Page 10 of Forbid It

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I mean, they’re really banking on you batting your eyelashes to the cameras. Do they know about your creepy smile in photographs? Have they seen the picture from your contract signing? Horrifying stuff. We use it as a Halloween decoration.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes, the panic fading into a dull ache behind my ribcage. “You’re such a dick. Besides, I think he wants me on the pitch more than on camera.”

“Well, that’s something at least. Listen Rob, you just need to keep your head down and play.” I find myself nodding as if he can see me. “Let Hamilton worry about getting bums in seats, all you can do is play the game.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Although,” Iwan muses, “if he wants star power, he’s probably going to get his daughter involved.”

“His daughter?” My throat dries.

“Yeah, Cassandra.” My brother tells me as if I haven’t spent every second since that goddamn party trying not to think about her. Her smooth laugh and even smoother legs, the anklet that glinted in the moonlight. The way she made me laugh for the first time since my plane took off from Heathrow. Hell, maybe the first time since my injury.

I’m so distracted by the thoughts I’ve been trying to repress that I barely register the next words out of Iwan’s mouth. “The pop star.”

Wait what?

I must make some sort of confused noise because Iwan carries on.

“You know her, she’s the one Ffion listens to every second of the bleeding day. You bought her that vinyl for Christmas.” A vague memory surfaces but I’m pretty sure I just pressed buy on everything on the birthday list my sister-in-law sent me. It’s not like I analyzed the album cover to see if there were any similarities to the billionaire who was just about to buy my whole career and force me to move across the world. And I definitely didn’t think about the covers of any hastily bought Christmas presents when I had my tongue in her pussy and her thighs wrapped around my head.

“Right.”

“Did you not know she was his daughter?”

I cup my hand against my forehead. No, I didn’t bloody know. Was this common knowledge that somehow passed me by?

“Yeah, yeah. Of course I did.” I stand up. “Listen, I’ve got to go back out there.”

“Alright, mate.”

“Iwan.” I bite my cheek. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. And send Mum pictures of your new place. She’s dying to bother you about it but she can’t, so she’s bothering me instead.”

I chuckle. “I will.”

I hang up and take a deep breath. All I need to do is keep my head down, play the game for a season and I can get out of here. Get back to the League and my family and play for my country. And stay far, far away from Cassandra Hamilton.

By the time I’m back on the pitch, the sun shining down on me and burning the back of my neck, I’ve all but forgotten about Cassie. Surely he’s not going to use his daughter to sell tickets. She has nothing to do with the club or the sport in general. Why would she be anywhere near me again?

4

CASSIE

I’ve been to stadiums before, but usually I’ve been the one performing.

The inside is quiet, except for the sound of my sneakers on the linoleum floor and the clicking of Adam, my dad’s assistant’s, shoes. Adam met me in the parking lot to escort me to my father. I assumed we’d be in his glass office overlooking the pitch, but as I’m led further through the circular stadium, I’m not so sure. The fresh paint smell lingers as we pass through dark blue corridors.

“Mr Hamilton had contractors repainting over the weekend,” Adam tells me as he uses his keycard to open a door. “Royal blue.”

“Looks great,” I tell him as I follow him through the double doors. The hallway slants downwards and I can see a shaft of light peeking from behind a corner.

The bright sun shines in my eyes as soon as we turn onto the field, and I reach for the sunglasses perched in my hair. Of course, when your hair is a mess of curls like mine, the ends of the glasses get caught, and I emerge onto the field with crossed eyes trying to untangle them.

“Cassie,” I hear my father call as I finally place my glasses on my nose. He’s standing to the side of the pitch, speaking to a man in a windbreaker. My father looks like he’s walked off the golf course with his khaki slacks and half-zip fleece. He kisses my cheek as I approach him. “Sweetheart, this is Florent Toulon, our Head Coach.”