Until It Was Love (Copper Valley Pounders Rugby, #1)

by Pippa Grant

We’re gonna be a lot easier on him than that, my vagina and clit and ovaries chime in together. Traitors.

“Lord have mercy,” Sheila whispers. “I haven’t had a hot flash in twenty years, but I’m sweating right now,” Evelyn murmurs. “Is he picturing you naked?” Odette asks. “What kind of question is that?” Evelyn retorts. “Of course he is. Look at the man.” I bite my lip, because honestly? Him looking at me like that is making me picture him naked. And Fletcher Huxley naked should be classified as one of the greatest world wonders.

She looks like she’s three friends and six pillows short of an epic pillow fight night, and that image has my overactive dick doing his thing again. Sweet Pea notices. Swear she does. She half growls and glares at me like she’s ordering me to keep it in my pants.

“I was going to lie down for half an hour on an ice pack and then tackle the boxes,” she mutters. “But now I want to earn a cookie.” “Congratulations. You’re breathing. You’ve earned a cookie.”

“Where do you get the real Cadbury bars?” “Evelyn’s neighbor has a grandkid currently at university in Ireland who ships cartons of them home a couple times a month. She’ll sell them to you at a twenty percent mark-up unless you agree to receive one of the cartons, in which case she’ll charge you regular price.” My father would choke on his own tongue at the idea of me getting involved with a senior citizen chocolate-smuggling ring.

“In early January, the facial hair catastrophe of Fletcher Huxley died a premature death despite also lasting too long in this world,” I read. Goldie giggles, making Sweet Pea jiggle on top of her. “If you can’t be dignified in the face of death, I’m not going to read this to you,” I say, which makes her laugh harder.

“I’m sorry we mocked your mustache,” she whispers. “That wasn’t nice of us.” “Been through a lot worse than being mocked for having the most epic mustache to ever live.”

“Tell me to stop,” I say against her lips. “You tell me to stop,” she gasps back. “I’m stopping.” “Okay.” I’m not stopping.

“And who are we?” I ask. “The Fishies!” they shriek. I freaking love the names kids give their teams. “Go, Fishies!” I cry. “GO, FISHIES!” they yell back. “Let’s go play some soccer!” They all run onto the field in complete disarray. It’s so damn cute. Especially with Beck corralling his kids too. They’re the Elbows. I’m actively not asking why.

“I spent ten minutes this morning explaining to a dad at a peewee soccer game that he needed to lighten up on his kid or his kid wouldn’t talk to him when he grows up,” I say in the silence. My ass isn’t just clenching now. My ass muscles are vibrating.

Sweet Pea whines in the back seat. Pretty sure it’s not the forty-degree temps suddenly blasting in. Not entirely, anyway. She’s a good dog. Knows when I need a hug. I fucking love my dog.

I pull over. Climb into the back seat with my dog. Hug her as tight as I can without hurting her. And force myself to not grab my phone and message Goldie. She’d get it. She’d listen. She’d understand. And she’s fucking leaving too.

“Hope you’re good at bridge,” I add. “I forgot to mention. It’s a prerequisite that you play bridge when you’re snowed in with us.” “Playing for cash?” “It’s strip bridge,” Evelyn says. All three of them look from Fletcher’s handsome face to his solid body. “My, my,” Odette murmurs. “This seems unfair, but also, I’m getting a little excited,” Sheila whispers.

During dominoes, I learn that Sheila married the love of her life five days after she met him, was widowed young, dates the least of the three older women, and is a recent breast cancer survivor, which I’d already half guessed based on her hair. I’ve decided she’s my new grandma, but I keep that to myself.

