Challenge (4 page)

I chomped down on my lip, seemingly fighting back pain when, in fact, I was fighting back the immense emotion that swept over me at the sight of my two brothers. The act of them choosing to leave the match mid-play to carry me off the pitch and not subject me to the scene of a stretcher was overwhelming.

These brothers of mine truly would do anything for me.

On the sidelines, we were swarmed by the team medic, a ref, the pitch emergency staff, our dad and, eventually, our raging, wildfire sister.

Vi was covered in an enormous Bethnal Green poncho and looked ready to burst. “Where was the fucking red card, Ref?” Her screams were in no way intimidating or threatening, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. “That was utter shite and you know it! Get some fucking glasses, you twat!”

I winced as they settled me onto the hard stretcher on the ground and prepared to carry me away. Everyone was talking at me, including my dad. He was touching my knee and looking earnestly at my eyes with a million soundless questions. His lips were moving—everyone’s were—but I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying. The blood rushed loudly in my ears as hot sweat dripped down my mud-stained face, blurring my vision. All I could do was stare down at my offensive knee.

My dream-crushing knee that just ruined any chance I had at a contract offer.

“Fuck!” I screamed loudly into my shoulder, feeling utterly betrayed. I slammed my fist down onto the hard plastic of the stretcher just as some blokes lifted it and began escorting me off the sidelines. “I blew it,” I whispered on an exhale as I glanced back at Tower Park.

Tower Park.

This pitch was a place that had been my home for most of my life. From going along with my dad as a child while he attended practises with potential recruits, to now playing on it myself for the past six years. This was my career. I became a man on this grass. And now, I was being carried off of it…like a baby.

My eyes glazed as I took note of the fans all standing up…even the visiting fans. The men had their hats off and placed respectfully against their chests. The women had their hands cupped over their mouths in shock. Down below, the players had all taken a knee, even the ones on the sidelines. My chin wobbled as I admitted that for the first time in my life, I hated this fucking game.

When I finally pull my hands off my face because of the muted noise, I find myself in a small exam room surrounded by glass. I look out the closed sliding door straight in front of me and see my family gesturing wildly at the doctor who received us when we first came in.

A throat clears from beside me and I jump. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Dr. Porter, and I’m going to be prepping you for your MRI.”

I frown and turn to eye the petite woman who barely looks old enough to drink. Her red, curly hair sits in a mess atop her head and she touches it self-consciously.

“Doctor?” I ask while wiping away the moisture on my face and trying to hide the fact that it’s a mix of mud, sweat, and tears.

“I just look young. I’m not.” Her insecurity fades instantly with her sharp and clipped tone like she says that phrase every day and hates it.

A loud shout snaps my attention from the doctor. I look back and see my dad running his hands angrily through his grey hair. He looks haggard and out of control. A shaken Vaughn Harris isn’t a common occurrence. He has two primary emotions: protective and demanding.

The first time I ever saw the man crack any level of emotion was last year when my sister gave him a gift of our mum’s poems. It was a peculiar sight and one he made us swear never to speak of again. So the sight of him flailing at the doctor makes me positively ill.

“They can’t come in here,” the redhead says. I turn back to catch her watching me. Her brows are knit together in sympathy beneath a pair of large cheetah-print glasses.

Disturbed by her perceptiveness and a little by those ridiculous glasses, I narrow my eyes and murmur, “I don’t care.”

She purses her lips, clearly unconvinced by my response. “It was kind of a mess out there, so we brought you to the ICU. Only doctors and patients are allowed in the exam rooms.”

Hearing her say ICU and patients sounds ominous. A sudden burst of panic grips my chest over what all of this could mean for me.

I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to have a screwed up knee for the rest of my life. I’m not ready to admit this could be the end of my career. I’m not ready for change. I want to be Camden Harris, footballing star and sex god to women. That’s the life I signed up for. That’s the goal I want. Pun intended.

I refuse to feel differently. I refuse to let this injury take over everything I am and everything I represent.

I need a distraction.
Now.

I turn back to take in the doctor more fully as she moves toward me. She’s dressed in blue scrubs and bright neon green trainers. Inch by inch, I assess that she’s a shorter frame, probably no more than five foot four. Since I can’t get a good read on her body beneath those annoying scrubs, I focus more intently above her neck as she pushes buttons on the monitor near my bed.

Her face is sweet and innocent, but not necessarily naïve. Her brown eyes are too sharp and confident to be completely clueless. They definitely contradict her cherubic facial features that make me feel a bit soft and funny on the inside. I don’t typically have this reaction to women’s faces. Normally, I’m more interested in their body stats.

Large arse.

Large tits.

Small waist.

Down for a shag.

That’s my checklist when I roll into a club. The logic behind it is that any average-looking girl can look hot with loads of makeup and dark lighting. I’m more concerned about how they look naked and spread out on a bed as I drive into them. I’m not ashamed of my taste and preference in women. Appreciating a soft, luscious bounce beneath my touch is my rite of passage as a bloke.

But this girl before me has little to no makeup on, yet I find my body instinctively reacting to the soft curves of her face. Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I picked up a girl in broad daylight, so this all feels a bit strange to me. Then again, nothing about what’s happening to me today is typical.

Suddenly, I see a rosy hue crawl up her cheeks as she catches me watching her. My brows lift in a “what’d you expect” sort of expression. Her gaze narrows in contemplation, and I swear I see a tiny spark that tells me she’s not all together put off by my perusal.

The side of my mouth tilts up.

Camden Harris, you’ve just found the perfect distraction.

