Hard to Hold Read online

  TITLE PAGE

  PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

  ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  COMING SOON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

  “K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”

  —USA Today

  “K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan

  “A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

  “A home run! The Player is riveting, sexy, and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  UnRaveled

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  The Player

  The Catch

  Cuffed

  Combust

  Cockpit

  Control

  Faking It

  Resist

  Reveal

  Then You Happened

  Flirting with 40

  Hard to Handle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 by K. Bromberg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-22-5

  Cover design by Helen Williams

  Cover Image by Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Lucas Loyola

  Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Printed in the United States of America

  RUSH

  I TAKE A DEEP BREATH and close my eyes.

  Their fists pound against the blacked-out windows of the SUV with my name a constant repeat on their lips.

  “Is it true?”

  “Are you really a homewrecker?”

  “Rush, how could you?”

  The paparazzi. The press. The media.

  On any normal day, their presence means I’m doing my job properly. It means I’m playing great and the team is kicking arse and all is right with the world.

  Today though . . . fuck, today, I just need to get the hell out of here for a while.

  If I could look past their flashing lights and demanding voices, I’d see the gate to my house. The house I never in a million years dreamed I’d own in Formby. My pipe dreams from back then are currently a reality, and how bloody crazy is it that the connection between then and now still remains? Still binds?

  Every part of me begs to drive back to Anfield Stadium and get lost in the green of the pitch and the ability to block the outside noise that I’m known for. My salvation then and my serenity now, but still the one constant in my life.

  And now? Now that’s all been jeopardized by IOUs being cashed in, for a situation that’s blown too far out of control for me to rein it back in.

  “That’s some shitstorm out there, isn’t it?”

  I meet the eyes of my driver in the rearview mirror and hesitate before I nod. There’s something in the way he looks at me, as if he’s begging me to tell him the reason the reporters are surrounding his car is a lie and that I’m not really guilty of what they’re accusing me of doing.

  But why would they think any differently? Isn’t that what everyone expects from me?

  I nod in response, even though I’m dying inside to tell someone, anyone, that he’s right—that I’m not guilty of this.

  Unclasping my seatbelt as his eyes are still on me, the denial so damn ready on my tongue doesn’t come. “Yeah, mate. Fun times.” My words sound like an exasperated sigh.

  But I don’t say anything else.

  Not an admission.

  Not a word.

  I can’t.

  “I don’t know how to thank you—”

  “No need to,” I say and look to my left at the other passenger in the car, needing to cut Archibald off before he says anything else that can be overheard by the driver.

  I’ve known the man all of my adult life. The profound sadness that weighs heavily in his eyes and the defeat in the set of his posture eats at me. There’s also a calculation to him too. A hard glint I catch every now and again, and I’ve known him long enough to feel like this has been preorda
ined for years.

  He’s simply cashing in at the perfect time.

  And here I thought that all along he’d been acting out of the goodness of his heart and conscience.

  I should have known better. I should have seen through the scripted speeches and knowing glances. The teenager in me is still trying to hold on to what I thought was sincerity, but now realizes was far from it.

  Yet he sits there staring at me with a muted smile that says he knows I’m doing this at a great personal and professional cost. He knows I’ll say yes because of the debt I owe to him and his family. Lifelines have a funny way of coming full circle, and mine just did.

  Too bad I have to do this for it to be complete.

  Fuck.

  “Does Helen know?” I ask cryptically.

  Archibald gives a quick shake of his head, his eyes telling me of course she doesn’t. How could he ever explain that he’s trading one son for what he’s always claimed was another?

  The smile I give him is forced at best, but what the fuck does he expect? I’m about to be thrown to the wolves.

  Wolves who are after blood and being led to the wrong scent.

  “We could go around the block again if need be,” the driver says.

  “It’s my home.” My chuckle lacks amusement. “They’ll still be here regardless.”

  “How about I ease the car forward until they get out of the way? Then we’ll be able to get through the gate so you don’t have to get out and deal with them,” he offers.

  “There’s no parting that crowd,” I murmur as another knock on the window sounds beside my ear. “Besides, I won’t be here for long. I have to pack and then get going.”

  “You could stay with us, you know,” Archibald murmurs. “No one would question it.”

  “No thanks.” But they might question it. Right now, he’s just a man beside me escorting me home, trying to help keep the peace. Anything more than that and people might take a second look.

  “Just until this all dies down,” he says.

  “Do you really think that’s the best idea?” I ask with more bite than intended before turning to face him. It’s the first time I’ve let him see the exhaustion in my eyes, and the first hint of the worry wearing me down that I’ve kept hidden from everyone else. “If people look too closely, they might see something different than you want them to.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself. “Here goes nothing.”

  Without another word, I grab my bag and push open the door.

  The sound is deafening.

  The flashes are blinding.

  Sure, I’m used to them, but not like this. Not with this intensity. Not after being accused of screwing my teammate’s wife.

  “Rush, is it true?”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “How long have you been seeing Esme?”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Are you going to be transferred because of this . . .”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “A comment please, Rush.”

  Their cameras bump my shoulders as I fight my way through them, my name a symphony of strident sounds on their lips. One question after another, “No comment,” a repeat on mine, as I obey the gagging order the management team put into effect. All the sounds—their questions, my name, the clicks—fade to white noise around me.

  They push and prod and belittle.

  They make me feel like I did when I was a kid.

  They make me remember the childhood I escaped from.

  They bring back the shame I thought I’d left behind.

  I reach the pedestrian gate to my yard, but there is one reporter standing in front of it. She’s the first whose gaze I meet and actually acknowledge.

