C.F. White's Blog, page 2

I’ve finally sorted myself out and updated the bonus content available on my website.

So if you want some extra juicy bits from the worlds of Jay and Seb, Fletcher and Jackson, Darius and Charlie, then you can download these bonus extras now.

Thought I’d pop on a Valentine’s Day special too, ’cause, why not, eh?

Go catch up with what Jackson and Fletcher got up to on their Valentine’s Day now!

http://www.cfwhiteauthor.com/bonus-content/

There’s also some free AUDIO content too.

And coming soon…. a whole novella totally free to subscribers. Street SmART is coming soon! Make sure you’re signed up.

Happy reading

Celebrating getting to 400 members over at Tighty Whitey’s, I’m releasing this little chapter/teaser from Won’t Hurt a Bit, the third book in the St Cross Hospital series, for your reading pleasure. Made sense, it’s set at Christmas…

If you aren’t familiar with the St. Cross world, then you can catch up with the first two books here:

So, this is Christmas

Elliot nursed his bourbon at the bar counter, sipping it elegantly whilst really wanting to down the entire lot. Austin was being his usual charming self, working the room, white teeth flashing along with the ridiculous monstrosity of Christmas themed bow tie. The ladies swooned at every ditty that bounced off the walls in his American accent, whilst the men stood in awe, wanting to be him. Maybe they’d even want to fuck him. Who knew?The man was fuckable. All gazes were on him, his deep laughter resonating around the festively decorated ballroom, except for those belonging to the two men, very together, very close, so very much in love and swaying to the gentle music tinkering out from the disco.

St. Cross’s Christmas annual fundraising dinner and dances were always a bore. But Elliot, as the Chair of the fundraising committee and the most influential doctor at the hospital, had to be in attendance. It was expected. The face of St. Cross, the chairman of the board, the highest graded cardiology consultant in the country, Elliot had to pay his dues to help earn the hospital its donations to keep afloat. NHS budget cuts affected all hospitals, but St. Cross had taken a fare brunt of the cut backs. Meaning they now relied heavily on their corporate doners than they ever had before.

This party, was lip service to those sponsors who’d promised to increase their sizeable funds. 

Last year the soiree had been at the Dorchester. A plush hotel in the centre of London where Elliot had sipped on cocktails, flirted with the donars’ wives, talked business with the corporate CEO’s in order to get them to dip further into their deep pockets and grant an end-of-year bonus which would give a Christmas to remember for those children stuck in a hospital bed during the festive season. And for those who cared for them around the clock. Nurses didn’t get a bonus for working out of “normal” hours. Many were contracted that way, simply keeping those holiday dates as shift patterns. Those nurses missed seeing their family on Christmas Day. Elliot didn’t have any family, so it didn’t bother him so much. But he knew those who it did.

He’d also had a hotel room that night. And he’d declined many an offer toward the end of an intoxicated evening to meander upstairs to his suite on the fifteenth floor where his own company awaited him.

Unfortunately, none of that was on offer this year.

Not only had he lost Ollie, the man who had waited for him for two years, a short time after that night, but this year the schmoozer of corporate sponsors and handling financial contracts had now fallen to Austin – the American businessman who’d flown into St. Cross to turn the place into a privatization. Austin believed in cutting deals, reducing staff and outsourcing important contracts, instead of using what St Cross had in their arsenal to gain funds to keep their services free; their workforce and the importance of saving children’s lives, regardless of their class status. Sick children don’t have a hefty savings or insurance policy to pay for urgent and vital treatment.

It should be a right to receive Elliot’s cardiology expertise, not a privilege. 

Elliot swivelled around in his stool, sipping the bourbon that scorched his throat. He was aware he was staring, but he couldn’t not. Ollie had always been a delight to watch, regardless of what it was that Ollie did. From changing hospital bed sheets, to clearing up sick and vomit, to making the faces of children in pain laugh and smile. Of course, Elliot preferred it when he had been able to watch the man on his bed, naked, and pleasuring himself.

Those days were gone.

All he had left were memories. And videos.

Elliot smiled, raising the glass in front of him. Ollie caught his stare, gave a momentary returning nod, before resting his head on his boyfriend’s chest and swaying in time to Last Christmas. Elliot chose to ignore the irony of the song that had decided to play at that very moment.

“Elliot!” Austin swooped in to sit on the stool next to him.

Elliot only just about managed to not grunt at the man. Austin’s wavy blond hair curled from underneath the red santa hat and his lips had a distinct purpling from the copious amounts of port he’d been guzzling at the highest donor table. Austin wobbled on the stool, then grabbed Elliot’s arm to yank himself steady. He chuckled, then hiccuped.

“Excuse me, Elliot!” Austin held a hand up to his mouth and darted his bloodshot eyes around the room before lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. “I do believe I may be a little tipsy.”

“You don’t say.” Elliot gave a sideways glance before hovering his glass in the air to cheers a few of the various invited guests bounding on to the dancefloor to join Ollie and his partner. Once they were out of his view, Elliot rolled his eyes.

“You wanna have a boogie, Elliot?” Austin’s cheery demeanor was a tad offputting to Elliot’s rather gloomy and nonchalant to the season state.

“No.” Elliot preferred one word answers. They could never be misconstrued.

Austin bumped Elliot’s shoulder with his own and beamed a handsome smile of dashingly bright teeth. Elliot assumed those pearly white’s weren’t cared for by the NHS either.

“Oh, come on, Doctor Doom and Gloom! This is a party. Let yourself go a little.” 

Elliot met with Austin’s blue eyes. They sparked. Probably just the strobe lighting or the blasted twinkling Christmas baubles that hung in decorations around the ballroom and reflected in the man’s bright iris’s. But still, it caught Elliot off guard. And so did the potent scent of aftershave that washed up Elliot’s nostrils as Austin leaned in toward him. 

“I know you like to let off a bit of steam every now and then.” Austin winked. 

Elliot inhaled, heavily, his nostrils flaring. That was some fragrance. Fresh, not too sweet with an earthy undertone. Not musky. It lingered, wafting over Elliot to bring those memories back. The one’s he’d been desperate to forget. And when he met with Austin’s gaze, it reminded him too much of it. 

“Did we not agree we wouldn’t speak of it.” 

Austin flashed up his hands, waving them in the air and chuckled. “Didn’t say a thing, doctor.” 

Elliot hummed in disbelief and sipped from his Bourbon. Chucking his head back, he downed the rest of the contents and slammed the glass on the bar service. The waiter behind instantly arrived, bottle open and ready to pour. Elliot slipped his palm over the rim and shook his head, declining the enticing offer to get as blotto as Austin evidently was. It wouldn’t be doing him any favours to get his mouth as loose as the new CEO of St. Cross Children’s hospital and, rather tiresome, his immediate boss. And it wasn’t like Elliot had anyone upstairs this year waiting for him to let his steam off on. 

He trailed his gaze over to Ollie. The dance track had changed to a more upbeat number and he jiggled along to the ditty with the other nurses from the ward. Jacob had scarpered and Elliot felt a slight sense of relief from his absence. Until the man appeared at his side, waving to the bar tender for another round of drinks. Elliot froze. His insides tangled in knots. Why was it he just couldn’t be happy for Ollie to have found someone? Was it because he hadn’t? Was it because he could have had Ollie if he had loosened up a bit more?

