The Second Coming (Rogue Academy Book 1) Read online

  The Second Coming

  Rogue Academy, Book One

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2019 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

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  For Mark.

  Thank you for answering every single one of my questions about the BPL. Call it payback for all the soccer you talk at me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  1

  Jude

  Most football players loathe running up and down the pitch in the pissing rain.

  It’s bloody wet, usually cold, mud cakes in your boots and you can’t see a damn thing. It’s hectic, and your senses have to adjust sharply and quickly to make sure you play just as well as when the heavens haven’t opened up.

  It’s chaos. Pure bloody chaos.

  I guess it’s a good thing I thrive in chaos.

  The papers tomorrow, the ones they sprinkle on every tube train and coffee shop counter will say I’m unstoppable. That Jude Davies, the second coming of God when it pertains to English football, is so unbelievably talented, not even Mother Nature and her merry band of hurricane winds and rain can stop him.

  They might be right, in some sort of sense. But they don’t know the real truth.

  That inside, I’m a maniac. A raw beast who gets high off of pandemonium.

  My legs barely register the force pummeling through them as I barrel down the field, the grass and mud kicking up behind me. Defender after defender fall away, their mediocre talent no match for me. When I’m focused, when my eyes train on nothing but that woven white net at the other end of the pitch; it would take the world imploding to stop me.

  “Pass! Pass it!” The Rogue Football Club’s manager, Niles Harrington, screams at me from the sidelines.

  Ignoring him, I forge on, my blinders on so I see nothing but the goal and the wanker who’s going to try to block my shot in front of me.

  A player from the opposing team slides in, mud and water flying everywhere. It’s a storm of shit, flying right for my body, and I tighten every muscle from my abs down to take it. Mentally, I deflect the attack, and my body follows suit. My feet spring from the earth, propelling my body up and over where he’s just tried to illegally side tackle me. Hopping over him, I get right back in sync with the ball that continues rolling down the field.

  And just like that, I’m there, punting the ball woven with a mix of hexagons and pentagons with all my might. The keeper, evil prick, dives left, but I fake him out, a shit-eating grin on my face. My kick aims right, and before I even see the ball cocoon in the back of the net, the crowd lets out a deafening roar.

  “YESSSSS!” I shout, throwing my arms up to the god’s, challenging them to stop me.

  No one will. Because no one will ever understand why I play as hard and as selfish as I do.

  My teammates tackle me from behind in celebration, patting me on the head and howling at the victory my game-winning goal, scored in the ninetieth minute, has brought us. The Beatle’s “Hey Jude” blasts from the stadium speakers, the anthem they play whenever I score a goal.

  “You brilliant git!”

  “Saving our arses once again!”

  “Piss off, Trolls!”

  The praise is a mix from my teammates and the crowd, the last sentiment aimed at the other team. My club, Rogue FC, is one of two teams residing in the inner zones of London. The Tartenham Trotters are the other, but our supporters have called them the Trolls, a biting nickname, since before I was born.

  From the middle of the pitch, the referee sounds the final whistle, and the game is over. Immediately, happy, drunken fans begin to stream out of the stadiums. Presumably, they’ll take their celebrating to the closest pubs and stay there well into the morning hours.

  But me? I have a date with three international models, my mates, and a bottle of tequila.

  “You’re a selfish bugger, you know that?” Niles, our manager, sticks his finger in my face the minute I walk into the locker room.

  Rolling my eyes, I harrumph and give him a cheeky grin. “But a brilliant one, right?”

  His face, wrinkled and bulging where his eye sockets embed, is so angry, it might catch fire. A few seconds tick by as my teammates mill around me, heading for the showers or packing their bags to go home to family or out to the club, like me.

  “Yeah, a fucking brilliant moron,” he finally relents, rubbing a fist into my hair in an exasperated, silent praise.

  I know Harrington thinks I’m a loose cannon. That’s because I am. But I’m the bloody maniac who wins him games, so he can’t argue with my tactics. Once he walks off, I quickly shower and change into the black jeans and black T-shirt I brought with me. Looking at them, you’d think they were just plain clothes. But if you were to feel the material or saw the price tag at the time of purchase, most people would call me a damn idiot for paying that much for something to throw on.

