The changing room’s dead quiet. Steam clings to the air. I’ve half a mind to go find the physio and make him fix whatever the fuck’s wrong with my back.
I’m clean, showered, and dressed, but I still feel filthy. Stale. The game’s clinging to my skin. Chin tucked to my chest, I stare at the floor. My boots are shoved under the bench, mud caked around the cleats, and I’m too fucked to move.
The lads were riding the mood when they left, already on their way to the Sin & Tonic for the after party.
Not me.
Coach said it was a good start. But I was meant to carry us through the tough spots. Break the deadlock. Get us over the line.
Instead, I got put on my arse more times than I care to admit.
I’ve played worse games. Hell, I’ve lost by a lot more. But that was before. Before I had to earn back every scrap of respect. Before I knew what it felt like to have it all stripped away and start over.
The door creaks open, and I can’t even be arsed to look up. Just brush the grit off my jeans, even though there’s nothing there, and mutter, ‘Don’t feel like talking.’
Charlie’s voice cuts through the silence. ‘Too bad. One more interview. They’re waiting.’
My throat pulses, heat rising fast. I bite down so hard I feel it in my ears.‘I’ve given enough.’
‘Apparently not. They want the man of the match.’
I shake my head. ‘That can’t be me.’
Her heels echo on the tiles, each step measured against the silence. I don’t look, but I feel her watching. A current flickers along my cheek like static.
‘If you weren’t good enough, they wouldn’t be waiting.’ Charlie steps closer, voice low but fierce. ‘You’re not Atlas. You don’t have to carry the whole game on your shoulders. Snap out of it, MacRae. You’re leading a new team. This was never going to be perfect from the get-go. Ever heard of expectation management?’
She doesn’t give me a choice. Crouches in front of me. Her hand’s on my knee, small and warm, keeping me tethered. She grazes the fabric, and it’s fucking nothing, but it feels like everything. She looks at me like I did something right. Like I held the team, held the line, held my own. She believes it. Feels it. Says it like it’s fact. And for some fucked-up reason, that sinks in.
Because she doesn’t hand out faith lightly.
And she’s giving it to me.
Even now.
Even when I can’t give it to myself.
She’s close enough that I see every detail – the way her lashes dip low, that faint line between her brows, the slight quiver of her lower lip. I lift my hand, and my thumb moves without permission, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. She leans into it just a fraction, like she can’t help herself, and it nearly kills me.
‘I hate that you make so much sense.’ Didn’t mean to say it. Definitely didn’t mean it to sound like that.
Her eyes don’t drop. She hears it. All of it.
‘I hate that too.’ Her tone catches at the end.
‘Aye?’ I’m so close I taste her breath on my tongue, and my heart’s pounding hard enough to crack my ribcage.
Her gaze darts to my mouth, and her grip firms on my thigh. I know she feels it too – this agonising fucking draw between us.
And I’m screwed. Because now Iknowhow Charlie tastes. Feels. On my mouth. Around my cock.
I brush her nose with mine, and I’m two seconds away from saying ‘fuck it’and kissing her, taking what I want for once instead of holding back.
Her gaze softens, something fragile breaking through before she shutters it behind a breath. Locks it down and swallows the heat like it’ll choke her otherwise.
‘Brodie,’ she whispers. ‘You…did good. They want to hear from the captain. Go give them something good to print. You got this.’
‘Awright.’ I shake out my shoulders like I’m gearing up for another round. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’
