Chapter Twenty

Joe Danvers clomped his mud-stained boots on top of the table and raised his pint glass (full of apple cider) in the air. “Three cheers for Benny Hardcastle! The best brick who ever chucked the ball. This wasn’t the swan song I had in mind for you, friend, but it was the best I could have hoped for. To Benny!”

“To Benny!” the crowd roared inside the Flying Batsman.

Samuel raised his glass and, once more, had to elbow someone out of the way before he could get it to his mouth. The tavern was fit to burst. He’d only invited the teams back for a celebratory drink after the game ended an hour ago, but most of the crowd had decided that they should come along for the ride as well. Naturally, one drink had turned into two, and then too many.

Although, Samuel had to admit, he was enjoying himself. His girls had played their hearts out and came away with a win. It was a close one—too close for Samuel’s liking—but they managed to squeak by the men by seventeen runs, in no small part because of Lady Everly. She hit a fifty. Samuel had a feeling she wouldn’t be letting him forget that pertinent fact anytime soon. Just as he wouldn’t let her forget that her grip had been noticeably looser.

Yes, it was a good day, and only getting better with Myfanwy at his side. She’d found Samuel in the tavern the moment she entered and hadn’t ventured away from him once. Not even when he’d had to help Tim behind the bar, and not even now, when a few of her teammates were mimicking Joe’s horrible behavior and standing on Samuel’s respectable tabletops, belting out a song.

No, Myfanwy was just where she was supposed to be—next to him. Samuel told himself not to get used to it. He knew better than most that nothing lasted forever, but for this one brief afternoon, he hushed that rational part of his brain. Maybe it was because he was surrounded by some of the friends of his past, and childish laughter and hoppy beer hugged him in this space, making him feel safe, but he allowed himself to feel young. Hopeful. Like he was at the beginning of a journey rather than at the end. He let himself contemplate a future rather than resigning himself to one. Like he’d told Jo, he focused on winning instead of not losing. What a magical way to regard the world. When he was young, it used to be the only way he saw it. How would life be different if he let himself think that way now?

“Uh-oh,” Myfanwy said, stealing Samuel from his thoughts. “There’s that look again. It can’t possibly be happiness, can it?”

Samuel snaked his arm around her middle, pulling her closer. There were so many people squished into the room; no one would notice the covert embrace. And would it matter if they did?

Samuel issued a disgruntled huff between a barely there smile. “I might be slightly pleased, but that’s only because you lot didn’t embarrass me out there today.”

Myfanwy laughed, and the way her brown eyes sparkled at him made him feel like the only man left on Earth. Lucky. Blessed. Chosen. “I took six wickets.”

“I know that, Miss Myfanwy.”

“And I hit for forty-eight runs. Two sixes!”

“I know that as well, Miss Myfanwy.” Samuel couldn’t feel the pain in his leg. When she smiled up at him like that, all he felt was the magnetism pulling him to her. God, he wanted to kiss her right now. He had his office in the back. Maybe she wouldn’t mind getting lost for a little while…

“You only scored forty-seven,” she added smartly, dousing his ardor quickly and efficiently.

Samuel reached deep within himself not to let that comment sting. She was only ribbing him as players did; however, he was upset that he hadn’t scored a fifty. But it had been a while since he’d played a proper match, and he was still rusty and worried about how much stress to put on his leg. The fact that he could do more than he’d anticipated had thrown him, oddly enough, making him play less aggressively. It would take time, he told himself. Not only did he have to rebuild his strength in the limb, but he also had to build back his trust in his ability.

After three years on the sidelines, he was almost afraid to consider that he still had something left in him, that he could still make the crowds chant his name by the power of his swing…but he did. It was there. Just out of reach, but it was there.

Samuel lowered his head, sliding his lips just a breath away from her ear. “I want you.”

Myfanwy snapped her neck up to meet his gaze. She was shocked, but just as hungry as he was. “I want you too,” she said boldly.

Samuel’s cock jumped. He glanced over her head at the door to his office. “We could hide away for a few minutes.”

She grinned. “Have our own celebration?”

He nodded, taking her by the waist and nudging her through the crowd. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Samuel loved Myfanwy like this, so carefree and up for anything. Mischievous and cocksure. She reminded him so much of his old self, and that didn’t hurt as acutely as it once had. If anything, it made him want to be that optimistic man again. For her. That man could make love to her, provide the future that she deserved. That man would have the power to create a life that was strong enough to stand up to all the discourse and gossip an unlikely pair like them would create. That man would be proud of who he was and the name he would gift his wife.

Wife.

Did he dare? The old Samuel would have dared anything.

Samuel saw that man. Clearly. Effortlessly. Could feel him reanimating his body.

They were steps from the door. Already, Samuel could taste her silky skin on his tongue, hear her scream out in climax against his neck—but then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “What is it now?” he griped, half turning.

