Page 55 of Once Upon A Player
Cross-legged on the bed, I chew my lip and glance at the half-open door. Why would Bec call him just to tell him he was in the papers? He’s always in the gossip columns. I search for the most salacious one, and sure enough, there’s the headline.
Lucas Carter’s Mystery Date
The photo beneath the heading shows Lucas, looking as hot as hell even though he doesn’t have his usual trademark smile, with his arm around me as we left Overton’s. I peer closer, enlarging the photo, but my face is pressed against him, and no one would guess it’s me.
Huh. My panicked heart rate settles. If I can barely recognize myself, there’s no reason why Bec would. Or anyone. Well, Dad might. Not that he follows gossip, but he might make an exception when the footballer in question is Lucas.
I squint at the screen, but it’s impossible to tell I’m clinging onto Lucas to keep myself upright. It looks as though we’re just kind of snuggling.
Weweresnuggling. I wasn’t that drunk, was I?
Since I’m not entirely sure about that, I push it aside. The important thing is, even if Mum does see this, all she’ll think is we were having a really great time. It’s not like I forgot to wear my knickers and gave the photographer a flash of my fanny, is it?
While his teammates in Harrington United slay the opposition in Hong Kong, Lucas Carter is all about slaying the ladies with his current mystery redhead.
Ugh. Nice. I cringe inside as I read a couple of sentences that scrutinize my dress, shoes, and hair jewelry, and speculation as to why both Lucas and I went to such lengths to hide my face.
Carter, who is recovering from a knee injury in January, was out on the town again on Friday night…
They make it sound like he decided to abandon the tour just so he could enjoy some nightlife. I skim over the paragraph, which is basically all conjecture and rubbish.
Recently, Carter’s star has become eclipsed by that of his brainy twin, Harry, the genius behind Blitz andThe Plains of Exitium…
Seriously, whowritesthis crap? Lucas’s star isn’t eclipsed at all. I glare at the screen and keep seeing the wordbrainyjump out at me.
It’s not the first time I’ve read an article saying that, but it’s far more annoying than before, because the implication—that Lucasisn’tbrainy—is blatant.
I shouldn’t have read it. It’s really pissed me off. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I pull on my jeans, shove my phone in my pocket, and make my way to the kitchen.
He has his back to me, but I can see he’s reading something on his phone, and as I approach he tugs on his earring. A strange pain knifes through my heart. He mightnotbe reading the same article I was, but I’d bet my future degree he was.
“Need some help?” I inject a bouncy note in my voice even though I want to do the author of that article serious damage. Don’t theycarethat Lucas has feelings?
“Sorry.” He sounds preoccupied, and I want to kiss away the frown that slashes across his forehead. “Got distracted.” He glances down at his phone, and I can’t help myself.
“They’re a bunch of wankers.”
“What?” He shoots me a bemused grin, and I give his phone a disdainful nod.
“If you’re reading the same rubbishy crap I just did. I don’t know how they have the nerve to call themselves journalists.”
“Right.” There’s a guarded tone in his voice, which I hate. “It doesn’t matter. I’m used to it.”
Somehow, that makes me madder than ever, and the injustice burns in my chest. Why should anyone have to get used to being continually compared to their brother?
“It sucks.”So eloquent, Violet.But if I said what I really think, the air would turn purple.
He shrugs then hooks his arm over my shoulder, and I snuggle against him. He’s naked, his skin is warm, and he smells so good I want to push him over the workbench and kiss him all over.I want to take away that resigned look in his eyes.Instead, I catch sight of his phone, and yes, it’s the same article.
Like I didn’t know that already.
The Carter twins, sons of Professor James Carter and the late Professor Madeleine Rose Sinclair, have both done phenomenally well in their chosen careers. But while Lucas’s ability on the pitch has won him many fans, no one can deny it’s Harry who inherited their parents’ brains…
I’m practically speechless, and bubbling with rage. How dare they insinuate—and not very subtly—that Lucas got the bum end of the elite Carter-Sinclair genetic code?
He closes the page and drops his phone onto the workbench. “Don’t worry about it, Violet.” He gives me his famous smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ve never said anything I don’t already know.”
Wait. Is heagreeingwith this load of drivel? Why would he do that? Doesn’t he know how great he is? And I’m not talking about hisability on the pitch.