“Pint of lager and a glass of Pinot.” Jacob had to lean over the counter to shout in the bar tender’s ear and be heard over the thump of music. 

“Sorry, sir, we are out of the Pinot Grigio.” 

“Oh.” Jacob slumped back and wiped his scraggly, dark and too- long hair from his face. “What other whites do you have?” 

“Chardonnay or a Reisling.”

As as Elliot knew, the Chardonnay was cheap and the Reisiling came with a hefty price tag. 

Jacob blew out from rounded lips then glanced over to Ollie on the dancefloor. Elliot grinned. He didn’t know.

Jacob slapped the counter and shrugged. “Chardonnay?” 

Eliott closed his eyes and shook his head. He twisted in the stool and leaned forward to the bar tender. “He’ll take the Riesling. Englegarton.” 

The bartender, mid way to cracking open a bottle, furrowed her brow. Jacob whipped his head around, if only noticing Elliot for the first time. Elliot couldn’t blame him. He’d made damn sure he’d blended into the background. 

“Sorry?” Jacob narrowed his eyes. 

Elliot assumed he wasn’t apologizing, although he bloody well should. There was the man who had stolen his play thing.

“Oliver would prefer the Riesling.” Elliot winked. “Trust me.” 

Jacob opened his mouth to speak, and it looked as if he was going to refute the accusation, when Ollie approached them both. Ollie’s face and neck sprinkled with glistening sweat and his thin shirt was open at the collar, baring his tanned and, Elliot noted, still waxed chest. 

“Hey.” Ollie kissed Jacob. 

“Is Chardonnay okay?” Jacob drifted his gaze from Ollie to Elliot. 

Ollie screwed up his nose and peered over the counter. “The Riesling.” He pointed at the chillers. “That one’s pretty good here.” 

Jacob nodded, dragging his gaze from Elliot, and swivelled around to the bar tender to change his order. Elliot smiled in small triumph. That alone was worth having to sit through the laborious party for the past couple of hours for. He might have lost Ollie, but he still new what the man liked. And, once upon a time, Ollie had licked that Riesling off from Elliot’s chest whilst pleasuring himself and exchanging that liquid clinging to the dark hair on Elliot’s torso with his semen.

Elliot licked his lips at the recounted memory. 

“Well, well, well.” Austin hiccuped and rocked his stool from side to side. “You take your staff interests to a whole new level.” 

That voice slapped Elliot back to the present. He chose not to make eye contact with Ollie, even though his blue eyes burned onto his skin – like his tongue had.

Instead, he faced Austin. Elliot stood, brushing down his satin jacket. 

“A good wine choice, is a good wine choice.” Perhaps he should have stuck to one word replies. 

Austin nodded, sucking in his bottom lip. “Absolutely. I wonder, though, if he enjoys the same wine I do?” 

Elliot laughed, his booming outburst bouncing off the walls as the music came to an abrupt stop. Austin raised his eyebrows, challenging. Ollie exchanged concerned glances with his goddamn boyfriend. 

“That all depends.” Elliot clicked his fingers, ushering one of the hotel porters. He handed over his coat ticket tugged out from his trouser pocket and the porter scurried off. “The wine is an acquired taste. Some can only handle it in small doses. After a while, the taste burns and many choose a softer, lighter variation. Much like a Pinot Grigio.”

“I’ve never been a fan of the blander types.” 

Elliot smiled, his chest rising. “Is that so?” 

“Much like everything in my life, I prefer a challenge.” Austin waved his hand. “I wouldn’t have taken on the job of getting your hospital out of the depths of liquidation otherwise.”

“I see.” 

The porter returned with Elliot’s coat and helped him slip his arms into it. Elliot shook his hand, sliding a ten pound note into the man’s palm.

“Perhaps, one evening, if you aren’t tied up, we could share a bottle of this fine wine you speak so highly of.” Austin jumped out of his seat and slipped the ridiculous Santa hat off his head, the dirty blond curls ruffling up and enticing enough to yank. 

Elliot thought about it. Long and hard. To the point he wondered if his thoughts were visible beneath his tuxedo trousers and long woolen trench coat. 

“I’m afraid I’ve sworn off wine.” Elliot buttoned his coat up, bracing for the freezing ice showers outside to hail a black cab home. He hadn’t bothered with booking a hotel suite this year. “It has given me a lingering after taste I’m rather not too fond of.” 

Austin smiled. “I see.” He roamed his gaze along to Ollie, who’d been watching the exchange with intrigue plastered on his boyish face. Jacob stood beside him, hand on the small of his back and eyeing them both through gulps of his beer.  “Well, if you drink it properly, Dr. Elliot Rawlings, it shouldn’t have that affect. In fact, the wine in my cellar won’t hurt a bit.” 

Fancy a free festive audiobook or ebook from the world of Jay & Seb? Then look no further…

Download the Jingle Ball Rockdown right now:

Ebook – https://BookHip.com/XDCJVDN

Audio – https://BookHip.com/BKAXJNB

Reviews welcomed on Goodreads… https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/59815899-jingle-ball-rockdown

Are you having Jay & Seb withdrawals?
Do you love all things audio?
Wanna hear Jay & Seb narrated LIVE then bag a FREE copy of the District Line Christmas special?
Then you might wanna come join this fantabulous event! 

When: Saturday 11 December – 5pm GMT (12pm EST)

Where: Tighty Whitey’s (CF White Reader) Facebook Group

What: Watch on Facebook Live as Piers Ryman narrates the Jingle Ball Rockdown – a District Line Christmas special, followed by a Q&A with Piers and me while the audio gets proofed, edited and mastered live on air and into a brand spanking MP3 audio file that you can take home for FREE!

All subscribers get the audiobook via Bookfunnel after the event. Our little Christmas gift from us to you for being wonderful readers, listeners and supporters. 

Make sure you join Tighty Whitey’s and accept the event invite on there so we know you are coming along. 

If you aren’t on Facebook but still want a copy of the audio, then they’ll be a link to do that after the event. 

Looking forward to seeing you there! Bring mulled wine, Christmas crackers, festive cheer and all your burning questions for Piers Ryman and me. 

‘Til then!

Small town delinquent runs off to the army… Sound familiar?

That’s right. Micky from Responsible Adult’s best bud Jason has his own story. I wrote it years and years ago, but thought I’d revisit it now all the audios are out. And y’know what, I quite like it. We all know Jason’s an acquired taste…as was mentioned in Reformed. But everyone deserves a shot at love and bit of redemption, right? Even a bit of a twat like Jason.

Take a look at a prologue, the moment it all starts for our Jase… (unedited, rough draft).

**Picture is NOT the cover, it was made as a motivation for me and acted as a placeholder on Wattpad. Book has been unpublished from there ready to edit and release**

Prologue: Pull Your Socks Up

Jason had barely pulled out, his dick deflating within the condom when he leaned away from Sophie’s face to ask, “What?”

He stepped back, careful that he didn’t trip over his MTP trousers ravelled down to his ankles and crumpling over his newly shined boots. Well, it was only polite to turn up to an illicit rendezvous with freshly polished army wear. She liked that.