“Oh, so sorry, Mr. Everett. I didn’t mean to disturb.”

Sir Bramble.Good, decent, unoffending Sir Bramble. He was the last man in the establishment who deserved ire of any kind. Samuel put a damper on his desire and gave the gentleman as pleasant a greeting as he could muster.

“Sir Bramble,” he returned, shoving Myfanwy behind his back. “I’m happy you could make it out today to see that match. I’m sure the ladies, and Benny, appreciated it.”

Sir Bramble nodded warmly. “Indeed. Is it right that I heard Mr. Hardcastle is taking home one thousand pounds from the event? You did a good thing today, Sam. You and your team. And…” His smile held an undercurrent of embarrassment. “You should also be applauded for your play. You’re not at one hundred percent yet, but I’m positive you’ll get there soon. I don’t know what you’re doing at home, but it’s working.”

Samuel jerked when someone pinched him in the back. Ha! If Sir Bramble only knew.

The baron went on. “I’m sure the ladies will miss you when you return to playing full-time, but they’ll always appreciate what you did for them. I know my Jennifer…um, I mean Miss Jennifer, can’t speak highly enough about you.”

Sir Bramble’s words stunned him, not because Samuel hadn’t thought about playing again—it was always on his mind—but because he’d never heard anyone else say it out loud until now. For years, it had been a secret just for himself, but now it was like Sir Bramble had breathed life into clay.

Samuel twisted around, and, sure enough, Myfanwy was right there listening to their entire conversation. His woman wouldn’t lower herself to pretending like she wasn’t eavesdropping. “I haven’t decided anything yet,” he told Sir Bramble. “Everything is still new. I’m just thinking about my team.”

“Naturally,” Sir Bramble agreed amiably. “I suppose it’s just wishful thinking on my part. The sporting goods business will be even more of a gold mine with you actually playing.” He slapped Samuel on the shoulder. “Ah, let’s not talk any more of it. This is a day for celebrating, not talking business.”

“As you say,” Samuel replied. “Good day to you—”

“I hope to do my own celebrating, soon. I can’t help but think a lot of it has to do with you,” the baron rambled on, casting an obvious and ebullient smile toward the ladies dancing on the table. There in the thick of it was Jennifer, her arms around Jo and Anna, singing—badly—at the top of her lungs. Not for the first time, Samuel wondered what their parents thought these paragons of virtue got up to when they spent time at the cricket club.

Samuel scowled at Jennifer, ignoring the odd note in Sir Bramble’s voice. He should yell at her to get down. He couldn’t have her falling and twisting her leg. She was one of their fastest runners. “I didn’t do anything,” he muttered.

“You’ve done a lot,” Sir Bramble insisted. “You’re a real friend, Sam. We will never be able to thank you enough.”

He extended his hand, and Samuel shook it before the man eventually meandered back into the merriment, his attention returning to Jennifer, who caught it effortlessly.

“What was that about?”

Samuel had known the question was coming, but that didn’t mean he was in the mood to answer it. He faced Myfanwy’s condemning expression, wondering if he could get her to pause her inquisition until after they were done celebrating in his office.

The muscles around her eyes tightened. By the arch of her brow—which was sharp enough to slice a man (Sir Bramble, most likely)—Samuel understood he would get no such concession.

“It was nothing,” he remarked easily. Beggar that he was, he tried nudging Myfanwy toward the room once more, but she stuck to her place like concrete.

“It wasn’t nothing,” she replied stubbornly, fingering the buttons of his coat idly. “What was Sir Bramble going on about? I never would have taken you to be ‘real friends.’ I thought you were only business partners.”

Myfanwy’s tone started off innocently enough but became more accusatory, with every word like it was a snowball cascading down a mountain, gaining in speed and threat level.

Samuel didn’t understand her dislike for the easygoing baron. Myfanwy had never said anything negative about Sir Bramble, but she also never said anything remotely positive about him. She merely ignored him, which was the most cutting thing a woman like Myfanwy could do.

Samuel chose his words wisely, still hoping to get her into that office. He kept his countenance relaxed, spreading his fingers wide on her hips, trying to remind her that there were more important things to be talking about. “Oh, the man is in a tough spot, that’s all. Every once in a while, he asks me to relay a letter to Jennifer, and she does the same. It seems it’s the only way they can converse without her mother reading their correspondence.”

Myfanwy stepped out of his grasp, bumping into two men behind her, who bumped her right back. She didn’t even bat an eye; she was too busy regarding Samuel as if he’d just kicked two kittens and was on the prowl for more.

“She does what?”

“I know!” Samuel replied. “I couldn’t believe her mother reads the letters either—”

Myfanwy waved an impatient hand. “No, I already know that about Jennifer’s mother. The nosy woman always reads Jennifer’s letters first. She used to read mine before we realized it, and that’s why she hates me so much. What do you mean Jennifer asked you to carry his letters? And why would you agree to it?”

