Rough and Dirty Page 8

  “For fuck’s sake, will you just say something to her?” The voice was accompanied by a heavy clap across his shoulder, and Harry turned around to see the smiling face of the team’s hooker, Tom, as the man passed him en-route to his own position. He turned, still grinning, pure mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Before one of us has to clue her in that it’s not just your legs you get a cramp in when she touches you.”

  Harry couldn’t help the bark of laughter but refrained from flipping his friend the bird. Ordinarily, he would have, but not here on the pitch with tens of thousands of eyes on them. To do so would have risked incurring their wrath, and would send Coach purple with rage. At the very least, he’d be off the line-up and on the subs’ bench for a few games, which was something all the players desperately wanted to avoid. Thanks to the brutal nature of the sport, each game they ran the gauntlet of injury that could keep them off the pitch for a game or so at best. At worst, it could kill, or end their careers. Game time was a precious thing jealously guarded.

  “Seriously,” Tom carried on, jogging lightly as he reached his position. “She’s single. You want her? Make a move before someone else does.”

  Harry cut a glance over to the lady in question. Last he’d heard, she was seeing another physio, not one with the team but from the last place she worked. What happened? He hadn’t noticed her looking sad… Perhaps it had been an amicable breakup? Amicable meant no broken heart to heal before he made his move. Hell yeah. A man could work with that.

  A slow grin spread over his lips as the heads up was called for the kick off. The whistle blew, and then he was running, an extra kick racing through his veins. Today was going to be a good day. He felt it in his bones.

  The lads were playing well. Really well. Minutes into the second half, they were just behind the other team on the score-board, but everyone had known this was going to be a close game. The Sherwood Saints were top of the league, but the Sharks had plans to knock them off the top spot.

  Ashley crouched at the side of the pitch, one hand on her medic-bag, and watched the players with an eagle eye. There were four physio’s on the main team, and two in reserve for the subs' bench and replacements, then the main medical team for more serious injuries. She shuddered at the thought. She’d only had to deal with one bad one—a full knocked out, spinal board injury and rush to hospital job—but that had been years ago. She hoped that trend continued. There was no way she wanted any of the team injured and especially not her guys.

  She switched her attention, seeking out the three players she was assigned to watch. Stewart, Blair and James. Her gaze held on the last, and she watched him take a pass and run full tilt at the opposition line. Three tried to take him down, but he kept on running with defenders hanging off his powerful frame. It was only when a fourth joined the fray that he hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  She held back the wince and waited anxiously as the other Sharks piled in to defend. James was just visible at the bottom of the pile. She could see an arm, bent defensively over where his head must be. Her teeth worried at her lower lip. So many boots so close to his face. She’d never get used to patching up blood injuries from kicks sustained in the ruck.

  Broken noses were common, as were lacerations, some real deep. It made her tense just thinking about it, especially when James was in that position right now. Fear for him held her in an iron grip, but then Peters, the scrum half, was in place to dig for the ball. She breathed a sigh of relief as it came free and was passed on.

  Ignoring the fact play had resumed, she kept her eye on the men on the ground as they rolled away from the pile. She only had James in her sights, but like the other physio’s with marked men in the altercation, she needed to make sure he got back to his feet and didn’t need treatment. He was slow to move. A frown creased her brow. Crap. Lying like that when the rest had moved wasn’t James’ style. Normally, he was up and running like some freakishly big Jack in the box. Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag. Those few extra seconds could mean he was winded, or worse, had taken a kick to the head.

  Shit. Squinting, she tried to make out some details. No blood that she could see, but she’d always told James he had thick skin. He tended to bruise rather than get cut. And he had a thick skull. She’d seen him take blows that would have knocked a lesser man out. Her chest tightened, easing slightly when he sat up.

  He didn’t get to his feet though, instead he dropped to the ground, lifting his leg and grabbing his foot.

  Cramp.