Or,she’d used to.

“What the fuck did you just say?” He wasn’t asking for her to repeat herself because he hadn’t heard. Oh, he’d heard all right. Even over all the grunting and groaning—from her, he’ll fucking well add—but he did feel a little clarification was in order here.

“I’mgoing back to him.” Sophie shimmied down her pencil skirt.

Right.So, he hadn’t misheard.

Miffed, Jason slapped off the condom and struggled not to launch it at her face. He glanced around for somewhere to stash the incriminating evidence, but the dishevelled warehouse used for training scenarios they were currently hiding in would be checked over later, so after yanking up his camouflage, he pocketed it to discard it somewhere else. On a scrap heap somewhere.

Likewhere he was evidently being thrown.

“Youknow what, Soph.” Jason tugged out his beret from his back pocket. “You can gofuck yourself. ‘Cause I’m done doing what he should be doing for you.”

Itwasn’t exactly a great comeback. She’d kind of already insinuated that she nolonger wanted him…this. Whatever this had been for however long it hadbeen going on. But he wasn’t taking it lying down. He wasn’t surrendering. Hewas the one who pointed the gun. Not her. She just messed with people’s heads.

Mostlyhis.

“Jase—”She reached out for him after having ruffled her dark hair back into its neatbun. “Don’t be like this.”

“You’rea fucking bitch.” Jason scrunched the beret in his hand and pointed an angryfinger. His face was as scarlet as his hat, and it wasn’t all down to havingfucked Sophie against the wall at lightning speed. They only ever had a fewmoments of peace before someone would be looking for them—him mainly—so theirtime on the base had always been a rush job. No time to savour the moment.Which, in hindsight, was probably a fucking good thing.

Shedidn’t deserve his tenderness.

Evenif he had any.

“Whatdo you expect?” Sophie rammed a hand on her hip, her hourglass figure huggedand accentuated by those pencil skirts and blouses she wore. She did it onpurpose. Jason knew she did. She loved turning the heads of the hundreds of soldierswho roamed the barracks when sauntering by, only for them to be reprimanded by SergeantBrighton for it. She loved making him jealous.

Brighton,that was. Cause Jason couldn’t give a fuck.

Ah.Yeah. He sort of understood her question now.

“Notto be told mid-fuck would be a start,” he barked instead, ‘cause he was stillpissed off. This hadn’t been how he had envisaged his homecoming would go.Coming back from his recent tour, he’d expected a fuck, a puff, a chillout anda catch up with all those he’d left behind when holed up in a desert for ninemonths.

“Itried to talk to you first.” Sophie folded her arms. “But you launched yourselfat me.”

Jason bellowed a laugh. “Sure you did, babe. You need have only said no and I’d’ve backed off.”

Shegave him a dubious look. One he knew all too well from having had to sitopposite her in the psyche office.

“Anine-month deployment, Soph!” Jason scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Ninefucking months and I come home to this!”

“Whichis why I let you.” She reached out a hand that Jason supposed was going tosqueeze his biceps, probably offering a lighter touch than when she’d beengripping them to keep from sliding down the wall moments earlier. He couldstill feel the fingertips indenting into his skin. “I missed you too.”

“Yetyou’re buggering off back to him? Him!”

“Shh!”Sophie darted her gaze to the open door of the warehouse. “Do you want someoneto hear us?”

Fora brief, career sabotaging moment, he did. But ingrained training kicked in andhe shook himself out, adjusted the beret on his head, slightly to the side, andstepped back. “Go on, then,” he said. “Go be miserable.”

“Ineed stability, Jason.”

“Course you do.”

“He’sa sergeant, on his way to Lieutenant.”

“And me? I’m just his fucking grunt. Yeah. Cheers, Soph.” Jason spun on his heel. “Don’t call me when you wanna play-away again. I ain’t your toy fucking soldier!”

He’dkill Micky for telling him that story.

“Jason!”Sophie’s squeal followed him out into daylight.

Jason didn’t slow his quick march. He was too riled to let himself form words. No doubt he’d be court-martialled for the things he wanted to say to her. What a fucking bitch! He stamped over the dirt mound, back toward the main housing units, saluting to those in superior ranks as he passed, game face on but eyes focused ahead and his block of single-soldier units. Thank fuck he didn’t share with the grunts anymore. He had his own digs. Small, but equipped with all he needed to get through the days of being back on home-soil.

Lettinghimself into his room, he scraped off his beret and placed it on the pride ofplace hook, then collapsed to sit on his bed. The mattress dipped and the metalprongs squeaked as he placed his head in his hands and drove his fingernailsthrough his hair. He needed to buzz it off again. It was almost a couple of incheslong now. Least he could grip it and yell, “Fuck!”

Witha furious huff, he yanked his phone from the charger on his bedside unit andslammed in the right number. He needed a talking to. And whereas normally he’dbe signposted to the unit psychologist, he’d just fucked and been dumped by her,so he needed someone else to have a moan at.

“You’reback?” The bloke answered pretty quick, which was a good a sign as any that hewas available for a chat. Or perhaps waiting for his call. Which brought abrief smile to his lips and a warmth to his belly.

Leasthe could always rely on Micky.

“Remindme to keep my dick away from women for the foreseeable, yeah?”

“Sure.What you done this time?”

Jason flickered his eyes closed. Everyone would always think it was his fault. To be honest, it mostly was. But this time, he wasn’t so sure.

“Stuckit in the wrong person, mate.”

“Well,y’know what they say?” Micky’s chuckle indicated that he would be reciting somejoke on him any moment now.

“What?”

“Betterto have tried out the wrong person than to have potentially missed your chancewith the right one.”

“Fuck,bruv, what the fuck is that?”

“Theycall it a motivational quote.”

“Icall it wanky bollocks.”

Mickychuckled. “When d’you get back?”

Jasonlooked at his watch. “Two hours ago.”

Mickywhistled. “Nice work then. Picked up some girl on the bus home and alreadyticking her off to a bad mistake. Record time, Jase. I’m almost impressed.”

“Yeah.Me too.” He didn’t bother correcting Micky. He was his best mate, yeah, butlong had since gone the times that they shared everything. And the fact thatMicky was shacked up and married to another bloke, it was probably a good thingthat they didn’t. Micky was all monogamous and happily married and didn’t makethese mistakes anymore.

And,fuck, did Jason envy that.

So, having had the decision made for him by his biggest mistake to date, he thought that perhaps he needed to sort his life out like Micky had. He’d made an epic load of mistakes in the past, but that was it now. Gone. No more fucking about. No more getting himself in situations that could potentially end his career before he made it to the next rank. Total, one hundred percent, give it all he’s got, respectable, obedient, fucking-great soldier from now on. Nothing—no one—was going to make him risk his love of the Army. Ever. He was going to climb the ranks and show Sophie and every other fucker that he means business.

Therap at the door startled him. “Gotta go, Mick. Give my love to the fam.”

“Willdo.”

Jason clicked off, stood and when he yanked open the door to his room, he baulked. Sargant Brighton stood behind it and Jason wasn’t sure whether to expect his right hook or not. Could he have seen? Could Sophie have told him already?

“Welcomeback, Corporal.”

