Deserving It (Stolen Moments #3)
Angela Quarles
Chapter 1
Conor
“Fuck my arse, but this is deadly, yeah.”
This lovely sentiment greets me as I round the corner into the Atlanta hotel’s continental breakfast area. The speaker? Patrick, the only other Irishman on the hurling team besides myself.
“Family hotel,” I mutter.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee, browning waffle batter, and maple syrup is so thick, I might as well be swimming through the lot of it.
“Well, ya haven’t had a taste of these, have ya?” Patrick lifts a half-eaten cinnamon roll.
I survey the room. Except for one family on the far side, the men’s and women’s teams have claimed all the tables. Everyone’s knackered but wired from our epic win in yesterday’s playoffs. Some even won their girl—Aiden strolls in with a woman who, if the fast-flying rumors are true, he’s head over arse about. Jane, I think.
And the too-pale bowser moving like an old man on his last painkiller? That’s Paolo. One of the lads pulls out a chair for the sorry bugger with an exaggerated by-your-leave wave. The loud scrape of the chair legs makes more than one of them wince. “Shoulda stuck to beer, man. Jager isn’t for pussies.”
“Fuck you,” Paolo growls, but he gingerly sits and cradles his forehead as if his head’s made of glass.
Jaysus. Being captain of this team can be a trial sometimes, yeah. “Come here to me, lads. The van’ll be arriving in thirty to cart you to the airport. Be out front, mind. I’ll not be here rounding you up like a bunch of dossers now.”
Aiden, who was nuzzling Jane’s neck as he pulled a chair out for her, looks up. “You’re not flying out with the team?” He grabs a plate and begins loading up.
I shake my head and grab a plate myself. “Taking a later flight to avoid being with you lot.” There’s roughly four hours I have before I’m needing to be finding my way to the Atlanta airport, and I’m making the most of it. I wasn’t caring for the hint of worry in my sister’s voice during yesterday’s phone call, which is giving me extra incentive for my presentation tomorrow.
“Ah, Conor, ya redheaded bastard. We’re after taking showers, yeah,” Patrick yells.
I roll my eyes and load my plate with protein and carbs. “Be out there in thirty.”
“You got it, captain.” Aiden plunks down with a massive helping of scrambled eggs. The lad smothered his entire plate with the mushy mess. Two slices of American bacon lie on the top.
Plate full and tea in hand, I walk past them. “Enjoy your lax day, lads. We’ll be hitting the pitch at the end of the week, mind.”
We have the championships to be training for. Amazing this ragged bunch of mostly Americans and Irish-Americans formed a decent hurling team. Their willingness to work hard has paid off something brilliant. The Sarasota Wolfe Tones will be representing the Southeast Division at the championships in Chicago in a bit over a month. Considering how I couldn’t leave Ireland fast enough, my fondness for the sport might come as a surprise. But it’s the only memory of growing up in the arse-end of Ireland that’s keeping me warm.
With a final scold, I turn back for the lift, breakfast in hand. Now, to be working on the Bakerfield presentation. It’s the reason I booked a later flight—my peak performance window is late morning and early afternoon, and I don’t want to be wasting it with a bunch of raucous, hungover mates when I could be fine-tuning the presentation. And nailing that? Fifteen quid yearly bonus and a surefire path to a promotion. Which ensures my sister never has to be worrying about her farm. Never has to be worrying she doesn’t have someone there for her.
Working hard, playing hard, wouldn’t that about sum me up? Nothing much else to me.
If I’m avoiding a certain female teammate in the process, that’s all gravy, yeah.
Claire
“I’m sorry, what was our bargain again?” I pick at the seam of the car seat in front of me as the Lyft driver creeps forward another few feet in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the I-75/I-85 Connector to the Atlanta airport.
The two-hour recommended arrival time passed ten minutes ago. I’m on the phone with my bestie Jane, who was holed up with The Turd after the playoff game, so I didn’t get a chance to catch up.
I know perfectly well what our bargain is.
Yeah, I’m stalling.
A frustrated huff comes over the phone. “I did what you asked. I burned a dildo as an effigy, for Pete’s sake.” Jane’s in her car several hours south, heading back to our hometown, Sarasota, Florida.
A male voice laughs, so The Turd must have gone with her instead of flying back with the team.
I snicker. Yeah, the dildo burning had been funny to picture. Jane’s the stereotypical librarian you wouldn’t think actually exists, but does. I couldn’t resist putting that on her list of things she had to do to “break out of her shell” on her trip up here in order to get over The Turd—I mean, Aiden.
I sigh. I really gotta stop thinking of him by that nickname. I saw enough of their interaction yesterday to admit that, yeah, I might’ve misjudged him.
But while it was fun to put that on her list, I didn’t think she’d actually do it. I mean, Jesus—it’s why I put it on there. And all the other stipulations. Because she wants me to visit my mom, and I said I would if she did something for me in return.
And since I reallllly don’t want to visit my mom, I made the list impossible for a recluse like Jane to fulfill.
Yeah, that backfired. Plus she ended up getting together with Aiden instead of getting over him.
“I’m holding you to it, Claire.”
I trace a star pattern on the window as the Midtown Atlanta skyline inches past. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” My voice is all whatever, but hah, not my insides. They’re all fuck-shit-no with a big fat dollop of guilt and shame.
“Where are you? I thought your flight left an hour ago?” she continues.
“I didn’t fly out with the team. Booked a later flight.” I didn’t go down to breakfast for the same reason I booked this later flight—Conor. Instead, I got up early and met a college friend for brunch in Gwinnett County. Which…now looks as if it was a stupid move as another minute passes and we haven’t mooooved.
Stupid Atlanta traffic. I pull up my Delta app and check in.
“Oh. Okay. See you later this week?”
“It’s a date.” Thankfully Jane doesn’t probe about my later flight—which is so Jane—but lately she seems to be more perceptive about my secret.