I stare right back. “I’m talking to Coach, then. I miss the cold.”

I roll my eyes and slump in the seat. Hours later, we’ve made it back to our own stadium and I’m in my SUV heading home.

It’s the wee hours of Sunday morning by the time I’m sliding my key into the lock and walking in the front door, unwilling to open the garage door and risk the sound of it waking Rosalie.

The house is quiet, but the smell of fresh coffee wafts from the kitchen. I make my way there and find Sharon, my neighbor and personal saint from heaven, waiting for me. “Figured you’d be here soon,” she says, pushing a freshly poured mug across the island to me.

“You’re a goddess among women,” I tell her, taking a grateful sip. “My coffee never tastes this good.”

She smiles, but it’s pinched. “I have news.”

My body stills, all my senses focused on the woman in front of me.

“Your mom called last night. Everything is fine,” she hurries to say, holding up a hand and meeting my eyes.

I exhale, shoulders drooping in relief. “Jesus, Sharon. Don’t do that to me.”

“She didn’t want to bother you while you were playing, and asked I deliver the news.”

Still feeling a little wobbly, I ask, “Which is what?”

She hesitates, then dives in. “That your dad needed emergency knee surgery because he fell off the ladder. And that it was his good knee, meaning they’re going to operate on the other knee in a month or so, once he’s mobile again.”

As she speaks, a sinking sensation takes over.

I know where she’s going with this. My parents are proud people, never wanting to accept help if they can handle things on their own.

But proud or not, Dad’s accident means there’s only so much they’re going to be able to handle this summer.

An energetic five-year-old is not on the list.

With a final, sorrowful smile, Sharon says, “They can’t keep Rosalie this summer.”