  Looking at myself in the mirror and running both hands through my damp, midnight-black hair, I muss it until it looks like I’ve been balls deep in two birds all day instead of out on the pitch. My skin, the color of milk chocolate swirled with caramel, stretches at the corner of my mouth where a smug grin paints my full, scarlet lips. Thanks to my family’s Grecian background, I look like I’ve been on a yacht in Santorini, and my green eyes sparkle with satisfaction that I’m so damn beautiful.

  “Do you think anyone loves Jude more than he loves himself?” Alexander Karlsson, a tall Norseman who plays right winger, smirks at me in the mirror.

  “Nah. He’d probably suck himself off if he could manage it.” The Rogue defensive back, Luigi Buosco, spits out this dirty comment.

  These guys, lifelong Rogue FC players, still poke fun at me because I only played my debut game
earlier this year. The youngest guy in the lineup, I went into the Rogue Football Academy at seven years old. I’ve spent almost my entire life playing the game, living for it, being around players and shooting for a top spot on the only team that matters. Now I’m bouncing back and forth from the premier league to the academy, and I want to stay in London. No bloody way do I want to go back to dorm rooms and settling for second best. I want it all, right now. I may only be twenty, but I’m better than any of the first team players and the best forward this club has ever seen.

  Notice how I didn’t include a probably in there. Because I am … the best forward this club has ever seen.

  Niles and the rest of the owners of Rogue, though … they think I’m a hothead. A liability who can’t be controlled. They’re right. But they’re also thick if they think they’ll win a trophy without me.

  “Well, from what I’ve heard back from the kit chasers, my dick is bigger than yours,” I mouth off, a smug smile directed at both of them.

  Alexander laughs it off, while Luigi shuts up. He has a bad habit of sleeping with women who aren’t his wife.

  “Going to TwoTen tonight, Jude?” Alex asks, pulling on a suit way too fancy for my liking.

  I nod, lacing up a pair of black combat boots. “Nowhere else I’d rather spend my time here in London. Except on the field that is.”

  “I’ll see you there. Unless, of course, Harrington sends you back down tonight.” His eyes dance with the giddy prospect of my failure.

  Not that my teammates don’t like me, but in professional sports, everyone is your competition. Even the players you are supposed to work with. Everyone is gunning for everyone else’s spot, and you have to be cutthroat as hell to make it.

  “Have a good night, mates.” Tipping my head, I don’t grace Alex with a response about our manager’s impending decision.

  Walking into the hallway of the stadium, I cherish the moment of silence in one of the hallowed halls. That is, until my best academy mates Kingston Phillips and Vance Morley come stumbling through the player’s exit, champagne and sexy women in hand.

  “Let’s go, Davies!” they shout, having tagged along to London to watch my game, even if they hadn’t been called up to play.

  But a voice from the other direction catches my attention first.

  “Jude, you bloody moron! Why? Why do you do this stupid shite?”

  Barry McCathers, my publicist, barges down the hallway, the leggy babes standing just behind me titter with laughter.

  His thin frame makes him look like Jack from A Nightmare Before Christmas, but the sharp angles of his face are always intimidating. It’s how he bullies reporters, brand reps, and the talent alike into doing whatever he says. Well … everyone except for me, that is.

  He throws a newspaper at my face, and I’m fully ready to see my name and words like “superstar,” “Prince of the Premier League,” and “savior” splashed across it.

  Except, that’s not the story they’re choosing to feature on tomorrow’s edition. No, it’s a full front-page spread, with pictures, about me out at the club last weekend. Smoking a cigarette.

  “Who the bloody hell even caught these pictures? I was standing in a back alley!”

  Barry pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper under control. “Have I not told you a thousand bloody times that anyone, anywhere, can get to you? That even in the sanctity of your own bedroom, they can hack your computer camera to record a video of you singing ‘Dancing Queen’ in your skivvies.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Well, Barry, old pal, now I know what you do on your nights off.”

  The models waiting in the wings giggle some more, and I hear Luigi, who’s come out of the locker room, trying to paw at one. His wife won’t be happy about that if she finds out … although he’ll probably just buy her another million-pound piece of jewelry to shut her up.

  “This isn’t a bloody joke, Jude! Niles has already called me, just a minute ago from his car home. He’s sending you back down.”

  Fuck. My blood goes cold, and all the elation I felt from the victory is instantly squashed.

  “It was one bloody cigarette! I was drunk!” I plead. “Come on, Barry, you can fix this. Pay someone off.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s already running, Jude. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be the laugh and disgrace of every British citizen. The Prince of the Pitch, ruining his goddamn talented lungs because he’s too bloody irresponsible to have an ounce of self-control.”