  Before she could think, Ashley had her bag in hand and ran across the pitch, weaving between the running players. When she’d first started working with the team, running out in the middle of play had freaked her out. The guys, even the smaller ones, were huge and fast as all hell. But she’d learned to read the pitch, and these days it was second nature to avoid getting squashed.

  She made it to his side in record time. Her knees hit the grass, her kit at her side, and she fit her shoulder under his raised ankle. Hands replacing his on his foot, she stretched his calf out.

  “Hey, James.” She smiled at him. “The usual, handsome?”

  The relief that flittered over his face when he saw her fed her ego. She’d struggled to get accepted by the players at first. They’d seen her gender first and her abilities second, and she usually had to play the same game with new players until they realised she was damn good at her job. But not Harry James. He’d taken one look at her and nodded, the same little smile on his face that curved his lips now.

  “Hey, sweet stuff. Yeah, bastard thing locked up right in the middle of the ruck. About brained a Saint with my boot flailing about.”

  She nodded and leaned into him, using her weight to stretch the leg out more. A big guy, he often had trouble with his calves, more so than any of the other players. It felt like she always had her hands on his legs. Not that she was complaining. He had great legs. Just a pity she couldn’t get her hands on the rest of him.

  Not letting a hint of her inappropriate thoughts show on her face, she massaged the back of his leg. Shit, his calves were solid.

  “Hard as granite here.” A frown creased her brow, and she flicked a glance over the rest of him. His shirt was already mud-stained, and the side of his head was blue where he’d rolled over the advertising painted on the turf mid-field, but apart from a darkening bruise over one cheek, she couldn’t see any other damage.

  “Not all that’s hard, sexy.”

  “I’m sorry?” She blinked, unsure she’d heard what she thought she had.

  His voice was deep and low, and the roar of the crowd as a try was scored the other end of the pitch almost drowned it out. She looked up and caught his gaze. The normal amusement lurked in his hazel eyes, but interest hid behind it. Butterflies hit her stomach at light speed, a frantic, delicious fluttering that woke everything feminine inside her. Crap, did he… Was he?

  “Never be sorry, not with me.”

  Pulling his leg free from her grasp, he dropped it to the ground, big boot hitting the turf next to her feet. He sat up, thighs either side of hers, and she realised she’d been caught. The smile slipped from his face, so close to hers, as he gazed deep into her eyes. Up this close, he was almost overwhelming, but not in a threatening way. Instead, even as muddy and wet as he was, she had the urge to get closer, to wrap herself around all those hard muscles.

  “Just a try behind now.” Lifting a hand, he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “If we win, do I get a kiss?”

  Her heart stuttered, both at the gentle touch and the words. The butterflies burst into overdrive, alternating between doing a wall of death around her stomach and sending shivers over her skin.

  “Think about it, eh?” He smiled, rolled away, and bound to his feet, then held a hand out to help her up. “We’ll be out tonight... Symphonies in town. Come and find us. Find me? It’s my birthday as well, you can help me celebrate. Perhaps see you there?”

  With that, he winked and ran off to
re-join play, leaving her wondering what the hell had just happened.

  “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear—“

  Harry snorted into his pint as the traditional birthday ditty degenerated into filth and abuse by the third line.

  “Yeah, yeah. Love you guys too.”

  The Sharks were out en-masse. Even Tom and Will, both currently hooked up with their respective ladies and totally useless when it came to nights out, had cut the apron strings to help him celebrate. That they were also celebrating knocking the Saints off the top spot was just the icing on the cake.

  No, he amended, tipping his head back and draining the rest of his pint. The icing on the cake had been the expression on Ashley’s face earlier. He’d expected her to smile and brush him off. Deflect his advance as slickly as he’d seen her deal with others. But she hadn’t. Not at all. And as far as he was concerned, her stunned silence wasn’t a no. Far from it.

