I can cope with pressure. A stadium screaming my name. A match-winning kick in the final seconds. A six-foot-four, twenty-stone forward with a grudge barrelling towards me. National media tearing me to shreds.
But the chance she doesn’t want the same thing? That I could want her and she’d walk away like none of it mattered?
Fucking kills me.
She needs time. And I need an answer I can live with.
I slam the car door harder than needed.
The hotel hallway is empty, carpet swallowing my steps. The key card clicks. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, quietly as I can, balancing the Co-op bag in one arm. The air smells of her. I force my breath steady, grip the bag tighter, and try to ignore how much I fucking like it.
Inside, the room’s dim, curtains still drawn. The only light is the sliver of daylight sneaking through the edges.
Charlie’s still out cold. Sprawled across the bed in a tangle of sheets, cheek mashed into the pillow, one bare leg kicked free.
And she’s still wearing my shirt.
My gut tilts, like the ground’s shifted half an inch.
It’s not just the sight of her in it – it’s the feeling. Like I left something of mine on her, and she didn’t shake it off. She kept it on her skin, as close as possible.
The rugby shirt’s bunched up her thighs, hem riding high enough to show the sweet curve of her arse in those lace knickers. My brain goes places. Forbidden places. Straight into the gutter without brakes. Charlie in that shirt, under me. Her in that shirt, over me. The fabric bunched up around her waist, me gripping her hips. Her in that shirt, snuggled up against me on the sofa, one of those terrible crime dramas playing in the background while she rants about police procedure.
The second thought should kill the first. It doesn’t. Just makes it worse.
Fuck.
I cross the room, as quietly as possible, and set the bag down. Pull out the Irn Bru and the paracetamol, place them on the nightstand. Her lashes flutter and she stirs, shifting onto her side, arm flopping over her face with a groggy groan.
‘MacRae?’ Her voice cracks. She rolls onto her back and stretches like a cat. Fabric pulls tight across her chest.
‘Alive then,’ I grunt.
She squints at me. ‘Tell me you got coffee.’
I rub the back of my neck. ‘Irn Bru, painkillers, water, and a roll.’
‘Didn’t peg you for a nursemaid.’
‘Didn’t peg you for a lightweight.’ I sit down on the edge of the bed. Springs dip. ‘Got your cure here. Hydrate, Harrington.’
She snags the can of Irn Bru, cracks it one-handed. The juice glugs down, and I track the way her neck moves.
‘Better?’ I ask.
‘Still want to die.’ She wipes her mouth. ‘But a bit less.’
Sunlight cuts through a slim gap between the curtains, striping her legs. I want to nibble the inside of her knee. Want to drag this rugby shirt over her head slow, watch her squirm. Want to order room service pancakes and argue about syrup brands until she snort-laughs again.
‘How was the event?’ she asks.
‘Good. Kids were class. Made sure they got all the photos they needed for the sponsor.’
‘Did you do my job for me, MacRae?’
I shrug. ‘Somebody had to.’
‘You’re staring. Do I have something on my face?’