Jasonhad to force himself to salute.

“Noneed for that.” Brighton waved him off. “I heard you didn’t want to go off basefor a bit?”

Jasonwent to open his mouth to explain that it had been a poor oversight to havesaid that on his return, but he knew Brighton would end up asking morequestions that Jason, as his minion, would struggle to answer. Truth had been,he’d fancied letting off a bit of steam with Brighton’s fiancée. But that wasn’tavailable anymore.

“Ifthat is the case.” Brighton rocked back on his heel. “I got a job for you.”

“Whatsorta job?”

“Training.”

“I’mup to date on all my—”

“Not your training. You as the trainer. To the new recruits. How’d’you fancy being the one separating the men from the boys, eh?”

“Youserious?”

“Wehave a bus load coming in the next couple of days. We start oh-eight-hundredMonday. Toughest gig on the planet. You ready?”

Jason grinned. Yeah. He could do that. What could possibly go wrong with a bunch of scared little boys leaving mummy’s side for the first time? Or the ones who think they’re rough and ready and will piss all over the tests. He’ll show them what being in the army is all about. That was a sure-fire way to get his head back in the game and keep his dick out of it.

Herubbed his hands together. “Born ready.”

Hey there. Thanks for stopping by. If this is your first time reading a blog post of mine, rest assured they’re not always as self-involved. Mostly, I keep myself to myself. I’ve been burned in the past, so I tend to keep a low profile. That doesn’t help with the old book promo, but it does help with keeping me that little bit sane at home.

Anyway, I kinda needed an outlet for some things going on and thought what better place to shove it all than in my blog. I mean, it’s what this is here for right?

Why am I needing to chat? Well, you might know if you follow me on fb or are in my author group that I’ve been a bit poorly. About three weeks ago, my usual, regular, comes-and-goes back trouble turned into something way more painful. Sciatica. Horrid, sharp, throbbing pain from my lower back down my right leg. The first week, the pain was worse than childbirth. I shit you not. I’ve had two kids, both natural births without any pain relief. And I can say to you now, I’d do that over and not ever have this pain again. At least there’s solace in labour contractions. Until the big push that is, but that, for me, was short lived, less than five minutes, and, well, I had a cute little baby dumped in my arms after as a reward.

This pain, no reward has been given as yet.

So I’m on a cocktail of pain killers, nerve drugs, stomach lining drugs, laxatives (TMI?) just to be able to lie in bed, cause none of that is enabling me to walk very far. I’m an active person. I run daily in the mornings, my job requires me to be out and about delivering activities for disadvantaged young people, I’ve got two boys who demand things of me to the point I rarely sit down (only when writing), and I’m usually carting myself off around the country visiting the variation of friends who have been spat out around the UK (and beyond). So to be stuck in bed, horizontal, for this long has ripped me of my very being. Luckily, one of my hobbies is writing. Meaning I can at least do that until the drowsiness from the drugs kicks in and I fall asleep with my laptop on my stomach.

Yesterday, I made the decision to go private to get things going with my recovery. Love the NHS, but we all know how stretched they are at the moment. So to take the pressure off them and to give me some peace of mind, I paid upfront for an MRI scan that my GP had said would take about 4 weeks on the NHS.

That scan has led me to here.

They found a lump.

We all know we shouldn’t google our symptoms. We’re all one step away from the grave if we do. But we also can’t help it. My search has given me food for thought.

The lump could be as insignificant as a cluster of cells on my spine that just need dispersing for me to get better. It could be a benign cyst, might need an operation or an injection to burst it. It could be nothing. It could also be something serious. I won’t know the answer to that for a few days. And whilst I should sit tight (lay tight?) and wait for the expert to take a look at those scan pictures and decide what it is, I don’t have a right lot of stuff to take my mind off it.

I’m 41. Mother to two boys. One with a lifelong disability and special needs. I can’t die! I can’t leave them. I was coming to terms with the fact that I’ll be looking after Finlay for eternity. How can I possibly leave him without a mummy? What would that do to his brother? His father?

Right, so now that panic is out of the way, I’ll be more rational. It’s probably nothing. I’ll be fine. In a few weeks, I’ll be chugging Pinot at my mate’s gaff and asking Alexa to play Green Day, once again pretending the nineties never ended. But what this has done is made me reflect on things. On what I wanted to achieve. On how I’ve been going about all this stuff that is my pastime, but also my passion – writing. I hear you, finally! That’s why you’re here, to read about my writing, not my health crisis.

So, here goes…

I have wanted to write since I was a child. I wrote constantly back then. My dad used to bring exercise books home from work for me to fill up with short stories. I can still remember a few of them now (The Cave that No One Knew…). When I was about 14, we got our first computer. I don’t know the make or model, all I remember was that I had to write in green typeface! I wrote two novels on that. SEALS, about a competitive swimming club (I was a bit of a swimmer myself) and all the characters in it striving for the European Events gold (made up) whilst also growing up. Bit of a teen/kids mini drama. Then there was When Friendship Ends, a rather harrowing story considering I was 14 at the time, about an opposites-attract friendship between a poor girl and a rich boy that ends suddenly when the girl dies of a rare disease. Told in flashbacks, as the boy has to come to terms with being left behind. Rather bleak really.

I sent a synopsis and first couple of chapters off to a few publishers. At 14, rejection is hard. Way too hard. I wasn’t prepared for it. I did get a callback, from Penguin Books I believe. They wanted to read the whole MS of SEALS, but I’d gone and hidden under a rock somewhere and refused to have to read another, “thanks, but no thanks”. So I sailed through life after that…finding new hobbies, falling in and out and in of love many times, going to university, landing and leaving many, many jobs… I still wanted to write but I did far less of it. I always had ideas and thought maybe I’d work in film, television, theatre with it. I did for a spell, but never really felt like I fit in. So I started working in higher education. Kinda found my groove there. I still wrote a bit but had resigned myself to never being brave enough to actually do it.

Jump forward, I was married with a kid. Then came the second one. Finlay was a difficult baby. He was born exceptionally small for full term (just 4lb, could fit him in my palm). He didn’t feed very well. He cried, incessantly. Screamed. I knew there was something wrong but every doctor, health visitor, tom, dick and harry, would tell me that ‘babies cry’. I’d obviously had a good one first time around. It took a breakdown on my GP for him to take notice. I’d not slept for more than 45 minutes in a three month period. I was exhausted. So was my baby! My GP followed me home after I’d broken down in his office. He’d written a letter, sealed it, and told me to take it to the hospital paediatrics team. I was elated! Someone believed me! I, of course, opened that letter as I made my way there. In handwritten doctor scrawl, it simply said,

“Baby is fine. Please examine for the mother’s sake. Then reassure her best you can.”

I could have screamed. I might have done. He thought I was losing it. He thought I was mad. But I took my baby, and my stupid letter, to the paediatrics team. Low and behold, he had a heart murmur. One week in the hospital monitoring him (and me), then we’re sent to Great Ormand Street. He needs an op. To save his life! Six weeks later and I’m holding my baby as he’s put to sleep in order to have open heart surgery. Oh, and he also has a rare lifelong debilitating condition called Williams Syndrome.