  I’ve seen her before. She’s pale—skin, hair, eyes—but her smile has always been kind and her questions always polite.

  But there’s an accusatory lift of her eyebrows when our gazes meet, and when I glance down to what is in her hand, I know why.

  It’s a copy of The Sun with the grainy black and white photo on its cover.

  I don’t have to stare to know what it is. I’ve studied that image repeatedly in the past three days and have every detail memorized. It’s the unmistakable image of the British princess of pop, Esme, on a hotel balcony with a man’s arms wrapped around her. Trees from where the photographer hid obstruct some of their bodies, but there’s no denying the man looks like me. The clothes, the haircut and style, down to the same bloody shoes—everything—looks exactly like me.

  Premier Footballer Cheats with Team Captain’s Wife, Pop Star - Esme.

  It’s the title I’ve seen splashed fucking everywhere, and the look in the reporter’s eyes tells me she believes it. That she’s disappointed in me.

  That she believes I could do that.

  Why shouldn’t she though, when my manager and my own teammates don’t even question the validity of the bloody photo? The shiner I have beneath my left eye from where Seth punched me reinforces it.

  They simply assume it’s true. They simply believe that I would do that. That I have no moral fiber. No belief in the sanctity of marriage.

  And that’s what angers me the most.

  I reach past her and pull on the gate, pass through, and leave the press shouting even louder as I walk across my lawn to the front door.

  I want to tell them that if they looked closer, they’d see the truth.

  But why the hell should I?

  Why is it their expectation that I have to prove my innocence, as they chant my name while wearing it on a jersey across their shoulders?

  For the hundredth time tonight, why the fuck should I?

  LENNOX

  CHEAP ALCOHOL DISGUISED IN FANCY glasses is passed around by the trayful. Attendees clothed in either beaded gowns or black tuxedos mill about, each one acting more in the know than the person they’re talking to. The soft and slow drawl of jazz being piped in through the speakers allows for easy conversation.

  “He has to be the greatest of all time. How can you refute that?”

  “No way. How can you think they’ll even be close to clinching the title this year?”

  “Did you hear all the shit he got himself into? Thank God, I’m not his agent. Talk about a fucking headache.”

  I take the last sip of champagne and set the flute down on the empty cocktail table behind me—along with the binder of information we received in our earlier conference—as I stifle a yawn.

  “By that yawn you’re fighting, Kincade, I’m going to assume you were one of the ones out late last night riding the mechanical bull.”

  I freeze at the smooth voice of Finn Sanderson—fellow agent extraordinaire, smooth-talking asshole, and the reason Kincade Sports Management is currently struggling.

  “What is it they say? What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas? It’s not every year the Sports Summit is held in a good location such as this.” I shrug, completely ignoring my aching muscles from riding said bull, and add a sarcastic smile to my lips as I turn to face him. “And the yawn was simply because I knew you were headed my way, so I was preparing myself for our conversation. I didn’t want to be rude and do it in front of you.”

  “Such a pleasure as always,” he murmurs and leans in to kiss my cheek, his own sarcasm not far from the tip of his tongue.

  Self-control has me not flinching at his touch so I grit my teeth instead. “Can’t say the same.”

  “I get you like this cute banter-y thing you do, but honestly, Lennox, it makes you seem a little more beast and a lot less beauty.” He purses his lips as he stares at me over the rim of his glass, eyes taunting just like his words. “It’s quite unbecoming.”

  A million things come to mind about what he’s done that’s unbecoming—stealing our clients by taking cheap shots at us, being a complete ass to my sister before they broke up, the fact that he breathes—but I don’t say a thing.

  “And you’re enjoying Vegas, Finn?”

  He stutters in his response as he tries
to figure my change of tactics, from rude to pleasant, but I just keep smiling at him. I’m fully aware that after my sister, Dekker, stole his client, hockey god, Hunter Maddox, out from under him, other agents are probably watching this exchange and waiting for the fireworks to ignite.

  “Who doesn’t?” He lifts his chin in acknowledgment to a passerby. “So, you’re off to Chicago after this?”

  “For what?”

  His expression falters momentarily as if caught off guard before he rights it. “Nothing. Never mind. I got things mixed up. Too many agents at this convention to keep shit straight.” He chuckles.

  “If you’re mixing me up with the rest of the guys in here, you’re definitely losing your touch, Sanderson.”

  “Losing my touch?” He coughs the word out. “Aren’t you the one who let Austin Yeakle slip through your fingers last week?” he asks, referring to my failed attempt to recruit the top college football draft pick. I thought I’d closed the deal only to be told an hour after I’d left his house that he’d chosen a different agent and firm to represent him.

  To say it was a blow to my ego is an understatement.

  “He’s one athlete amid a field of many.”

  “Yes, but none of those many are going to make half of what he’ll make.”

  “Do you have a point, Finn?”

  He smiles. “Seems to me like you’re losing more than you’re winning these days.”

  “I have a full client list and plenty of hustle left in me,” I say, taking another flute of champagne off a passing tray, thinking of the several potential clients from the Golden Knights and the Raiders I have meetings with later this week, both hometown Las Vegas teams.

  “Is that why you turned down the offer from the MLS?” he asks, referring to the Major League Soccer organization, and throwing me completely off guard. My face must reflect it too. A smug smile crawls onto his lips. “Yeah, I know about the offer. Question is, why didn’t you take it?”

  A myriad of reasons flicker through my head but the biggest one—the reason both my father and I decided it was best to reject the offer—still burns the brightest: why would the MLS contract me, a sports agent, to help be an ambassador to promote their upcoming season?