England, Present Day
Twenty-six was too young to feel this old. Seth Marshall leaned with both hands against the tiled shower stall and let hot water pelt the muscles along his shoulders. The euphoria that had given him wings and allowed him to fly in the stadium not half an hour earlier now sloughed from his body, swirled around the drain, and disappeared. A crushing weight replaced the retreating lightness, the walls of the shower room closing in on him.
The pied piper must be paid. Too bad no one had warned him the cost would be his soul.
Ninety minutes of freedom to soar on the football pitch, but then he was required to return to the invisible shackles no one in the stands saw. The sport and his talent for it were supposed to have been his ticket out of a situation with no escape, but he’d only traded one kind of prison for another.
Raucous laughter bounced around the enclosed room, his teammates still riding the high of the win. They’d chase it, that feeling of being unstoppable. Untouchable. On top of the world. But fame, fortune, notoriety…they were addictive mistresses, always tempting you to give more, do more, be more.
But somehowmorehad been skewed in a circus funhouse mirror, and reality caught a person with his pants down, spray painted his heart black, and became decidedlyless.The hazy fog wrapping his mind cleared enough to blink away the last shreds of its effect, and he found that he now and truly belonged in the London rat hole he’d dug himself out of.
Seth clenched his hands into fists, the last dregs of triumph from the win gurgling in the drain under him. He shut off the water and lifted the Turkish cotton towel hanging from the peg outside the stall. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out of the shower room and into the group of athletes starting their celebration early.
If he were lucky, he’d be able to change and extricate himself before the revelers turned their attention to him. Too bad he knew he’d run out of luck a long time ago. Also knew his teammates were on a mission to “reform” him back to his old ways.
Briggs watched Seth as he dug through his locker and placed his duffle on a bench. The goalie tipped back an amber bottle of Old Speckled Hen, his favorite brand of ale. “Coming out with us tonight, Mr. MVP?”
Seth would rather get dressed without a room full of men hanging around, but he’d given up all rights to privacy when he’d signed onto the English Premiere League for a price tag of £17 million—enough to have the red top tabloids catch his whiff and trail him like the bloodhounds they were.
He eyed the group around him. These blokes would no doubt make the paparazzi’s job easy tonight. Come morning, headlines would be plastered on printed and digital media alike.
Whether the news stories were true or not.
Seth slipped his boxer-briefs on under his towel and then let the cotton swath fall to the ground as he reached for his pants. “Sorry. Not tonight.”
Briggs lowered his bottle, cradling the neck with two fingers. His gaze narrowed as it zeroed in on Seth.
Seth sighed, then braced himself. The first invitation had been friendly. Tactics were about to turn. He could feel it in his bones.
“Midge is bringing her friend. And I have to say, this particular friend has all the right parts in all the right places.” Briggs’s brows jumped up and down suggestively as his hands outlined an hourglass silhouette.
“And just how would your ugly backside know?” Corker laughed.
Briggs didn’t say anything, but his grin stretched, and his chest puffed out like a peacock strutting around a harem of hens.
Seth’s stomach curdled.
The other guys hooted and slapped each other on the back. Like it was a thing to be celebrated, cheating on one’s wife with her friend and getting away with it. Sad as that rubbish was, Midge probably knew about the affair and had turned a blind eye. The wives were just as trapped as the players were, accustomed to a way of life that Seth had only recently come to see as a gilded cell.
He bristled as Davie leaned a shoulder against the bank of lockers. The striker crossed his lean arms as his lids lowered to half-mast. His gaze skated across the room, eating up the rapt attention of his audience.
“Monk Marshall?” He chuckled. “Come on, boys. You know the saint has forgotten how to have a good time.” A wicked smirk morphed his pretty-boy features into something ugly. “His sister, on the other hand, is a different story, am I right?”
Blood pounded in Seth’s ears, drowning out the whoops sounding from the circle of guys. He finished buttoning his pants in a flurry and then whirled and slammed his forearm to the base of Davie’s collar bone, banging the striker’s head against the metal locker with a thud.
“Stay away from my sister,” Seth growled. He held Davie’s gaze for three beats, drilling into the man that he meant business before shoving him sideways and swiping a glare to the rest of his teammates. “That goes for all of you louts.”
They held up their hands, muttering assurances under their breath.
Davie wiped at his mouth and then straightened his Oxford shirt. He pulled at his cuffs, an air of nonchalance about him. “If only you’d told me sooner, mate.” His tone bit like the uppercut of a dirty fighter, then he licked at his lips. “She all but begged me to show her how good a time we footballers know how—”
Seth shut him up. And good. Blood spurted from Davie’s nose, his face growing red. Someone wrapped their arms through Seth’s and held him back at the shoulders. Shouts erupted, curses piercing the room.
Davie lifted his face, crimson leaking through his fingers while a cocky glint shone from his eyes. “I always knew you weren’t any better than us, Monk Marshall.”
Security guards burst through the door, and Seth shook off the hands holding him. He swiped a shirt from his open duffle and slipped it on over his head before he was escorted out.
Anger burned a streak down his esophagus, and he wanted to strike out and hit something again. Certain things were off limits, and family topped the short list. The guys could hound him for his new “no fun” ways and call him Monk Marshall until the sheep moved from the blasted roads, but they didn’t make comments about a man’s family—his sister—and they certainly didn’t sleep with her. Use her for their own debauchery.