  Reaching out, he snagged another drink from the horde lined up waiting. Four in and he was working on a happy buzz. Had she noticed that the other guys had stopped trying to hit on her? He smiled to himself. He doubted it. Nor would she suspect he’d had to have more than a few locker-room conversations before the rest got the message that she was his girl and to back the fuck off.

  For saying she was older, early thirties to his twenty-six, and worked around Rugby players on a day-to-day basis, she was a little naive when it came to her effect on men. Especially him. He lifted his glass. That was something he intended to put right—if she showed tonight.

  God, he hoped she did. Even bruised and battered as he was after a hard game, his body hummed with triumph. Both from the game and the fact she hadn’t slapped his face and told him where to get off earlier. Good job they’d been on the pitch, in front of everyone, because if they’d been in the privacy of a treatment room, he’d have made a move on her right then and there.

  Heat surged through his body. The caveman need to drop everything and go find her, and drag her to his lair almost getting the better of him. His eyelids dropped to half-mast as he allowed himself a brief thought of her under him, her dark hair wrapped around his fist as he drove into her.

  He’d be careful, as gentle as he could be, but fuck a duck…he wanted her something fierce. His cock twitched at the idea, threatening to embarrass him out in company, and he turned toward the bar, slugging his pint as he thought of non-sexy things. Little kittens. His gran’s knickers on the line. The lads in drag. His lip curled at the last. Hell, now there was therapy waiting to happen.

  “Oi, birthday boy!” A shout over the music got his attention—Blair, a couple of tables away with his arm around a skinny blonde. “Looks like your present arrived.”

  He turned with a frown. Present? What the hell was Blair waffling on about now? They didn’t do presents. The most the lads had done was tell him to be grateful he hadn’t been stripped naked and duct-taped to a lamp-post in the middle of town, before they’d set about getting him rip-roaring drunk.

  He followed the direction Blair stared, and when the crowd parted, he saw her.

  He’d never put much thought into what Ashley would wear on a night out. He only ever saw her in work clothing—sweat pants and a pullover, or a T-shirt if the weather was warm and he was lucky, and in his fantasies, she wore nothing. Or something far too fancy and delicate for his big hands to deal with so he ended up ripping it from her.

  So nothing prepared him for seeing her across the crowded room. She stood in the middle of the bar, lifting on her toes to try to spot someone—him hopefully—and for a moment he stayed where he was, watching her.

  Her hair was loose, a sleek curtain around her shoulders. He curled his hand into a fist at his side, the need to run it through the silken locks making his palm itch. His gaze headed south. Rather than the sprayed-on, tits-pushed-up-so-they-almost-popped-out uniform of the girls who normally hung around trying to catch one of the player's eyes, she had on some kind of oriental designed dress. The high collar emphasised the delicate line of her throat while the fitted material skimmed her curves without being vulgar. And it was short, way short, the long, slender length of one leg visible to him as the crowd moved. His throat went dry, forcing him to take another gulp of his beer before abandoning the glass on the bar behind him.

  Moving through the mass of people between them like the shark he was, he homed in. She didn’t see him until the last minute, her gasp audible when he reached her and slid an arm around her waist. She relaxed as soon as she recognized him, her lips curving up into a devastating grin, and he got the full effect of her done up for a night out. He’d never seen her wear makeup before, and he wouldn’t be able to say what she was wearing past lipstick. Whatever she’d done, it made her eyes appear all tilted and cat-like, emphasized her cheekbones and made his attention zero in on her lips. Her kissably soft lips. The sort of look that brought big men to their knees begging for a taste, and he was about as big as it got. He had to check himself to be sure he wasn’t standing there with his mouth open.

  “Hey there, sexy. Looking for someone?” he asked with a smile, careful not to just haul her to him and kiss the life out of her. Patience, he needed patience. She’d turned up, after all.

  “You made me jump!”

