I don’t want to know.
Not when that face and those eyes and everything else about her say she’s about to offer to be my friend.
I have Sweet Pea.
I have rugby.
I have a mission.
I have new teammates to win over, which—fuck me again—has never been what I’m good at, but I’ll bloody well try until I’m dead.
That’s all I need.
10
Goldie
Leavingthe country is looking better and better by the day.
Why?
Because after a long day of selling a few more things out of my apartment, three client meetings, a welcome video call from the association hosting me in London for the next few months, confirmation that my work visa came through, and paying a very large deposit on the apartment I’m renting in London, all I wanted to do was chill for a few minutes in the wine bar and read part of a book before Odette, Evelyn, and Sheila got here.
Instead, I’m glued to the social media commentary about Fletcher Huxley’s mustache accident.
The TikTokers are calling it themustache-ident.
Also,what is rugby and where do I see Fletcher Huxley play?
No one’s seen him the past two days. He walked into his swanky condo building after our cooking class and hasn’t left.
The team’s training is unofficial until next week. Can’t doanything official as a team until preseason training starts. Half the guys have other jobs to supplement their income in the off-season because rugby doesn’t pay much here.
In the US, it’s ado it for the lovesport, not athis is how you get rich enough to drive a sports carsport.
Yet.
I have an inside source in management on the team, and she tells me ticket sales have exploded since Fletcher posted the video himself of his mustache catching on fire and me putting it out with salsa and a towel. They’re not selling out the stadium yet, but they’ve surpassed last year’s total ticket sales already.
“Oooh, if it isn’t our viral girl!” Evelyn says as she slides into the booth with me. “How’s life for Fletcher Huxley’s ’Stache Savior?”
I pocket my phone with a sigh. “All three of my clients today asked me some variation ofdoes he smell niceandare you dating him?”
“And?” Sheila says, sliding into the other side of the booth with Evelyn right on her heels.
“We arenotdating. That was supposed to be a thank-you-for-letting-me-collapse-on-you dinner that would also piss off Silas enough for him to get out of my love life.”
With a side of a fraction of the publicity Fletcher’sactuallygetting for the Pounders.
I have overdone my job.
Also, yes, my brother would one thousand percent fly across the Atlantic Ocean to scare away anyone he thought I was dating when I get to London. Even if it meant fines from the team for missing training or even a match.
Me moving overseas for most of his rugby season isn’t enough to stop Silas.
“Have you seen Fletcher?” Sheila asks.
I shake my head.