That was one of the hardest times of my life. Ten days I stayed in that hospital with nothing but bleeping machines and my baby and the fear and the worry and the overwhelming feelings of uselessness. I only saw my older son once in that time, he was six and had to go to school and my husband had to work. So we can add guilt to all the other emotions stabbing through my soul like the needles in my baby’s arm. But what that moment did for me, was enable me to find an escape. To stop all the intruding feelings of inadequacy from taking hold, I started to write again. I found a way to switch off, to go live in another life for a while.

From then on, every spare moment I was given, I wrote. During the night, when Finlay wouldn’t sleep, I’d hold him in my arms with my phone in one hand, making notes and writing. I’d just got my spark back! And I wanted to do something with it this time. I wanted people to read my stuff.

I wanted to be an author.

I didn’t know MM existed when I first started. I’d had an idea about a footballer dealing with his sexuality whilst trying to make it professional for a long time – years actually. My dad used to be a referee and I’d been brought up around football all my life. I dabbled with many ideas for that story. Wrote many different versions. Once I believed my book had some merit, I started to look at what to do with it. I researched other novels dealing with similar themes. The first mm book I read was The Front Runner by Patricia Nell Warren. First published 1974, it was a ground-breaking novel of its time and quite possibly the first MM book ever written (as in it was a love story – let’s not digest the HEA thing, it’s a love story not a romance) detailing the relationship between two men, age gap, coach/athlete, during a period when homosexuality was demonized.

As soon as I read it, I was hooked. And knew that my book had a place. It didn’t take long before I found the MM genre and devoured many, many books and realised that I wasn’t a ground breaker. That my book was one of many. But what it did do was show me that I belonged somewhere. That there was an readership ready and waiting for my stories.

Another few tweaks and my footballer book found its feet. That’s now the District Line series if you wasn’t aware.

During this time, I was also writing a more personal book: Responsible Adult. Original wattpad cover for your pleasure, cause I still think it’s cute…

I was on Wattpad and The District Line had taken off on there – featured by the staff, excerpt in Cosmopolitan Magazine, followers galore exploding out of nowhere. I sent it off to some publishers. It was rejected. So I concentrated on Responsible Adult. That won a few awards on Wattpad. After chatting to a fellow Wattpad author, I sent RA off to Totally Entwined Group. It was one whole book back then at about 150K words long and I was mid-writing the sequel to fans demands. It got accepted! I was elated! I was going to be an author!!!!! And it was my special book that had my heart and soul poured into it that did that. There was an agreement to split it into three books and they soon became, Misdemeanor, Hard Time, Reformed.

My dream had come true! I couldn’t wait. I belonged. I was worthy. This was going to be AMAZING!

In the words of Helen Fielding: “Nothing is ever as good or as bad as you think it’s going to be.”

That line stays with me, because it’s so blinking true.

I had a difficult entrance into the mm community as we call it. I wasn’t exactly met with open arms. In fact, I was met with some hostility. I won’t go into everything that happened, I don’t want to talk about the misunderstanding that went out of hand because it still hurts. I’m a big girl, I left school ages ago, I learned how to deal with bullies by putting my head down, not engaging, and just writing. I am, however, worried I’ll never get rid of feeling like an outsider in somewhere I desperately thought I could find myself. Or maybe hide from myself and my RL woes.

So, yeah, this is a long post. That lump they’ve found, maybe that’s given me a bit of courage to poke my head up and address all this. I don’t work the social media game because I’m so scared that this will all come up again. I don’t want to poke the beast. All I’ve ever wanted to do is write and the fact that there are people out there who read and like my stuff is actually quite mind blowing. So I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, if you are one of them (and a massive applause for getting this far in my epic mind dump).

Every one of my books is important to me. I put a LOT of hard work and effort into them. Not to mention cash. I pretty much work full time to pay my bills and to create my books. I have little spare time, but when I do, it’s making sure I’m putting out the best books that I can. I don’t write to market, so maybe I’ll never be bestseller. I have to come to terms with that. This lump, whatever it is, has made me re-evaluate what is important. And that’s to be proud of every book. Every word written. The way I have conducted myself even during the time my name was mud. I never bit back. I apologised directly for any wrongdoing that was born out of naivety and ignorance. I’ve never sent 1*’s to those who were part of all that, like they have to me. I’ve concentrated on my books. Cause I got a lot of other shit to contend with now rather than to pander to twats on the internet.

Don’t get me wrong though, I have met some truly amazing people during my 5 years of being published. I have a publisher and an editor who took a chance on a no-body and stood by me after the tirade, believing that I had something of worth to them. I’ve met some wonderful authors who I hope I can call my friends. I’ve gathered some awesome readers who cheer me on with their likes and comments, without them (you, maybe?), I wouldn’t keep doing this. I’ve found an epically talented narrator who is also one top gent who seems to love my stuff as much as me, and I thank him, enormously, for his generosity, his kindness, his ego-stroking, and his utter professionalism with getting things right. Cause he’s brought my characters to life, giving them a charm that my words alone couldn’t.

I achieved my goal. To be published. Everything else is added sprinkles.

So, to end, as I gotta sometime, I’ll say that I’m trying to think about my author life differently. I’m going to stop worrying that I don’t fit in. Stop muting myself through fear. Stop the imposter syndrome. Stop the crippling anxiety that makes me delete my posts in author groups and in author forums through fear people won’t like me, or worse ignore me. I’m going to stop comparing myself to those who churn out book after book and ride the wave of Amazon algorithms and ratings. Well done to you all. Congratulations. I’ll gaze in awe at you from the back, hoping that maybe one day, I’ll be considered a hidden gem.

That’s what I want on my gravestone: Here lies a hidden gem.

FREE Bonus Content available now!

Sitting on the middle of the three metal steps leading up to Darius’s—no, their—luxury motorhome, Charlie dumped his training gear into the overfilled plastic washing up bowl perched unsteadily on his lap, one eye fixed on the entrance to the Big Top.

They were in there. Darius and Louis. Darius and his ex-performance partner. Darius and his ex-best friend. Darius and his ex-unrequited love interest of twenty years….

Want to read more of the first installment of the ongoing saga surrounding Godeaux’s Travelling Circus, featuring Darius, Charlie, Louis and the rest of the cast and crew? Then it’s available for a limited time only in a downloadable, straight-to-your-reading-device forming part of the Family & Found Family Multi-Author Bonus Content giveaway.

Not only will you receive the first chapter of Encore!, you’ll also get twelve other short bonus chapters from BA Tortuga, Beth Bolden, Charley Descoteaux, David C Dawson, Emy Calirel, Jacki James, JP Sayle, K. Evan Coles, RJ Scott, Susan Scott Shelley & Chantal Mer (co-authors), Talia Carmichael and Vicki Locey!

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And, as an added bonus, why not meet Darius and Charlie again in audio! Coming very soon…

January 2019

Dumping his filled-to-the-brim sports bag onto the real-wood floor in his entrance foyer, Jay kicked the front door shut and threw his set of keys into the bowl on the dark oak storage unit. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them in the hope to reinvigorate some life back into his fingers. They’d practically numbed when standing on the side-lines in minus temperatures. Frozen to his core, despite the layers of branded sportswear, Jay had never been this cold when he’d been a player. Turned out, he had more to learn than the fundamentals of coaching a team of sixteen-year-old lads. Primary lesson was how to stay warm during a ninety-minute match when the pitch had more icicles than blades of grass.

