But he didn’t deserve me tearing into him like that, blaming him for my own fear.
I fumble the mug, barely getting a grip. Coffee’s gone cold, thick sludge at the bottom, but I swallow it anyway. Anything to distract from how my chest is caving in on itself.
I swallow, bitter heat rising behind my tongue.
God, I despise him for making me feel like this. For turning me into a wreck. For proving me right and wrong at the same time.
But he never should have been there in the first place. Shouldn’t have put himself in that room, surrounded by cards and cash and temptation like it didn’t matter. Like our deal didn’t mean anything. I trusted him. Mostly. It was the recklessness that made me snap.
One photo, one story, one misstep potentially ruining everything.
My career. His reputation. Us.
And maybe I didn’t trust him enough. Maybe that’s the real truth. Maybe I never believed I deserved him to begin with. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to screw it up so I could saySee? I knew it. Like proving I was right would make losing him hurt less.
It didn’t. It doesn’t.
I focus on the emails piling up on my screen. Meeting requests, sponsorship updates, contract revisions. Busy work to drown out the brutal, constant squeeze in the centre of my body.
The agency’s doing well, though.
Maybe because I’ve been throwing myself into it, taking on clients like a workaholic on a bender. Any distraction is good. Last week, I took the train to London to visit Mum and Hannah, hoping a change of scenery and some tough love would shake me out of it.
It didn’t.
I came back lonelier. Emptier. As if I’d tried to outrun it and just dragged it along behind me.
Brodie’s not one of my direct clients anymore. I handed him off to Mac because it’s the professional thing to do. I’ve kept my head down, stayed away from games and events, haven’t been near the Rebels in a month. Too much like picking at a wound that’s never gonna close.
They’re in Italy now, and the updates keep pinging my phone. Interviews. Brodie’s back from the brink and playing the part. The media are lapping up the comeback story as if it were their idea. No bad press, not even a whisper about the poker game. Nothing leaked.
He’s overzealous on the field, smashing into every tackle like he’s got something to prove and nothing to lose. Playing with rage. Borderline illegal half the time.
But it’s working. His redemption arc is in full swing. And it’s good. For him, for the team, for my agency. His career’s on an upward swing again.
I should be relieved, right? It’s what I wanted — a success story.
But all I feel is this gaping void. I’m bleeding out slow and silent, nobody noticing because I’m too good at faking that I’ve got it together.
I’m not spiralling about Brodie. I’m surviving. That’s the plan. Don’t think about him. Don’t wonder how Italy’s going. Don’t check the sports news. Don’t replay the crack in his voice when I tore his heart out.
A soft knock at the door drags me out of the fog. Before I can answer, Theo strolls in, balancing a plate of shortbread and a glittery travel mug that’s probably full of some overpriced chai.
‘We don’t have a meeting,’ I point out, trying for brisk and efficient. I sound scratchy instead.
‘We do now.’ She shuts the door behind her, unfazed. ‘And I need you to listen.’ She sets the shortbread in front of me like I’m some charity case she’s trying to feed. ‘You look like shite. Talk.’
I shove the plate back at her. ‘Not hungry.’
Theo raises an eyebrow, picking up a biscuit and nibbling the edge. ‘You haven’t eaten properly today, have you? Or yesterday. Or the day before. This is me, remembering the takeaway boxes still sitting on your desk last time I was here. Jesus, Charlie.’ She sighs, leaning back in the visitor’s chair. ‘You’re telling me what happened, or do I have to force it out of you?’
My jaw sets, and I focus harder on my computer. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Liar. Even your hair looks sad. And it’s supposed to be the indestructible, always gorgeous kind.’ She gives me a pointed once-over, like she’s trying to figure out where all the bones went. ‘Talk to me, Charlie. Please.’
I glance at the biscuits again, stomach queasy. ‘He fucked up. And then I fucked up. And then he fucked up again and here we are.’
‘Yeah, I got that much from the way you’re rearranging your life like you’re in witness protection. Care to elaborate?’
