Stay the Night (25 page)

He shook his head. It wasn’t fair. He was in his prime; he was healthy. He should be able to play.

“Mac?” George asked again. “Should I wave over the medic?”

He glared at his teammate. “I’ll be damned before I let them cart me off. If I walk off the field, it’ll be on my boots, not on the shield.”

“Fair enough.” George gestured them back. “Can you stand?”

He wasn’t sure. Gripping George’s hand, he let the man hoist him to his feet, keeping the weight off his left leg. Balancing, not ready to test his knee, Ian looked up at the sideline and saw her.

Titania pressed at the very edge, as close to the sideline as she could get. Her hair shimmered golden in the sun, falling over the shoulder her dress bared. She held her camera lax in her hand, her face pale with worry, her gaze fierce.

She met his eyes.
Don’t give up
, she silently insisted.

The referee came over, followed by a few more players. “All good?”

“I just need a second,” Ian said. He knew better than to stand on his leg right away. He waited, feeling it out, carefully putting a little weight on it.

White-hot heat shot through his limb. He hissed, closing his eyes for a second.

“That’s it,” George said. “You’re out.”

Opening his eyes, Ian grabbed George’s arm. “I’ll break it, and I won’t feel any remorse.”

“You’re an idiot.” The man shook his head. “How are you going to run?”

“There’s only five minutes plus stoppage,” Ian said. “Ten minutes total to the game, at the most. Anyone can do something for ten minutes.”

George looked doubtful, but he nodded.

The rest of the team gathered around them.

George pointed to them all. “Protect the captain. Let’s score and win this thing for him. Go.”

“Practicing for when I retire?” Ian asked, trying not to appear gimpy.

“At least I have more sense than you.” George shook his head at the way Ian limped. Then he ran out to his position.

Ian looked up to the stands, where Titania stood. She blew him a kiss.

It was the best pep talk he’d ever received. He slowly jogged onto the field and waved to the referee.

The ref blew the whistle, and the ball was in play again.

Every step was excruciating. He kept as much weight off it as he could. He’d assured George he could hang in there for ten minutes, but now he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

He waved a couple of the men back and took position at the opponent’s goal.

The game slipped into stoppage time, still tied.

Ian jogged slowly to keep from stiffening, though he treaded lightly on his left leg. He willed his teammates to get him the ball.

Suddenly, as if reading his mind, the ball was kicked his way.

He began dribbling it closer to the goal, favoring his bad knee. Every step felt like being stabbed with a knife, but he kept his eye on the goalie. It was just the two of them, the rest of the men struggling to make it back.

This was it.

It was going to hurt—bad.

Gritting his teeth, Ian set his weight on his left leg, his right foot drawn back to kick.

The pain blinded him. His vision went white, and he couldn’t see a thing. He kicked the ball—or he hoped he did, because he couldn’t feel anything other than the searing heat shooting through his left leg.

He had no idea if his foot connected to the ball or if he’d aimed in the right place—

Until a deafening cheer roared from the spectators.

He stopped, hopping on his right leg to give him the space to catch his breath. He leaned over, trying to clear his vision.

And then he was swarmed by his teammates, who were yelling and grabbing him.

George stopped them from jostling him, leaning in to whisper, “Do you need to get off the field?”

He didn’t want to go, but there was only a minute left, and he’d made the tiebreaking goal. He nodded. “But I refuse to be carried off. I’ll walk.”

George nodded solemnly, propping himself under Ian’s left side. “I got you.”

The crowd went dead silent as they realized he was being led off the field. As he reached the sideline, they erupted in the loudest standing ovation he’d ever heard.

Tears filled his eyes. He raised his hand, waving at them, and walked off the pitch a hero.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Titania ran down the concrete hallway, her heart in her throat. The moment Ian had started to limp off the field supported by George, she’d abandoned her seat for the locker room. Because the game was essentially over, the flow of people trying to leave the stadium made it a slow endeavor, hampered even more by the damn heels Rosalind had made her put on. She felt like a fish on stilts, trying to make it upstream.

