Could he really have changed? It had been eight years; in that time I’d changed from a timid, nervous young girl into a tough woman who taught other women to kick ass when required.

It’s certainly possible that he’d changed from being a self-centered jerk who blamed me for his mistakes and pushed me out of his life.

One thing was certain; he cared about Maisie almost as much as I did. I knew they’d talked online over the past year or so, but I hadn’t realized how much he respected her. I’d desperately wanted to confront that evil group of boys in the bar when they’d been laughing at her, but Maisie hated it when I made a scene. Oliver had handled it without even raising his voice.

It helped that he was built like a brick shithouse and famous for playing a sport that involved slamming your body into another’s and dragging them down to the floor, but I still appreciated what he’d done.

I couldn’t protect Maisie in the way I wanted to. I hadn’t been able to eight years ago when those men had appeared from the shadows and thrown acid over us, and I couldn’t do anything about it today, either.

Learning self-defense and then teaching it to others went some way to making me feel better, but it never scratched the itch that tormented me at night and every time I looked at the burn mark on Maisie’s face or the one on my upper arm. The one I always kept hidden.

Oliver dropped us off at the hotel, and I walked Maisie to her room which was just a few doors down from mine. We were both on the top floor and the rooms were so large there were only about five on the entire floor. I’d be close enough to keep an eye on her, but would also have my own privacy. Not that I’d need it.

If I’d known Oliver was going to meet us after the flight, I wouldn’t have worn tatty old yoga clothes. I couldn’t even change out of them before dinner because a bottle of water had leaked in my suitcase and most of my clothes were damp. I dreaded to think what he thought of me, going out to dinner like I’d come straight from a workout.

I caught him staring at me a few times, probably wondering what had happened to the sweet sixteen-year-old he’d first met eight years ago. That summer had been perfect in every way, right up until the last week. Then everything had changed.

We’d turned up in London to meet Dad’s new wife for the first time. Maisie had been a quiet and shy girl back then, and she didn’t really understand why Dad was with a woman who wasn’t Mom.

It hadn’t helped that sixteen year-old me had become almost like a mom to Maisie, because our own could barely look after herself—let alone us. Maisie shouldn’t have been going to London at the age of six with only me to look after her, but that’s the way it had to be.

I’d spent the entire flight over telling her everything was going to be okay, but I hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic myself. No sixteen year-old wanted a new Mom, and I certainly didn’t want a step-brother.

That all changed when I met Oliver. Step-brother or not, no sixteen-year-old girl could handle meeting someone like Oliver without going weak at the knees. And feeling something between the legs as well. He captivated me from the second I saw him, and only grew more interesting as I found out he was a star athlete, albeit playing a sport I’d never heard of.

Oliver was preparing for the World Cup that would be taking place in Paris, so most days he would disappear for training, but would have the afternoon and evening off. That left plenty of time for him to get to know his new sisters.

I’d tagged along with him as much as possible, and he never seemed to mind. I kept expecting him to push me away so that he could spend time with the women who threw themselves at him, but he never did. Given the choice he would always hang out with Maisie and me.

Thankfully, Maisie was too young to pick up on the way I’d been around him, although she seemed to have put the pieces together once she got older. It must have been painfully obvious how I felt about Oliver to anyone who’d been through puberty. Just the way I looked at him and hung on his every word was enough to let anyone within a mile radius know I was crazy about him.

Even as a horny sixteen-year-old, I was still sensible and realistic enough to know this might just be some silly schoolgirl crush that I’d forget about as soon as the summer ended. It certainly sounded that way on paper. Young American girl travels to England for the summer, falls for good-looking rugby star, gets married, and lives happily ever after.

But that wasn’t how my story ended. Oliver started coming home late at night and generally doing everything he could to ignore me. It took me all of six seconds to picture him with a girlfriend—tall, blonde, skinny, and with big boobs—but I kept imagining everything would turn out okay in the end. He’d realize that I was his destiny and we’d still have our happily-ever-after.

One day Oliver agreed—after much pestering from Maisie—to take us into London for the evening. We had a nice meal, but Oliver had something on his mind the entire time. At the end of the evening he told us he had something to do and that we should head home by ourselves. I suspected he was “doing” the imaginary blonde with big boobs, so I sulked the entire way home. I didn’t notice the two men come out of the shadows until it was too late.

We never found out why they attacked us, but it didn’t matter. Maisie ended up with burns all over her face and the doctor told us they would never heal. Mine were nowhere near as important, so I kept them to myself. A few burns on my arm didn’t compare to what Maisie was going through, so I didn’t want to take the attention away from her.

If Oliver had been distracted before, then he only got worse after the attack. Maisie rarely stopped crying—a mixture of pain and embarrassment at her face—and Oliver blamed himself for what happened. He avoided spending time with us just so he wouldn’t have to face up to his guilt.

Then came the day of the Rugby World Cup Final and things went from bad to worse. England had made it through to the final, in no small part due to Oliver’s phenomenal penalty kicking and field goals.

The game took place in Paris, so we all gathered around the TV to watch, along with the majority of the country. Despite the significance of the occasion—or perhaps because of it—the game was drab and uneventful until the last five minutes. Each team had only scored one try, although there were quite a few penalties, bringing the score up to sixteen-fourteen to South Africa.

Oliver had converted most of his kicks, but he’d missed the conversion after the try and hadn’t even attempted a field goal all game. The commentator suggested the occasion was getting to him. He was only eighteen after all, and he had the expectation of the entire nation on his shoulders.

That wasn’t like Oliver at all. He had enough confidence—and a dash of arrogance—to take big games in his stride, and I never expected him to crumble for a second. But that’s exactly what happened.

The last few minutes were back and forth between the teams, but the commentators and everyone in the room around me got excited when England were awarded a scrum in stoppage time. I hadn’t understood this at the time, but apparently it was an easy chance for a field goal, especially for a player of Oliver’s quality.

The scrum-half took the ball out of the scrum and passed it to Oliver. Players were running straight at him, but I’d seen him score like this plenty of times before. All he had to do was kick the ball straight through the posts and England would win the game. But he choked.

He made a complete hash of the kick and the ball landed in the arms of a South African player who kicked the ball out of touch to win the game.

Oliver’s teammates all rallied to support him, and so did most of the press and public. After all, he had many more World Cups ahead of him and England would have never gotten to the final at all if it weren’t for him.