  She tapped his arm, accusation stretched across her face. She was still smiling so he wasn’t worried that he’d scared her. Besides, it hadn’t escaped his noticed that she’d turned toward him within his hold or that her hand lingered on his upper arm after she slapped him. Bare inches separated their bodies before she turned to glance around the bar, just for a moment, but that was enough. His entire body tightened, lungs frozen on a breath while his body reacted in a predictably male way. Locking the reaction down before she could notice, he turned her toward the bar where the rest of the lads were.

  “Sorry, sweet stuff, I’m just pleased to see you,” he said, maneuvering her in front of him. “Hey! Coming through. Move it aside.”

  She shot him a look over her shoulder as the crowd in front parted like the Red Sea. “Really? So I don’t need to check your pockets for a gun then?”

  He blinked at her teasing glance. Full-on rabbit in the headlights until she turned around to watch her footing. Fucking hell. Okay, he hadn’t expected that. Not at all. He knew she was sharp, she had to be working with players who liked to take the piss, but the flirtatious note was new. He liked it though. Hell, did he like it.

  “Sweetheart, you can check out my pockets, and anything else, any time you like.”

  They reached the bar, and he motioned to the selection of drinks already lined up. The lads went for the “order one of everything and drink until it was gone” approach, but he was more than happy to order anything else she wanted.

  Selecting a glass of wine, she lifted it to her lips but paused before taking a sip, watching him over the rim. “Really now? I might just have to take you up on that offer.”

  Holy shit.

  Heat hit him in the groin. An intense conflagration that galvanized his entire body. To stop himself from reaching for her, he picked up another pint. If he didn’t do something, he’d kiss her senseless, and more, right there in front of the entire bar.

  “We can do that. Later,” he murmured, and took a fortifying gulp of his drink.

  Later. Crap. If he lasted that long.

  Chapter 2

  What are you doing?

  Ashley beat the little voice in her head into silence and concentrated on her reflection in the mirror. Her hand shook as she slicked gloss over her lips. Just a little, nothing too blatant. She wasn’t like some of the painted tarts out there, all false tits and fake tans. Besides, if she put too much on, it would go over her teeth for sure. Not what she wanted when she was trying to impress Harry.

  Blowing out a quick sigh, she dropped her hand.

  Harry.

  The guy was sex on legs or what. She’d always lusted after his body, and working on him in the treatm
ent rooms had become her favorite kind of torture, especially when he took his shirt off, and she could run her gaze over his big chest. She’d once had to work on his arm, and she’d never forgotten the feel of all that hard muscle under her hands. Added to that, he made her laugh, and for her, there wasn’t anything sexier than a man who could make a woman laugh.

  It had been all business though. She’d been seeing Alex, and while things weren’t earth-shattering, they were nice. Plus Harry was younger. She frowned. What was he…twenty-six, twenty-seven? Something like that. Certainly younger than she was by a good five or six years. But now things with Alex had fizzled out, and they’d decided on a mutual parting of ways, there was nothing to stop her.

  The thought brought her right back to the fit player. The guy was ripped. No two ways about it. And she owed him a kiss. The thought started her hand shaking again. She put her lip gloss away and slung the delicate strap of her bag over her shoulder to leave the toilets. As soon as she emerged into the heat and noise of the bar, she glanced toward where she’d left him.

  He was gone. A frown creased her brow and her throat tightened. Surely he wouldn’t go and leave her on her own in here. A quick glance reassured her that the rest of the team was still here, and the tension eased from her shoulders. He’d probably gone to the gents or something. Turning towards the bar, she wobbled on a heel and smiled at herself. Killer heels and alcohol, both unaccustomed, were not a good combination.

  “Looking for me, sexy?”

  A familiar, deep voice warned her half a second before a strong arm wound around her waist, stopping and turning her in a mid-walk. He diverted her forward momentum, and she bumped into him gently, spreading her hands over his solid upper arms for balance. Her thighs brushed his. Rock-hard, just like the rest of his body. Her knees weakened. What was it about a well put together male body that rendered most sensible women useless? And what was it about him, in particular, that short-circuited all her higher brain functions?