And then the fucking worst thing happens.
Silas.
Silas.
He strolls out of the stairwell door, not even fucking winded—bet he rode the lift to the floor beneath mine and only did one set of stairs—holding a brown paper bag.
“None of us are drinking,” I say with a scowl.
“It’s from the chocolate smuggling ring, asshole,” he replies, shoving the bag at me.
Goddammit.
These fuckers are making my eyes hot.
Not even the Leopards back in Nottingshire would’ve done this.
“I heard you have a pinball collection,” Porter says.
I stare at him. Where thefuckdid he hear that? “It’s in storage.”
“Here? In this building? Or somewhere else?”
And that’s how my teammates end up shoving their way into my place, rearranging the furniture that I paid a designer to put together before I moved in, when I was so pissed about being fired that I forgot to tell her to leave room for any of my pinball machines, and give me something back in my life that I didn’t even know I was missing.
They give me something I did know I was missing too.
A team.
Friends.
Comfort.
Belonging.
Belief, for the first time in months, that I’ll be okay.
On the team, anyway.
39
Goldie
Apparently London is hell.
It’s really not. My first week here has been spectacular, but I should’ve said no when the faculty asked if they could take me out for Friday night fun.
Their version of fun?
A rugby match.
In person.
In Nottingshire, a town so close to the outskirts of London that it’s basically still in the city, where the Leopards are playing Yorkham’s team.
Nottingshire.
Fletcher’steam.
