My heart’s doing that strange fluttery thing that it never used to do before him. I hate it. It’s irrational, but the longer I stand here, the more my thoughts pile up like a landslide.
I call him, but he doesn’t answer.
Even weirder.
He’s a night owl, never goes anywhere without his phone.
A muffled shout echoes down the hall, followed by a faint burst of laughter. I squint at the far end, where light spills from underneath the last door on the left.
I make my way down. Voices blend into a bassy murk that thickens as I get closer. I don’t know why the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but they do.
I have experience with athletes. I could find anything in there. Anyone.
The door’s slightly ajar, and the lads are yelling, laughing, there’s the clatter of something hitting the floor. I rap my knuckles against the wood, louder than intended.
The door swings open. Finn’s standing there, shirtless, tattooed all over, grinning like a maniac and not at all fazed by my panda eyes and South Park hoodie.
‘Charlie! Come to join the fun?’ He makes a sweeping gesture, and I catch sight of the scene behind him.
The two single beds shoved to one side, leaving space for the room’s small desk dragged into the centre. Four chairs crammed around it. Scottie, on one side, Jamie and Tommy on the other. I guess the empty chair’s Finn’s.
And there’s Brodie.
Back against the headboard, legs stretched out, cap pulled low over his eyes.
Relief whooshes through me as I see him. For a moment, I almost laugh.
Then I spot the pile of cash.
The cards.
Poker?
Ice pours down my spine.
Brodie doesn’t gamble. Not anymore.
He promised.
We agreed.
I step inside, and the noise crashes to a halt. Brodie glances up, and his half-grin slips, confusion lining his forehead.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I hear myself shout, and every head whips around.
Brodie uncrosses his arms, straightening up. ‘Charlie—’
‘No, Brodie. What the fucking fuck?’
‘He’s not allowed to hang out with the team?’ Scottie cuts in with a lopsided smirk, clearly too distracted to notice the tension. ‘Didn’t know your girl was the strict type, MacRae.’
I don’t breathe. Everything goes still. Everyone’s looking at me, at him. Scottie’s grinning like he just cracked the joke of the century, completely oblivious.
His girl.
They know. They all fucking know.
Did he tell them?
