That messy brown hair had been replaced by wavy hair that cried out for me to weave my fingers through it as I kissed her. The nervous glances were now angry stares. Both were equally sexy.

“Just how much has Maisie been telling you about me?” Michelle asked.

Too much; more than I wanted to know. “She tells me when you have a new boyfriend on the go, and likes to gossip about when you don’t come home.”

“Oh.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” I said. “We’re both adults. I do the same.” I’d eventually told Maisie it wasn’t polite to talk about her sister like that just so she would stop telling me all the details I didn’t want to hear.

“Unlike you, I don’t take pride in screwing anything that walks,” Michelle said.

“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying sex,” I said. “I happen to be rather good at it, so if that hotel room ever feels a little lonely—”

“I’ll pop down to the bar and finish the conversation I started with the good-looking barman last night.”

I’d known Michelle would be mad at me for the way I’d acted before, but I hadn’t expected the anger to burn quite so intensely. Obtaining her forgiveness wasn’t going to be easy.

“About what I did back in—” I began, as Maisie ran up to us with perfect timing.

“Coach says you need to come over and introduce yourself to the girls,” Maisie said, slightly out of breath from the warm up. “I warn you, they’re all going to perv over you a bit.”

“Of course they are,” Michelle muttered, before bending over and grabbing a bottle of water from her bag. I took the chance to admire her arse in those tight jeans. The denim clung to her body, but to me it was crying out to be peeled off. I’d never seen anyone look so damn appealing in a pair of jeans and a cardigan.

I reluctantly looked away from Michelle and ran over to say hello and explain the basics of what they could expect over the next few weeks. The girls were all gossiping about me as I walked up, but unlike the older girls, they didn’t make any inappropriate jokes. Not in front of me, at least. I dreaded to think what Maisie would overhear in the changing rooms later.

Terry and I put the girls through a few basic drills, and Maisie continued to excel. I looked back over my shoulder to Michelle and saw her looking in my direction, not at Maisie. That was a good start at least. I knew I’d worn these tight shorts for a reason and it wasn’t to impress the girls.

I had my eyes set on a woman, and when I set my sight on something I didn’t give up without a fight. I made that mistake eight years ago, but I wasn’t going to make it again.

Had he really changed that much? Or was this all just part of the act? He still spoke like a cocky asshole and didn’t sound at all apologetic for the way he treated me back in 2007. I thought for a moment that he was on the verge of apologizing when Maisie ran over and interrupted, but even if he had, it would have been eight years too late.

I suppose the way I spoke to him was just as bad. I didn’t want to snap at him all the time, but I couldn’t help it. Everything he said made me irrationally mad, and I ended up taking my anger out on him. He’d done a nice thing for Maisie, and yet all I could do was accuse him of trying to curry my favor.

As if he need bother. If he wanted sex, all he had to do was snap his fingers and every girl around here would come running, as would most of the moms. Christ, even some of the dads would probably look twice.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t insisted on wearing his rugby gear for training. He had on a tight pair of shorts that did nothing to hide the bulging muscles in his legs, and the jersey fit snuggly around his pecs, leaving his biceps practically uncovered.

I managed to avoid staring at him until he walked off to take training, but he still caught me. I didn’t look away; if he mentioned it later I planned to tell him I was looking at the view in the distance and hadn’t noticed him. He’d never believe it, but it was better to lie than look away and blush like the sixteen-year-old schoolgirl I had been when we’d first met.

After the disaster in the World Cup Final, Oliver had made it clear he hated rugby and wanted no further part in it, but he did eventually start playing again for West London. He never went back to the national team, but I didn’t know if that was his choice or not.

Looking at him now, it was clear that rugby was in his blood. Rugby balls were larger than footballs and harder to hold, but in Oliver’s hands it was like another limb that he had full control of. He split the girls into two teams; one for Terry to coach and one for Oliver. Terry had already spotted that Maisie was one of the stronger players, and he insisted she play on his team.

Oliver put the girls through a few drills and even from a hundred yards away I could tell they were hanging on his every word. After an hour the two teams played a game of seven versus seven.

Terry had clearly instructed his team to pass to Maisie whenever she was open, but Oliver had predicted that and made stopping her his goal. It worked. Maisie received the ball often enough, but never had anywhere to run. She was at her strongest when she’d had a few yards to gain speed, but with no room to move she ended up getting tackled for little gain.

I didn’t like watching Maisie get tackled, but it would do her good to be taken down a peg or two. I loved her confidence, but rugby was a team sport, and individuals with big heads were often ostracized. It was a miracle Oliver was still playing, come to think of it.

Maisie looked frustrated by the end of the game, but Oliver went straight over to her and took her to one side. I walked over, close enough to overhear, but not close enough to interrupt them, and heard him explain how he stopped her and what she needs to do to improve. Maisie soon smiled and looked raring to go, desperate for another crack at the opposition forwards that had stopped her last time.

I kept watching Oliver as he went to the girls one-by-one and gave them tips on what they could do to improve. He looked like a natural coach with them. How was this the same person who was photographed with scantily-clad women almost as much as he was with a rugby ball?

Maybe I just focused more on the photos of him with other women. They certainly stood out in my mind, even now. Oliver Cornish was supposed to be a player. A young superstar who had burst onto the scene and disappeared just as quickly before making a big comeback.

Now he spent his spare time teaching young girls how to play rugby for nothing more than the thrill of seeing people play the game.

After talking to all the girls, Oliver told them he was moving on to another age group, but that he would be back tomorrow. A chorus of groans went up as he walked away. He never waved goodbye to me or even looked in my direction.

So far he’d spent more time with Maisie than with me, but I could hardly blame him. I hadn’t said a nice word to him this entire time, and he didn’t deserve that. Eight years was a long time. Maisie hadn’t spent the last eight years blaming me for what happened to her; I’d blamed myself more than enough to make up for that.

Maybe I should move on, forgive and forget the mistakes he’d made, and see if we could be friends. Was it possible to be friends with someone like Oliver? Maisie was certainly friends with him, but she didn’t look at him the way I did. Thank God. She was far too young to look at Oliver the way I did.

I, on the other hand, was old enough and sensible enough to know better. That way led to trouble, but I didn’t seem to want to turn back. This time I wanted to walk head-on into danger, and damn the consequences.