Jaypaused on hearing the subtle guitar playing filtering in from the main frontroom, along with rhythmic tapping on a tambourine. His smile deepened when hishusband’s gravelly, husky tones sailed over the freshly composed music and theirfive-year-old daughter’s shrieks of glee along with it. So Jay hovered over tothe open lounge, peering into the front room, not announcing his arrival. Hewanted to watch for a while. Because there, sat on the fluffy rug in front ofthe roaring faux fireplace, was his entire world.

Acousticguitar resting on his lap, Seb strummed away to what Jay assumed was his latestcomposed melody while Beatrice bounced on her knees in front of him, slappingthe tambourine so hard that her dark bunches secured by red bows fluffed aroundher shoulders. Seb and his band, the Drops, had been on a hiatus for fiveyears. He might have tinkered with writing new music occasionally when lockedaway in his home studio, but he hadn’t released a new track since Beatrice hadthrown their lives upside down with the extra care she needed by being apreemie baby. Seb had been her primary caregiver, enabling Jay to play out hisfinal seasons as West Ham’s main striker.

Musicwas so important Seb, Jay was glad he’d found a way to share his love withtheir daughter. And that he’d toned down his hardened indie-rock for heartfeltacoustic compositions. Seb had been singing to her non-stop since her earlyarrival into the world, his voice was her home. As it was his. So as he leaned againstthe door frame, watching them both in the middle of the mainly cream-and-white,except for the range of retro scatter cushions and vases of green foliage thatJay’s mum insisted she take care of, lounge, his heart warmed.

Hishands were still freezing though.

Beatricesuddenly clocked him, and she jumped up, running over to rap her arms aroundhis legs. “Dad-Jay!” she beamed and squished her cheek into his thigh.

Shewas dressed in a burgundy velvet dress with a huge black bow tied around theback that Jay ran his fingers over, paired with white woollen tights and shinyblack buckled shoes. The entire outfit had been a gift courtesy of Jay’s in-laws.Will and Sylvia liked to kit out their only grandchild in the expensive gearthey collected from the Harrods range. The fact that Seb had dressed the kid init this morning probably meant that they’d either had those visitors already orwould be expecting them. Especially as Seb was looking far more well-to-do thanhe normally did. As in, his dark hair was brushed to the side rather than leftin a dishevelled stylistic mess, and his skinny jeans bore no rips and had beenpaired with a respectable navy slim-fitting button-down shirt.

Theyboth looked adorable.

Jayhauled Bea arm into his arms, kissed her nose, then placed her back down on theground. Seb draped his arm over his guitar long enough to witness thatexchange, a grin tugging his lips, then continued with his strumming, adding afew hums so as to not forget the tune he’d been writing whilst in full care ofhis daughter.

Beapulled on Jay’s fingers. “Listen to Daddy!” she said, beaming and yanking Jayinto the room.

Jaytoppled forward, meeting Seb’s innocent gaze, and he perched on the end oftheir curved sofa. Bea settled into his lap and he wrapped his arms around hertummy, interlacing his fingers over the soft velvet of her dress to keep herfrom falling off with her animated wriggling. His fingers were still bone cold,but as Bea placed hers on top of his, the blood rushed to her touch and warmedhim from the inside.

“Goon then,” Jay said, raising his chin to Seb. “Play it.”

Sebslapped his palm over the strings, drowning the echoing ting. “How was firstday at school?” he asked.

Jaylaughed. Although Seb wasn’t half wrong. His first day being coach to the WestHam under sixteen’s squad had certainly felt like him turning up at a newschool. At thirty-five, he’d hit the peak of his playing career some time backand was happy to lay low. Landing the offer of coaching had been his mealticket to stay in the game. He’d been excited about it, yes, but there had alsobeen apprehension. How would twenty lads, mostly all residing from the east endof London, take him—the first out gay player in the prem—being their coach? Jaymight have a decorated career in the English Premier League, but it hadn’t allbeen plain sailing. Not everyone valued his input into an exceptionallyhetero-masochistic game.

“Any…unnecessaryunrest?” Seb raised his eyebrows with almost a mocking, hmmm, on theend.

Jaysnorted. Seb would never, ever let him forget the two words that had almostprevented their legal union.

“No,”Jay said. “Was all good.” He rocked Beatrice on his lap as she giggled withglee at being wobbled from side to side. “Mostly a nice bunch of lads. Fewboisterous ones needing a firm hand.”

“Yeah?Think you’ll whip them into shape, do you?”

Jayarched an eyebrow. “Better not say that to the press, the Mail’ll have afield day.”

Sebchuckled, brushing the guitar strings with his plectrum as he glanced down athis finger placements on the fingerboard. Probably involuntarily, but mostdefinitely with eagerness. 

“Playit,” Jay said and squeezed Beatrice closer to him to rest his cold nose on hersquishy warm cherub cheek.

“Dad-Jay!”Beatrice startled. “You’re cold!”

Jaychuckled, then dipped his fingers into the collar of her dress, pressing his frozentips to her warm skin. She shrieked and leapt off from his lap to launch intoSeb’s. “Daddy!” she squealed. “Tell him!”

“Donot torture my princess!” Sen warned with a menacing finger and dropped hisguitar beside him to hug Beatrice to his chest.

Jayslipped off the sofa, mischievous grin rising. Then, landing on his kneesbeside the two of them, he edged closer. Clearly knowing what was to come, Sebscrambled away with Bea clutching onto his neck like a baby monkey, but onedaughter and an acoustic guitar meant he didn’t get very far and Jay lunged forthem both, sliding his hands around Beatrice and up into Seb’s shirt.

“Fu—Jes—boll—”Seb cut off each curse as he tried to grip Jay’s wrists to yank his hands out.

“Ahhh.”Jay rolled them both forward onto the rug and, delighted in the warmth settlinginto his hands from hugging his husband and daughter, he grinned. “So good.”

Sebgritted his teeth, riding out the pain. Bea buried her face into Seb’s neck andJay eventually clambered off them both to perch on his knees with a satisfied smirk.“Cheers.” He waggled his fingers, the feeling now back in his tips. “Neededthat.”

Beaslipped off from Seb as he hauled himself back up to sit, side eying Jay. “I’llget you for that later.”

Jayarched an eyebrow. “Bring it the eff on.”

Thatsultry look from his husband meant he was most certainly going to bring it,probably when Bea was in bed, and Jay should probably watch out. He smiled,then nodded to the guitar as he pulled Beatrice back into his lap. He kissedher cheek that time, careful not to prickle her delicate skin.

“Goon, then,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

Seb’sgrin was infectious, and he clambered for the guitar, checking his strings andwhen he started up, the sweet melody filled Jay’s heart with accustomed warmth.He adored Seb’s playing. He loved his singing. He fell deeper and anchoredhimself to that man each and every time he composed. It was rawness and real,beautiful and enchanting. And it always brought Jay back to that time, allthose years ago, when he’d watched the man perform on a stage filled with manyand had become his biggest, longest, and most loyal of fans. Seb always sungwith such heartfelt, raw emotion. And this was no different. Especially as heguessed the ‘she’ he was referring to in his lyrics was Beatrice.