  I want to slam my fist into the brick wall behind his head. Fury courses through my veins, and when this kind of rage starts to overload my system, I don’t retreat. I attack, even harder than I normally do.

  With a cocky flick of a smile, I saunter toward my friends and the girls, calling to Barry over my shoulder, “Watch how bloody irresponsible I can be.”

  2

  Aria

  “He’s back, again.”

  Patricia, the head seamstress, walks into the airy building we work in on the outskirts of the Rogue Football Academy grounds.

  “Hmm?” I muse idly, trying to sew a seam that just doesn’t want to stay straight … or closed.

  The machine jammed this morning and I’ve had to do everything by hand. But then again, I’d rather use my hands. There is something soothing about making everything with your own ten fingers, instead of relying on machines.

  “Jude. He’s back again. The first team sent him back down. Apparently, Harrington is furious over the smoking photos.” Patricia sits down at her station across the room, checking the lettering on the back of one of the new away kits.

  I roll my hazel eyes, feeling the exhaustion already seep into them. Damn it all, I even had two cups of coffee this morning. I guess that’s what happens when you only get three hours of sleep a night.

  “You love to gossip about him. Me? I don’t have time to worry about what a nutter like that is gambling away. If I had the money he did, I’d follow every rule to the letter.”

  Louisa, the only other woman on the grounds under the age of forty, snorts. “You follow every rule to the letter as it is. Any more and you’d be a nun.”

  She and Patricia look at each other and laugh.

  “Har har, that’s fine. Mock me, but I’ll be finished with my work long before you today.”

  “Oh, come off it, Aria. I just think he’s dishy.” Louisa sighs.

  I ignore her, not wanting to get into this conversation for the hundredth time. Patricia would agree, even though she’s old enough to be Jude Davies’ grandmother, and they’d go on and on about who the best players at the academy are, and what dodginess they were getting into at night.

  And like I said, I really don’t have time for this. Because unlike Patricia and Louisa, who have worked in the kit and clothing wing of the Rogue Football Academy for almost thirty years combined, I’ve only been here for six months. In that time, I’ve taken on not only my position as a junior seamstress but have also talked William, our boss, into letting me take some grounds keeping shifts as well. That means after my six-hour day here, I will be doing laundry, making beds, and tidying up after the spoiled brats in the main dorm houses.

  But, I need the money. When it’s a life or death situation, it doesn’t matter that your hands bleed at the end of the day, or that you only sleep three hours a night.

  And … this was life or death.

  After graduating from secondary school on the day of my eighteenth birthday, I ventured out on a mission to find a job. Growing up in Clavering, England, the town that has housed the most elite British football academy, seeking out a position at Rogue was the first thought that jumped into my mind. It’s close to home, and with the buckets of money sitting in the owner’s bank account, I knew they paid staff well. Both of which I needed … both of which my family direly needed. When I interviewed with William, I wore my best, albeit a third-generation hand-me-down suit. My long, blond hair was pinned back behind my ears, and I left my face free of make
up. The blokes at school never missed the opportunity to comment on my curves or sharp cheekbones … or the eyes that flashed like a sphinx’s if even the smallest hint of mascara was applied to my lashes. So I went in there looking like a straight-laced, boring goody-two-shoes … and I got the job.

  While the rest of my classmates were deciding which university they’d attend, I never even gave myself the room to dream for it. I knew it would never be an option, no wiggle room about it. So, instead of nurturing that flame of hope, I extinguished it long ago.

  Just like I extinguished any thoughts of Jude Davies … or his band of scoundrels. The boys at Rogue are superstars, the next class of world athlete celebrities. And they knew it. Being the same age as most of the students here only made things worse. Unlike Louisa, who is ten years older but still trying to attract eighteen- to twenty-year-olds at her day job, I try to dress in baggy clothing and keep my hair in a tight bun.

  Still, these boys are shameless. Fit, beautiful, gifted, spoiled wankers. If they want something, they take it without asking. A pat on the bum, a catcall in the corridor, even a proposition to pay me to sleep with them. This much testosterone on one campus is lethal.

  So I keep my head down. I don’t have the luxury of admiring Jude, their prodigy, or his eight-pack abs. Or the way his jet-black hair and clover-green eyes make him look like a panther stalking its prey … both on and off the pitch. How his arms are so lean and muscled, they look like they can trap you in one place and venture to many unknown dirty areas …