Page 71 of The Hellion and the Captain
“What are they?”
“Open it.”
“A gift?” she said with a small smile. “You shouldn’t have.”
She opened the drawstring of the cloth bag, pulling out the small wire frames from within.
“Spectacles,” he said as she cradled them in her hands. “With a strap and glass lenses. It should help prevent anyone from paying you close attention.”
“Like my brother,” she murmured.
“Exactly.” He nodded.
“Thank you, Rhys,” she said, her lips curling into that special smile he liked to think she only bestowed upon him and him alone. “That is very thoughtful of you.”
“Can’t have one of my best players taken out of the game,” he said gruffly, even though it was so much more than that, and from the look she gave him, it appeared that she understood.
Their travel was uneventful, and when they reached Berkshire, Rhys noted how close Emmaline stayed next to him. Shelikely had never travelled any significant distance without a chaperone, and her experience outside of Manchester, except for London, was perhaps limited.
Of course, he would look after her – even if he didn’t tell her so, for she would only become surly with him, telling him she was just fine on her own.
He was sure she was, but he would rather be there for her, knowing that he had a hand in keeping her safe, happy, and protected.
Later that afternoon, they stepped onto the playing fields just beyond Eton College, which loomed in the background, all warm-colored brick and pointed arches. The stands were already full of spectators ready to watch the important matchup. It was going to be a hostile environment, that was certain, as the moment their club was spotted, the boos began.
Rhys just grinned. He loved it. Even if the cheering was against his team, he was still happy to feed off the energy, using it to fuel him and the rest of the club.
They were led to a small fieldside shelter to change. Emmaline kept her back turned to the room, as usual, not changing herself, but keeping on her knickerbockers and slipping her club shirt over the white linen one.
Rhys wasn’t sure the rest of them even noticed, so concerned they were with preparing for the pending game.
“Ready?” was all he asked them. He didn’t need to say any more. Of course they were ready. They all wore the same determination that he felt on their faces, their shoulders set back, their knees bent.
“Ready!” they all responded, nearly in unison, as they filed out the door, one by one. Rhys hit his knuckles against each of theirs as they passed, holding them against Emmaline’s for a moment longer than the rest before she ran out to join them.
Fortunately, she and her brother played on opposite sides of the field. Having grown up playingwith one another, they had naturally each taken to opposing positions, so at least they wouldn’t be as close as they could have been were they lined up across from one another.
Rhys lost the coin toss, so they were prepared to defend their goal. He would have liked to set aside all thoughts of Emmaline, her brother, and what they were risking to simply focus on the game, but he couldn’t. Not when he was captain. Not when he was the man charged with keeping Emmaline’s secret.
He had to balance all of those responsibilities while still winning the game.
The whistle blew, and the game began. Rhys’s eyes darted across the field, tracking the ball as it was kicked back and forth between the two teams. Manchester’s defense held strong initially, but Eton’s offensive line was relentless. They pressed forward, passing the ball with precision and speed.
Rhys shouted orders to his team, directing them to shore up their defenses and push back against Eton’s advances. Emmaline sprinted down the sideline, her lean frame allowing her to weave between the opposing players with agility. She intercepted a pass and booted the ball back towards Eton’s goal, eliciting cheers from their supporters in the stands.
But Eton wouldn’t be so easily deterred. They regrouped and charged again, their crisp white uniforms and dark trousers a blur as they moved in formation. Rhys gritted his teeth as he saw Freddie Whitmore leading the attack, the ball dancing between his feet as he maneuvered closer to Manchester’s goal.
“Mark him tight!” Rhys bellowed to his defenders. But despite their efforts, Freddie managed to break past them. He sent the ball sailing over Hardy’s outstretched hands and through the goalposts with a powerful kick.
It wasn’t difficult to see where Emmaline had developed her football skills, for Freddie played the game just like she did.
The Eton side of the stands erupted in cheers as Freddie was mobbed by his teammates. Frustration twisted in Rhys’s gut, but he couldn’t dwell on it. They still had a game to win.
He rallied his team, urging them to dig deep and find another gear. Slowly but surely, Manchester’s play improved. Their passes became sharper, their movements more coordinated. Rhys couldn’t help but be proud as he watched them work together seamlessly, a testament to all their practice.
In the game’s final minutes, with the score tied, Emmaline made a brilliant steal and broke away down the field. Rhys watched with his heart in his throat as she dodged and wove, outmaneuvering the Eton defenders. With a deft tap, she passed the ball to Tommy, who sent it rocketing into the goal just as the final whistle blew.
Manchester had won, but just barely. As the team celebrated on the field, hugging and clapping each other on the back, Rhys sought out Emmaline. She was beaming with exhilaration, her cheeks flushed, a few tendrils of hair escaping from beneath her cap. Their eyes met, and as much as he wanted to rush over to her and take her in his arms, he settled for sending her a slight nod of acknowledgment. They had done it.