Sebtrailed off, his fingers brushing the strings and he glanced up to Jay as hekinda just left it hanging. “Not complete,” he said. “Needs a better finish.”He flattened his palm across the sound hole. “What do you think?”

“It’sbeautiful,” Jay said, then kissed Bea’s cheek. “Like you.” She giggled, thenJay leaned forward, gripping onto his daughter so she didn’t slide off to kisshis husband. “And you.”

Sebgrinned. “Think I’m ready to go back.”

“Yeah?You sure?”

Sebplaced his guitar next to him. “I think so.” He stroked a hand through Bea’sbunches. “She’s now full time at pre-school. She’ll be starting reception in afew months’ time. It’s about time I got a job that isn’t clearing up afterher.”

Jaysnorted. “You don’t do that, babe. I come home to chaos most days.”

“Chaosmeans we’ve been knee deep in learning through play. I am using the Montessorimethod of child rearing.”

Jaysnorted. Not that he denied it. Seb had every how to guide on raisingtoddler geniuses. He’d settled on the one that meant less maths. “Whatever youwant, babe,” he said. “My schedule ain’t so demanding anymore. So I can step infor school runs. You deserve to be back on that stage. I know you miss it.”

“Ihave.” Seb ruffled a hand through his hair, probably as a way to say he wasready to style that and shake off his main Daddy-day-care role to become thefront man of the Drops again. “I’ve loved every second of being with her.”

“Iknow you have. That ain’t in denial. But you need music. You need the band.That’s what makes you you.”

Sebshuffled toward him, kissing Jay on the lips and planting one to Bea’s head.“What do you say, princess? You want Dad-Jay to look after you more? Let Daddyrock the world again?”

Beatricescrunched up her button nose, lips pursed, glancing from Seb to Jay. She thenerupted into a grin and threw her arms around Jay’s neck.

“Thinkthat’s a yes,” Seb said, rubbing her back and looking just a slight miffed.

“Shestill loves you the best,” Jay whispered into his ear.

“There’sno competition here, Champ.”

“There’salways competition with you.”

Sebchuckled and Bea jumped off Jay’s lap, swishing her skirt. “Do you like mydress, Dad-Jay?”

“Ilove it, pumpkin.” Jay tugged her fingers, then off she ran to go hunt in herbox of overflowing toys, so Jay asked Seb, “Are they due round or been round?”

“Been.”

“ThankChrist.”

Sebslapped him on the arm then jumped up to retrieve an envelope from the coffeetable. He handed it to Jay. “Invitation.”

“To?”Jay thumbed the elegant matte.

“Mymother and father’s wedding.”

Jaywidened his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“Ifucking wish.” At least he’d whispered the curse word. “Who does that? Getsdivorced, then fifteen years later get remarried?”

“Twopeople who should have stayed together but outside forced made it impossible.”

“Mymother and father made it impossible. Neither are particularly easy to livewith.”

“Knowwhere you get it from then.” Jay chuckled, throwing the envelope on the table.

Sebstuck out his tongue. Jay blew him a kiss.

“Listen,I wanted to ask you something.” Jay turned serious, knowing this next partmight take more persuading that their attendance at his parents’ secondwedding. Seb had had a hard enough time coming to terms with their reunion andhis mother’s more frequent visits London.

“Isit, ‘do you want a takeaway for dinner’?”

“No.We had Thai last night. And you said you’d plan something for tonight.”

“Idid plan something. Pizza. From Le Express.”

“No.”

“Bastard.Aren’t coaches allowed to pile on the pounds?”

“I’mstill a player.”

“Whohasn’t got their studs muddy since November. You’re keeping that bench seatexceptionally warm.”

Aftera brief check that Bea was preoccupied with her Leapfrog, Jay stuck his middlefinger up at his husband.

Sebchuckled, kneeling to tuck his acoustic guitar back in its case. “What is itthen?”

“Theclub put a call out for the under 5s team.”

Sebsnapped shut his case. “Baby, I know this semi-retirement thing is hitting youhard, but thirty-five and under-five are quite different. They’ll notice.”

“ForBea.” Jay angled his head to his daughter pressing buttons on her pad.

“She’sa girl.”

“Girlsplay football.”

Sebopened his mouth, probably to dispute it, before thinking better of it andclosed it again. “She’s too precious!” he squawked instead.

“It’smostly ball skills at that age. Learning the game. Not full-on tackles.”

“Good,because I do not want other girls kicking my princess.”

Jaybit his lip. “It’s mixed teams that age too.”

“What?”Seb’s voice hit new levels. “Girls and boys? Together?”

“Yeah.Although, I’d guess they’ll be more boys than girls. They’ll put her in withthem ‘cause there ain’t enough girls for a full team.”

Sebstood, gripping the handles of his guitar case. “You’re not selling this.”

“It’sexercise. It’s fun. She loves playing football in the garden.”

“No,you love playing football with her in the garden. She ends up cryingbecause you don’t let her win.” 

“I’mteaching her how to accept losses. It’s an important part of the game.”

Sebgave him a dubious look. “Our daughter should not learn to accept failure.”

“Sorry,Mr. Saunders, Sir, I hadn’t realised you were still here.”

Sebstuck his middle finger up. He then glanced over Jay’s head to Beatrice at theback of the lounge, now laying on her tummy as she played a game on her tablet.“Really?” he asked, brow furrowed. “You want her to join a football team?”

“Notany football team. My football team. If she doesn’t like it, she doesn’thave to play. But let’s take her and see.”

“Areyou doing this to try and prove nature versus nurture?”

Jaystood, stepping in closer to Seb to kiss him. “No. I’m doing this because Iwatch her singing and playing music with you every day. I want that bond. Iwant her to experience what her Dad-Jay fell in love with at her age.”

“Kickinga fucking football.”

“Kickinga fucking football into the back of a net, over the heads of fucked-offkeeper.”

“Thatbetter than sex?” Seb studied his face.

Jaydidn’t answer for a while, until Seb widened his eyes in severe encouragement.So he rushed out, “Not sex with you.”

“Fine.”Seb closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “When?”

“Tomorra.Nine a.m.”

“Jesuseffing Christ.

* ** *

Sebwas pretty damn sure he had never, ever been this cold.

Itwas January, for fuck’s sake. And he was here, standing on the edge of an of anicy-cold football pitch and was, once again, inappropriately dressed. Whenwould he ever learn? He’d been married to a footballer for five years, hislive-in partner for eight prior to that. Yet still he hadn’t acquired thesuitable attire to be out in the cold for ninety-plus minutes in plummetingEnglish climate.

He blew out a breath from chattering lips, condensation forming twisted shapes, and tucked his hands under the armpits of his denim jacket. He gazed over to his tiny, precious daughter standing in the middle of the pitch listening to the team coach. Despite her being wrapped up head to toe in base layers with a replica West Ham kit – the name Rutters and 9 on the back – her little legs trembled. Seb was hard pressed not to run over and throw his jacket around her, gather her up and walk out of there. He wouldn’t though. Not only would Jay murder him dead if he did, Seb didn’t want to be that parent.