“Bugger this,” she mumbled, stopping to take the shoes off.

“I’ll take them.” Summer held her hand out.

Her other sisters had stayed near their seats, but Summer followed. Good thing, too, Titania thought as she handed over the shoes. She ran barefoot, not caring that her dress was flying up. This time she had underwear on—fancy underwear Portia had gifted her for the cause with a stern “no more white cotton” lecture.

She reached the clubhouse, only to be stopped by a couple security guards.

“No entry, miss,” one said, blocking the path so they couldn’t breeze by. “The locker areas are back here, and no one’s allowed.”

Right as she opened her mouth to tell the man what he could do with his rules, Summer reached them, looking very proper and smart in her black pants and jacket with Titania’s shoes clutched in her hand. “She’s Ian MacNiven’s wife, and he’s hurt. If you don’t get out of our way, you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”

The two guards frowned at each other. “MacNiven’s married?” one said, scratching his head.

“It’s very recent.” Summer leaned in and whispered. “Truthfully, she probably won’t win a lawsuit, but it’ll be expensive and you could lose your jobs, so it’s best if you just let her pass.”

They looked at a loss, gaping at each other.

Summer pushed Titania. “Let’s go,” she said quietly.

Nodding, Titania hurried past them, Summer on her heels. When she reached the end of the hall, she stopped and looked around at the unmarked doors. “Where the bloody hell is it?”

“Here.” Summer pointed to one that was marked with a sign in the smallest of fonts. “Go.”

“Okay.” But first she turned and hugged Summer. It felt awkward. She wasn’t good at spontaneous affection the way Gigi was, but she felt compelled to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Summer said, stiff as well, but with shock.

“For being my sister.” She pulled back. “I didn’t realize it, but I guess I needed another one. Who’d have thought?”

Summer grinned. “Go figure.”

Smiling, she turned and burst into the London Assault locker room. She hadn’t really thought what to expect, and she didn’t care at all that the men were in various states of undress already, even though the game had barely ended.

The door slammed behind her, and everyone went silent as they noticed her standing there barefoot.

She didn’t care—she only had eyes for Ian.

George stepped out from the pack, a towel around his waist. “He’s back there,” he said, pointing to a doorway.

She went up to him and kissed him on the cheek before heading to Ian.

He sat on a doctor’s table, his left leg straight out in front of him with ice on it. There was a man in a white tracksuit who had an official badge on and two older men in suits who looked very severe, all hovering over Ian’s knee.

She strode into the room, and they all turned to gawk at her.

Then one of the suited men tried to intercept her, his hand out. “You can’t be here, miss.”

“She’s mine,” Ian said before she could tell him to jump off Tower Bridge.

She looked at him. “I am?”

He glared at her as though offended. “Of course you are.”

An enormous, relieved smile split her face.

Glaring at the other men in the room, he said, “Get out. And close the door.”

They all scurried out, except the older man in the suit, who raised his bushy brows and sauntered slowly, giving Ian a wink as he shut the door behind him.

“You lost your shoes, Titania,” Ian said when she faced him.

“I lost more than my shoes.” Titania went to Ian, climbed on his gurney, and sat straddled across his lap. “Is your knee comfortable with me like this?”

His hands gripped her hips. “I don’t even feel it anymore.”

“Good.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. She poured all her worry and longing and affection into it. With her lips she told him how proud she was of him, how much she’d worried every time an opponent had tried to kick the ball away from him, how happy she was that he’d won the championship. She felt him stir under her hips, and she wiggled to acknowledge that she knew what he wanted.

She knew what he needed. More than that, she wanted to give it to him. She’d never cared about someone else’s needs more than her own, except maybe Gigi, but that wasn’t the same—not at all.

Lifting her head, she cupped his face. “I knew you’d win.”

His gaze was solemn. “I wasn’t so sure.”

“You’re a winner. That’s what you do.” Then she hit his shoulder with her fist. “But you scared me to death. Don’t
ever
do that again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his lips quirking.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing? I died every time someone tried to kick you, and you think it’s funny.”

