Tackle my Heart: A Playing for Glory Romance, #1

By Francine Beaton

Childhood love never dies. It just waits for the right moment to reignite.

 

Jannes Benadé and Esme Krause shared their firsts: a first day at school, a first kiss on Jannes' sixteenth birthday, and a first romance. Fate's cruel hand intervenes when Jannes's family whisks him off to New Zealand.

 

Heartbroken, Esme finds solace in fleeting love on the rebound and becomes a bride at sixteen to Raymond, a union destined to crumble. Years later, Esme, now a single mother, returns from London to start a new life in Pretoria.

 

 

Jannes accepts a short-term contract with the Wild Dogs and entrusts his living arrangement to his mother. He should have known better.

 

Destiny reunites him with Esme, and their reunion sparks a whirlwind of emotions—joy, fear, and longing. As time works its magic, they rekindle their friendship, but doubts linger. Can Esme trust Jannes with her heart again?

 

The All Blacks tap Jannes to join their training camp. He faces an impossible dilemma: to follow his heart or pursue his passion. What will he choose?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francine Beaton
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781991241306

Francine Beaton

Vir jare het die Suid-Afrikaans-gebore romanskrywer, Francine Beaton, liefdesverhale verslind voordat sy self die pen opgeneem het. Sy het haar debuut roman in Engels, Eye on the Ball, asook die eerste in die Taste for Love-reeks in 2018 gepubliseer. Francine is mal oor reis en is ook ‘n kranige fotograaf. Tot haar man se frustrasie neem sy foto’s van alles wat sy eet en drink. Sy is ‘n vurige rugby ondersteuner wat selfs (een keer) die spel probeer het. Deesdae verkies sy egter om raad en kommentaar te lewer vanaf die kantlyn of voor die televisie terwyl sy ‘n glasie van haar gunsteling wyn geniet.

Book preview

1

John gaped at the man towering over him. He couldn’t breathe, and his hands shook. He fisted them against his sides, hoping that Ollie Jones didn’t notice. His mind buzzed.

How the hell had that happened? Since the previous year, he had been on that list to receive one of the coveted and new-for-the-sport professional rugby contracts in New Zealand. Until last week, he had been the first-choice scrum half for one of the clubs earmarked to become professional. He played the best game of his life last weekend. Now this?

Not once in the days preceding this moment, had he got the impression that this was in the pipeline. Hell, he was on the team sheet for Saturday’s game against the Western Territories. He received his kit this afternoon with the rest of the squad.

I don’t understand, Coach.

What don’t you understand, Benadé?

Ollie Jones sneered, butchering John’s surname. He did that on purpose. John knew that. Was he trying to prove a point?

Ollie didn’t attempt to be subtle about it. From the first day of training when the coach walked out on the pitch earlier this season, he had singled John out. John only worked harder, doing everything the coach asked him to do. It didn’t matter, though. Ollie Jones had made it obvious that he didn’t like him, but why, John never understood.

Why? he asked, though he had a niggling feeling he was not going to like the answer. Ollie proved him right.

Because you’re not good enough.

His heart didn’t want to believe it. His brain told him it was not true. John knew that. But at that moment, nothing mattered.

John swallowed the nausea that threatened.

One thing John Benadé would not do: he would not beg. He was also not going to let the coach see how devastated he was about being left out in the cold.

Stoically, he stared at the coach, refusing to react until Ollie could no longer look him in the eye. Suddenly uncomfortable, the older man muttered, You can appeal, but I’ll advise against it. It’s my final decision. You can clear your locker immediately.

With those last words, Ollie left the changing room.

It was late afternoon, and all the players were gone for the day. At least, it was a relief that he was alone and there was no one around to see his lowest moment.

John sank back onto the bench next to his locker and closed his eyes as he took deep breaths.

What the hell was he going to do? Here he was, twenty-five years old, and without a team. Who was going to take him on now, halfway through the season?

He didn’t know how long he just sat there. His brain felt as numb as his body.

Is something wrong?

John’s eyes flew open. He thought he was alone but apparently not.

Michael Brady, the South African physiotherapist, looked concerned as he approached John.

Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?

John shook his head. He had to take a deep breath before he replied, No, I’m not sick.

You can’t fool me. Your face is whiter than your shirt.

I…I got bad news, that’s all.

Do you need to talk? Michael asked, concerned.

John snorted. What would it help? What’s done is done.

You never know, Michael answered.

There was something in Michael’s voice that made John study him more closely. The man looked like shit, and that was putting it mildly. It was understandable, though. What Michael went through in the last three months made John’s current problem look insignificant.

