Her head tipped back, and she exhaled a loud sigh. ’I still hate that nickname.’
My hands travelled to her butt and I lifted her in the air. Her legs settled on my hips.
‘Too bad. You’re stuck with it.’
Her nose bumped mine. She grinned. ‘I’d rather be stuck with you.’
EPILOGUE
FALLON
Four Months Later
‘I’m going to be sick,’ I muttered.
Rosie bounced gleefully up and down on the plastic seat. Her eyes went round as she leaned forward to peer over the railing. ‘This is amazing.’
I didn’t share her enthusiasm. My stomach rumbled dangerously.
Rosie looked over her shoulder at me. She read my worried expression and sat back in her seat beside me. She entwined our fingers together—either not noticing or not caring about my sweaty palms—and leaned in close so her head was resting on my shoulder.
She gave my hand a comforting squeeze. ’You know he does this for a living, right?’
I gripped her hand tightly. Of course, I knew that. But this was Oliver’s first game back. His first time on the field in front of a stadium full of fans. Fans who only recently started getting excited about his return to the game.
My nerves were amplified because last night in bed, as heheld me tightly to his chest, Oliver confessed just how nervous he was about this game. It wasn’t his ability, he doubted. The moment his suspension lifted, he’d gone right back to training.
His body had quickly slipped back into the condition it had been in when he was at his peak. Physically, he was ready. But I knew his fear wasn’t about how well he played.
It was how the crowd would react—how the fans of the club would feel about his return. Since it was announced that his suspension was lifted, the media had grabbed hold of the story and milked it for all it was worth. Thankfully, for the most part, all of the coverage was positive. They lauded Oliver for his stoicism and work ethic. And thanks to several retractions posted in the newspaper, no one believed a single word Ashley said anymore. Oliver had been vindicated.
The book was also off the back burner and had found a home at a smaller publishing house. We were in the final stages of copyedits, meaning the next few months would be crazy. It took a lot of persuading from me to get him to even consider going on TV to do an interview. He was a grumpy bastard whenever it was mentioned. He’d adamantly refused to do any promo stuff for the book, and I’d been tearing my hair out trying to get everything organised for the release. Then, one night, after arguing yet again about it for an hour, I threw my hands up in defeat and stormed into the other room.
Stubborn, bloody man.
His response was to chase me down and grab hold of me, squeezing my cheeks in his giant palms and, with a scowl on his gorgeous face, said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do all the fucking TV appearances you want… as long as you do them with me.’
My spluttering refusal was met with stony silence. ‘The book’s aboutyou, dipstick. Not me.’
His grip on my face tightened. ‘There wouldn’t be a book without you…I wouldn’t bemewithout you.’
Then, because I had no self-control when it came to this man, I jumped his bones.
Needless to say, the two of us had several TV appearances lined up in the coming weeks.
Rumours had been circulating online about us. How we met, who I was, and obviously why a complete nobody was writing a book about a Premier League football player. It was a difficult shift in lifestyle, one that, at times, turned me into a blubbering mess. We couldn’t go anywhere without people taking our picture, and even though I knew we were a hot topic at the moment, I staunchly refused to read any of the articles published about us. Oliver did his best to show me all the love in the world. Whenever the noise outside got too loud, he’d hold me and take me away from it all until everything went quiet again.
I didn’t care what anyone thought. We were happy.
‘Here you go, ladies.’ George trundled down the steps and shuffled into our section, holding a tray of beers. I grabbed the one he offered and took a giant slug. We’d been offered seats in the VIP box during the game. I had been all for it until Oliver vetoed the idea, telling me he wanted me as close as possible. So the three of us sat in a cordoned-off section on the first row of seats, close to where the coaches stood.
Cole was there, arms folded, nervously eyeing his players. His relationship with Oliver was still healing—the two of them had got to a place of mutual respect that allowed them to work together again—but I wasn't sure if they would ever get back the friendship they had lost. Sometimes, a break is too big. No matter how hard you try, it never heals quite right.
I didn’t know the ins and outs of the situation—and I hadno desire to—but from a few comments Oliver had made, Ashley and Cole were trying to work out how they would co-parent when the baby was born. From how ruthlessly Cole had been pushing his team during training in the last couple of weeks, I’d guess that things weren’t going well.
My knees jostled up and down as I anxiously eyed the pitch. I swept my now pink hair out of my face for the umpteenth time, since it kept getting blown about by the wind. I dyed it back last month with the help of Oliver, who took great pleasure in saturating my blonde locks. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who missed the dusty pink.
George sat next to Rosie and raised his eyebrows, jutting his chin at me. ‘She losing it?’