Maybe if I lie still and let this pretty, bare-faced girl invade all of my thoughts and senses, I won’t turn into an emotional ninny over what’s happening to my knee
.

I wonder where else she’s bare
? I think to myself, desperate to be reminded that I am still me somewhere beneath this mess of a body.

She shuffles closer to my bed and reaches over top of me for something on the wall. The scent of lemons, toothpaste, and fresh rain fan over me in her close proximity. It’s a mouth-watering combination. In the past, I’ve tried to steer clear of redheads because they’re usually the crazy ones. But lord, between this one’s scent and her pretty face, I’m quite certain that won’t be necessary.

She sets a blood pressure cuff on the bed beside me. Then her cool hand touches my bicep to shove up the sleeve of my jersey. A nurse had toweled off some of the mud earlier, but I remain wet and uncomfortable in my kit.

A chill ripples over me from her delicate touch. It could be from the fact that I’m soaked head to foot in muddy rainwater. Or it could be that this bird is affecting me more than I care to admit. I choose the former.

When her eyes zero in on the half sleeve of black ink that covers the area from my elbow up to my shoulder, I wish I could crawl into her head to know what she’s thinking. Is she as intrigued by me as I am by her? Does she want me? Do I make her nervous? Have I ever cared what a girl thought of me before?

I begin to notice the throbbing in my knee once again, so I willfully focus on the female before me. Her nose is small and points slightly upward, and I have a hard time not staring at her pouty lips that seem too heavy to stay closed.

Christ, she’s gorgeous.

She wraps the cuff around my arm and, biting her lip, she turns away to push some buttons on the machine. I take this opportunity to check out her backside. It’s difficult to tell, but I think she might be sporting a seriously sexy arse.

When the cuff begins to automatically tighten, her focus shifts and she catches my lowered gaze on her. Quirking a brow, she steps over to me and grabs my opposite wrist. “Feeling better already?” she inquires while staring at her wristwatch to register my pulse.

My brows arch. “I buggered up my knee. Not my eyes.”

This conversation forces my mind back to the real issue at hand. I glare down at my knee, hot anger coursing through my veins at the seemingly normal-looking limb. On the outside, it looks perfect. On the inside, it’s a stormy mess. Not dissimilar to how my entire body looks and feels.

I was born for football, bred for football, lived for football. Now the only feeling I have inside of me is utter treachery. My body betrayed me today.

A hand reaches out and touches my shoulder, causing me to jump at the touch. My gaze lifts to the redhead, and I watch her expression waver as she takes in my internal brooding. Her features are soft. Sweet. And even more beautiful.

Her brows pull together in a sympathetic way again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I know you’re going through a lot.”

I stare back in utter confusion over how she seems to be reading me so easily. Am I that transparent? My shock over her assessment of me is halted when I catch the first clear shot of her eyes through those big glasses. Her irises are a warm toffee colour—dark and bold with flecks of honey around the edges. They are a sharp almond shape with long, soft lashes fanning out. They look softly into mine with a sense of calmness that I feel everywhere.

Everywhere.

And for the first time in my entire life with a woman, I’m at a loss for words.

Realising I’m in some weird silent trance, I clear my throat and croak out, “Most women like my eyes on them.” It takes more effort than I’m used to, so I shoot her a lascivious Camden Harris knicker-dropping smirk.

Her eyes squint thoughtfully before she says, “Your vitals are good.” Her tone is back to all business. “But I need to check you for internal injuries before I can take you up to radiology.”

My brows lift. Could she possibly be immune to my charms?
Redheads,
I think.

She lowers the back of my bed. Suddenly, my mind yanks from the moment as the sensation in my knee of bone rubbing on bone sends shivers up my spine.

She glances down to my legs. “Are you experiencing a lot of pain?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I reply, attempting to avoid the faint feeling of nausea casting over me. She’s too beautiful to be looking at me like I’m some weak patient. I want her to look at me like I’m Camden Harris, a star striker for Bethnal Green F.C.

“Well of course you can handle your pain,” she says, her tone laced with annoyance. “Humans can handle a lot of pain when forced to. But since we are inside a Western medicine-practicing hospital, I need you to be more specific. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad is it?”

“Three.”
Bugger, I’m a liar. My knee throbs! Why do we have to keep talking about it? I don’t notice it when we’re not talking about it and you’re looking at me with those sexy, fuck-me-sideways eyes.

She stops what she’s doing and stares at me incredulously. Her hands reach up and grip the stethoscope around her neck. “You likely tore something in your knee, and you’re telling me your pain is only at a three?”

“I’m a Harris. We’re tougher than most.” I wink at her while clenching my teeth.

She responds with a dramatic eye roll that makes me genuinely smile. Fuck, she’s cute. I can tell I’m affecting her but not in the way I affect most women, which only makes me even more curious.

“Lying about your pain number doesn’t make your dick any bigger,” she mumbles under her breath. Her eyes fly wide when I let out a hearty bark of a laugh. It’s like she didn’t mean to say those words out loud. She covers her mouth and an honest-to-goodness hoot rumbles all the way into my stomach.

Even if what she said was accidental, it was challenging and funny.
An intriguing combo in a female
, I have to admit. The birds I run into usually reply to my practised lines with a giggle and a selfie. I never knew injuring myself could be this much fun.

“Believe me, I don’t need any help with my cock size.” I quirk a brow at her.

She barks out her own incredulous laugh this time and that colour appears on the apples of her cheeks again. The same colour that was staining her face when I was checking out her arse a minute ago.

Her smile makes me smile.

Our eyes lock, and I watch the corners of her mouth drop as her chest rises and falls with deep, labourious breaths.