Michael was only a couple of years older than John. Three years ago, when he joined the All Blacks as a junior therapist, Michael married his childhood sweetheart. Michael and Lindy did everything together, except the one weekend when Lindy went with her friends to Mount Ruapehu. And it was that weekend Michael lost his Lindy in a skiing accident. The man hadn’t coped well.

Come, this may not be the best place to talk, Michael muttered, interrupting John’s musings.

John knew he had to leave, but was he ready yet? How do you leave a place where you’ve left your blood, sweat and tears on the pitch? Now it seemed his dreams, too.

Hell, he didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t wanted to come to New Zealand in the first place, but he had no choice, so he did the next best thing—trying to forget the things he held dear and left behind in South Africa. Now he had to do it again, starting all over. And John didn’t know if he had the heart to do it.

All he ever wanted to do since he was a little boy was to play rugby at the highest level. Every moment he had not been studying and working, he’d practised religiously, worked hard, and poured his heart into the game. He’d almost tasted success. He’d almost touched it. And now this.

John?

He looked up at Michael when the physio urged him to react. "You don’t have to tell me. I heard what Ollie told you. Believe me: it’s not true. You are good enough. But come, let’s go. I don’t want to talk here. Walls may have ears."

John frowned, but something in the other man’s voice made him react. He slowly got up and turned to open his locker. For a moment, he stared at the contents.

He’d been here so long, he’d forgotten what was his and what belonged to the club.

His wallet, phone and car keys. The boots. The bunch of photos he hadn’t looked at in a long time and didn’t want to do now. It would only remind him of what could’ve been and what he had lost moving to New Zealand as a bright-eyed sixteen-year-old when his father got a job offer he couldn’t resist. The clean set of clothes. His grandfather’s watch he always kept here as a good luck charm.

The club T-shirt? The sports bag they were issued with at the beginning of the season? The socks? The training shirt he used for the last two seasons?

John hesitated.

Take it. It’s yours. You earned it.

Michael was right. He was certain that Ollie would only bin it anyway. He stuffed everything in the sports bag. When he finished, John stood in front of the locker. The only thing that was left was the match kit hanging outside the locker. He stared at it for a long time.

He wouldn’t wear that tomorrow. Never again.

He swallowed hard and grabbed the sports bag. He swung around and muttered to Michael, I’m done.

Not once did he look back as he walked out of the locker room, through the empty hallway with their footsteps echoing in the silence, nor as he walked out of the building. Once outside, he glanced at Michael. What did he want to do?

Michael seemed to have thought about it as he suggested, We have two choices. Either my house or yours. Since I… Anyway, we need to talk and I need to get drunk. I suspected I’m not the only one who has to make a tough decision.

Mine, John decided. I’m on the next block. I walked here. We were going to have a party at my house tomorrow night after the game. I stocked up for that, so we don’t need to get anything.

Great. Let’s take my car, but I first need to make a quick call.

John nodded. He stowed his bag on the backseat and leaned against the car while Michael walked away to make his call in private. His gaze slid over the main pavilion of the stadium. It wasn’t big. Still, it had been his rugby home the last five years since his arrival from Palmerston North. He would miss the guys. He would miss this place.

Michael’s approach interrupted his musings, and he got into the car when Michael did, his face stoic.

They were silent on the short trip to his house, except for John’s directions.

Doubts crept in. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t know Michael well. He’d only met him a few weeks ago since the All Blacks used their training facilities while they upgraded theirs. They bumped into each other a few times after Paul Jonker introduced them.

Saffas seemed to attract other Saffas—as everyone called the South African expats. And yes, John admitted, he was a Saffa. Proudly South African, born and bred in Pretoria as Johannes Sebastiaan Benadé.

He missed being that person. He missed being Jannes, the boy from Pretoria he left behind. Nowadays, only his parents and sister called him Jannes.

The Kiwi passport might open doors for him, but he treasured that South African passport tucked away in his drawer. It would expire soon, without having added another stamp to it since he received that black-and-silver passport. Not that he didn’t appreciate what New Zealand meant for him and his family. They had a far better life here than they would’ve had at home.

But it never felt like home.

Both men were silent until they settled in mutual agreement at the kitchen table. It was closer to the fridge, anyway.

It was only when they finished their first beers and Michael had retrieved two fresh ones, and he had settled back in his chair, that he muttered, The guy is an ass. A stupid, moronic ass.

I take it you’re talking about coach Jones?

Who else? Michael scowled. Don’t believe him, John. I heard via the grapevine that Ollie has his own agenda.

Why?

"Because he needs a place for his son-in-law, that’s why. The guy