So he jiggled on the spot, toes numbing within his All-stars, eyes fixed on the team of ten kids forming a circle in the middle of the pitch. Jay was also out there, doing his duty as the star attraction by shaking hands with the coach then fist bumping each of the kids. He then tapped a hand down on Bea’s shoulder, whispering something in her ear before heading back to Seb with a wink. Seb gritted his chattering teeth. Beatrice, her long hair pulled back into a pony tail already falling from its band, wasn’t just one of the girls in the team try-outs. She was the only girl.

“Do you want my coat?” Jay asked as he jogged off the pitch to stand beside Seb.

“Yes.” And there was the reason why he hadn’t bought his own Football-Dad get up. Because he had a Jay. He smiled as Jay unzipped his padded wind-breaker jacket and wrapped it around Seb’s shoulders. “Thank you.” He loved it. The extra warmth. The scent of his husband. The feeling of being wrapped up like a gift. “Feel like a fucking cheerleader boyfriend.”

“Husband,” Jay replied and kissed him, then stood shoulder to shoulder with him at the side lines to watch the Academy try-outs that had just started by a piercing whistle blow.

Seb darted his gaze to Jay, realising that he was wearing another coat. He’d come with two. He smiled. Then jolted at the blast of a whistle. The kids were off. All ten of them chasing after a football like they were a murmuration of starlings, swooping and kicking and flailing after a ball that had zero target.

“Love watching football at this age,” a man hovering up beside Jay said. “No control. No spacing out. Just chase that ball down and kick it.” He held out his hand to Jay. “Adam.” He nodded out the the pitch. “My one’s Cooper, the blond.”

Jaychuckled and shook the man’s hand. “Jay.” He pointed out to pitch. “Ours is thegirl. Bea.”

Theman did a duck, then a double take, taking in both Jay and Seb beside him. Seboffered a smile he hoped was genuine but between his chattering teeth and bluelips he was sure he didn’t pull it off. Still, this was Jay’s moment. Not his.

“Blimey.Jay Ruttman.” Adam pumped Jay’s hand harder. “Guess she’s already won her spotthen.”

“Onlyif she inherited my ball skills, and not his.” Jay angled his head toward Seb.

“You have never once complained about my ball skills,” Seb muttered under his breath.

Jay shouldered him. Seb chuckled and watched his daughter drift away from the swarm of boys to hover by the goal line. She motioned to the group, raising her hands as if commanding them. One of the boys got his foot to the ball and with a fierce kick, whacked it her way. The ball found her pristine new studs that Jay had no doubt spent a fortune on, and she managed to stop it with her tip then launched her leg bag and blast. The ball zoomed past the stunned kid in goal to the slam the back of the net.

Jay’s sudden launch into the air and boisterous cheer nearly caused Seb to jump out of his skin.

“Fucking hell,” Seb said, heart hammering as he splayed a hand on his chest.

“Think she’s in,” Adam remarked.

Beatrice ran the full length of the half-sized make-shift pitch, punching her fists in the air and launched herself into Jay’s arms. He swung her around, kissed her cheek then plonked her back onto the grass. He tapped her behind. “Go on, sweetheart. Slam another one in.”

And off she went, pink cheeks and wide grin as she high fived a couple of the boys in the bibs on her team. Some of the others scowled at her, arms folded. One cried. His dad obviously wasn’t happy about that and gesticulated for him to get a grip and not be outdone by a girl.

Sebheaved a deep breath. “She’s a fucking footballer.”

“Yeah, she is.” Jay’s grin couldn’t have been wider and his blue eyes sparkled with potential. “She found space, she called for the ball, she scored. She’s a fucking Ruttman.”

Seb, after a moment of reflecting on his husband’s career playing top flight football, his coming out and how he’d grown into himself, developing harder, thicker, sturdier skin than any other player in the premier league and how he was a role mode, an icon, the most wonderfully strong, persistent and resilient man Seb had ever known, he smiled.

“Yeah. She is,” he said and rubbed his hands together. “Bring it the fuck on.”

This bonus chapter is brought to you courtesy of the Family and Found Family Book Funnel promotion, where 40+ authors have come together to celebrate their books with the family/found family trope.

There’s still time to grab a bargain, including my District Line boxset at today’s price of 2.99, and check out the other books on offer as part of this fabulous promotion.

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I’m delighted to be taking part in the Family & Found Family Book Funnel promotion with over 40 other MM authors.

This is a promotion focusing on those stories that have the overriding theme of family or finding a new family, whether that’s the traditional marriage and kids or, as it is in my District Line series, finding their true family unit with each other.

The District Line has a strong family/found family throughout the four books in the serial. From Seb having to come to terms with the abandonment of his mother at such a young age and leaving him with a controlling father, to finally getting out from the restraints of his birthright to find true love with Jay, and all with the support of his rocking band mates.

And let’s not forget Jay. The support from his true east-end family and close friends when dealing with coming out as the first openly gay premiership footballer and falling in love with a rising rock star are paramount to him remaining true to himself and where he came from. Both Jay and Seb in the District Line deal with family loss, family gains and forming true friendships throughout.

Not to mention, they get their own HEA and little family in the end….

So to celebrate the themes of family and found family, I’ve put the first three books in a boxset and it’s on sale for the bargain price of 99p/c for the duration of this promotion!

Now that’s what we call a deal…

Follow the link for this price and to see all other books in the promotion: https://books.bookfunnel.com/ff_may_2021/47hvwrf5vt

As a British based author myself, I’m always drawn to the British books and, if you are too, then there’s a few on this promotion. I’d recommend you picking up:

Clare London’s, With a Kick #1 – A Twist and Two Balls is a great, fun short novella where a z-list actor meets a taxi driver after not having enough money to pay for his cab fare. Adorable and lots of British humour, it’s a great one to leave you with a smile and a warm fuzzy feeling.

Garrett Leigh is a master of British grit and her Skins boxset is one in this promotion not to be missed! Throw yourself into the unforgettable angst, gritty and raw emotion of Leigh’s writing. You won’t be disappointed.

I’m an absolute sucker for a broken soul, especially one that’s fixed with a found family theme, and Colette Davison’s Heaven and Hell Club series packs this punch. Big time. Broken is an emotionally charged read, you have been warned. It’s also available in audio narrated by the awesomely talented Piers Ryman (not biased, even if he also narrates my District Line series). Get tissues.

There are over 40 authors included in this promotion, with this just my very short selection. So I urge to go check them all out and grab yourself a bargain, and maybe you’ll find a new family of authors to fall in love with.

https://books.bookfunnel.com/ff_may_2021/47hvwrf5vt

Premiership footballer Jay Ruttman came out to the nation. The press hve been camped outside his Limehouse apartment since, so at the end of the football season, he and his up and coming rock star boyfriend, Seb, escape the media for a well earned holiday in a private villa.

But when the weather turns and they’re stuck inside after agreeing to no TV, no internet, no music and no football for the duration of their stay, who will crack under the pressure of lockdown first?

To read this FREE bonus content that takes place between Break Through (The District Line #2) and Come Back (The District Line #3), then subscribe to my newsletter at www.cfwhiteauthor.com where you’ll receive not only this but a bunch of other short snippets from all of my books!