Samuel’s fragile mind was running a mile a minute, and yet still too slow. Most of his blood had already rushed to his cock, and his ill-equipped brain had been left to fend for itself. First, he wanted to ask Myfanwy what she could possibly write to Jennifer that would make Mrs. Hallett so offended, but he decided that story was for another time. Samuel wasn’t one to tell people what they wanted to hear, but he desperately wanted to find the perfect explanation that landed him in that office with his head in between Myfanwy’s plummy thighs.

Unfortunately, the more Myfanwy glared at him, the further that dream floated away. In the end, he told the truth. “You know that they have feelings for one another. They wanted privacy for their courting.” He shrugged. “I wanted to keep my player happy and thought it was innocent enough.”

“You thought it was innocent?”

Was that a question?

“There’s nothing innocent about it!” she continued, searching through the horde. “Just look at him! Sir Bramble watches her like a lovesick hawk. He’s always near her, staring, hoping, waiting for her to notice him. And when he’s not near her, he’s sending countless bouquets and now letters! It’s not normal.”

Samuel really should stop while he was ahead, but that idea was as foreign to him as Greek. “It sounds perfectly normal for a man in love…and Jennifer doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Are we looking at the same woman?” Myfanwy cried, throwing her arms at the couple in question. “Of course she minds!”

Samuel followed her eyeline toward Jennifer, who appeared the very definition of infatuated. London Bridge couldn’t have crossed her smile, it was so wide, as she shared amorous glances with the baron. “I’m looking at your friend and I see a cheerful girl who won a match and is enjoying the attentions of a fine young man. How can you pretend otherwise?”

“I’m not pretending,” Myfanwy replied, becoming cagey under his scrutiny. She pulled away from him even more. Samuel had to admit defeat; the office was definitely not in the cards that afternoon. “I just want her to keep her attention on the upcoming match. Sir Bramble is distracting her.”

“Horseshit,” Samuel scoffed.

Myfanwy’s lips thinned into a dangerously straight line. “Since you are her coach, I thought you would agree with me. Now isn’t the time for emotions and liaisons. She can go back to…dealing with him after the match. We only have a few more weeks, for heaven’s sake. How could that man just make her forget herself?” She tossed a fallen lock of hair over her shoulder, squirming as Samuel remained quiet.

Her voice was noticeably weaker when she added, “I thought we’d be on the same team on this.”

The same team.That was Samuel’s problem. He saw it now. They would never be on the same team, no matter how much he wanted it. And he did want it. Stupid man. He’d allowed himself to want Myfanwy and cricket, to hope for a trajectory so different than the one he was on.

Like Icarus before him, Samuel had flown too high. For a moment there—for one brief respite in his piss-poor life—he’d actually believed that he could touch the sun, could recapture everything that he’d lost. Falling to earth had a way of sobering a man.

Jennifer didn’t forget herself—Samuel did.

“Is that what you’re doing, Myfanwy?” he asked softly, the swirl of optimism buzzing around him biting into his skin like vengeful hornets. “Dealing with me until you get everything you need and can move on?”

Myfanwy’s features almost convinced him otherwise. The way she balked, the effort she employed to make him feel insane for asking the insensitive question. “How can you say that?” she asked, wounded, hurt, like he was kicking her now.

She reached out, poised to touch him—and then she paused, hesitating before finally laying her palm over his heart. Wary. Uncertain.

“We…we’re…different,” Myfanwy stammered. “We’re not like them. I thought… We never talk about us…our situation.” She looked up at him, her brow creased in confusion, her eyes turbulent. “We agreed it was just a game. That’s what you wanted… I thought…”

Samuel’s heart was beating too fast. He wasn’t sure what he’d wanted her to say, but it hadn’t been that. His fingers stretched. He could wrap her hands around her waist again. But he didn’t. He was bumped from behind by a reveler, and yet he still held his ground.

Myfanwy’s gaze narrowed. She saw it. She always saw everything. But she couldn’t see him. What she was doing to him. Maybe what they were doing to each other, balancing in this constant state of limbo.

“You’re right,” he said carelessly. His lips wouldn’t open; his smile was closed. “We are different. It was always just a game, correct? A game we both chose to play. A friendly game.”

And games always end.

That seemed to appease her. Myfanwy nodded slowly, but Samuel could still view hints of trepidation behind her assured veneer, a sense that she’d lost something that could never again be found.

And Samuel, even with his bad eye, could see what she wanted to say next. The words that were on the tip of her tongue, but she was too much of a coward to release. The same words that he’d said to her not so long ago when they’d both been sanguine and optimistic in the present.

There was no such thing as a friendly game.

Not when there would always be winners and losers.