Evelyn hits on me at every opportunity to the point that I start to worry she’s serious until Odette assures me that they only date men likely to kick the bucket before they do, and I’m unfortunately too healthy-looking for my age. I also find out that she has more ex-husbands than I have ex-wives, will drop anything on a moment’s notice to reach her kids and grandkids for any reason, and she spent forty years working her way up to a board of directors position at the largest environmental engineering firm in Copper Valley. Odette is a former teacher who was also widowed relatively young, but unlike Sheila, she remarried. But only once. And never again. She says the divorce was more pleasant than the marriage itself.

Goldie goes with me to take Sweet Pea out into the snowy night. Definitely not my dog’s favorite activity. Poor little paws. Need to get her some booties before this happens again.

“Oh, he’s going for the lemon, Odette,” a familiar voice whispers behind me in the line at Freckle Cookies. “Lemon is a particular stage of heartbreak, isn’t it?” My shoulders twitch.

“I’ll have a chocolate chip cookie with a side of why did Fletcher block Goldie on Instagram?” Odette says to the teenager. “That was my order,” Evelyn says. “Now what question will I ask with my cookie? And do I still want chocolate chip?” “I want a sugar cookie and to know if Fletcher’s doing okay,” Sheila says. “Peanut butter,” Evelyn declares. “Peanut butter, in honor of Goldie, and I thought of my question. It’s why in the hell did he think growing that mustache back was a good idea?” Why don’t I carry cash? If I carried cash, I could toss a couple hundred dollars at the kid behind the counter and walk away. Instead, I’m the wanker who said I’d pay for these three nutjobs and have to wait for the kid to ring it up. Nice to see Odette moving around without her cane though. And Sheila’s hair getting longer. I wonder if Goldie did something drastic with her own hair. Women do that shit. Change my life, change my hair. “He’s not answering any of our questions,” Sheila whispers. “We probably need to pay for his cookies if we’re going to get anywhere with him,” Evelyn whispers back.

I look down at Sweet Pea. She’s glaring at me. Happening a lot the past few weeks. We had happiness and love and dog treats and you threw it all away because you were scared. That’s what my tiny-ass dog keeps saying to me. She packs a lot of attitude into every pound. Or possibly my conscience is projecting.

“My word, this cookie’s better than my last boyfriend, and he could still get it up without a pill,” Evelyn says. Sweet Pea barks. Her equivalent of a you go, girl.

Sheila tightest of all. “And you can take this from me, as a mother and a breast cancer survivor, that your mother did not leave you because she wanted to.” My eyes hurt. So do my sinuses. Even Sweet Pea’s getting in on the action, twisting in her sling like she, too, wants to get closer. And then the little devil licks my T-shirt right over my heart.

“Oh my word, is that Fletcher Huxley?” someone says in the front row. “Come back to Nottingshire!” someone else calls with far less restraint. “Shut your trap and let the man propose,” someone hisses back.

“I’ll do anything, Goldie,” he whispers to me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” “Oh my god, you crazy man, I love you too,” I whisper back. This is real. He’s here. Squeezing me tighter while his breath whooshes out of him. “You don’t have to say it just because I did. You don’t have to love me back. But I had to tell you. You deserve to know.”

This man. He’s making me be highly unprofessional. But when a man’s being a man, there’s only one thing to do. And that’s kiss him the way I’ve wanted to kiss him for weeks.

“They want you there, Fletcher. It’s two months, and then I’m home. We can do this.” “I don’t want to be away from you.”

“Promise you’ll come home when you’re done?” I whisper. “There is no place else that I could imagine going except for home to you.”

“Huxley, you can hug your emotional support girlfriend later,” Coach says. “Huddle up. Focus. No distractions. If we blow a nearly thirty-point lead because you’re thinking with your dick⁠—” “You’ll sell out your next home match for everyone wanting to see what crazy thing he’ll do next,” Goldie interrupts. “Oops. Sorry, Coach. Your changing room. Apologies. I’m not here.” “We need Fletch’s emotional support girlfriend in every halftime meeting,” Porter says. Silas hip-checks me and goes in to hug his sister. “She was my emotional support sister first,” he grumbles.