“They weren’t kicking me.” He curled his finger in her hair. “They were kicking the ball.”

“Bollocks.” She poked a finger in his chest. “Don’t do that to me again. The only reason I didn’t storm the field was because Summer had a death grip on my wrist. I’m going to have bruises.”

Ian lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed the inside of it.

Her heart beat faster, swelling in a way that she’d never felt before. “I think I’m having a heart attack. We should call your team doctor back in.”

“You’re not having a heart attack.”

“How do you know?”

“Pain in your chest? A feeling like your heart is going to explode? Tingly all over?”

She nodded.

“I have it, too.”

“So you’re saying we have the plague,” she said mournfully.

He held her hand against his chest. “No, we’re in love.”

“Same difference.” She lowered her lips to his again, to show him just how sick she was. She felt his heart beat against her palm and knew he was as much a goner as she was.

Whispering against his lips, she said, “I’m pretty sure I’m terminal.”

“Good.” He tugged her head back by her hair. “Say it, Titania. Tell me.”

She looked into his eyes and saw home. “I love you,” she said, meaning every syllable.

His hands tightened on her. “I love you, too.”

She held his head between her hands. “I’m sorry I took those pictures. I wasn’t going to sell them without your permission. I thought if I showed you the way everyone else saw you, you wouldn’t mind having them published. I never wanted to betray your trust.”

“I never wanted to betray your trust either,” he said, his gaze serious. “I didn’t know about that bastard who was blackmailing you. You should have told me. I’d have punched him sooner.”

She frowned. “Sooner?”

A satisfied grin curled his lips. “It was delicious.”

No wonder Cole had apologized. “Next time, can I come along?”

“Yes.” He ran his hand down her back. “From now on, you tell me and we deal with it together.”

“Okay.” He brought her close, close enough that she felt his breath caress her, his green eyes filling her vision so she felt like she was in a Scottish field. He murmured, “I want you to stay more than just a night, Titania. Stay forever.”

Then he kissed her softly.

She tasted the promise on his lips. Her heart did that thing again—that thing that was terminal—and she whispered, “Yes. Forever.”

Epilogue

Every year for her birthday, Summer asked her mother for one thing: her father.

Every year for as long as Summer could remember, the answer was the same. “Reginald would love to be here, sweetheart. He just can’t. Maybe next year.” But next year would come along, and he was never there to celebrate with them.

Still, she’d held out hope that the following year would be different.

This year, there was no hope.

This year, not even her mother was here.

Tears flooded her eyes for only the millionth time since she woke up this morning.

She slipped sunglasses on, even though she was sitting in the tearoom at the Connaught. The hotel catered to the rich and eccentric—let them think what they would.

She touched the stem of her champagne flute. She’d taken a sip, but it’d tasted bitter, which had everything to do with her mental state and not the wine. So far, she’d barely touched anything, not even the little cakes that she usually adored.

Her mother would have arranged to have a candle on one. Then again, Tabitha had treated her birthday as a grand holiday. She used to say, “No school for you today,” and then they’d dress up and go to the Connaught for tea. It’d been their birthday tradition for as long as Summer could remember.

The Connaught was magical, with sun streaming in and someone playing the piano and flirtatious waiters who winked when they thought her mother wasn’t looking.

During the tea, every year—even when she’d become an adult—her mother would recite her fairy tale: the story of the girl who’d been born to the king, but had grown up away from court, in the shadow of the king’s other daughters. But she was the only one born of love, and therefore she was more magical. One day, the girl would have it all: the castle and the dresses—and Prince Charming, of course.

Alone, the tradition wasn’t the same. She had the tea. She knew the story. But it’d never be the same.

Her lip had trembled with the effort to keep her tears to herself. She knew the waiters wondered what was wrong, but she couldn’t help it. She missed her mum all the time, but today it was magnified.

She stared at square of fluffy lemon-raspberry cake in front of her. It was silly to ask for a candle to put on it, wasn’t it? Or just pathetic.