A steward offers me a Bovril. I decline with a shudder and try to make mental notes. Monday meeting: leverage the ‘good luck charm’ angle. Pitch a Valentine’s Day feature. Follow up with Sports Weekly.
But my focus narrows and hooks on the number seven shirt. On the bright flare of pink hair in a scrum. Over the course of the game, I watch him move. He’s made of kinetic energy and feral grace. When he has the ball, he doesn’t just run; he devours the grass. He’s dancing.
The small crowd erupts, and I catch the movement just in time – Finn sprinting down the pitch, ball tucked against his side, a defender closing in fast. My heart vaults into my throat as the larger man slams into him, driving him into the muck.
‘Get up, Lennox,’ I mutter, not realising I’ve spoken aloud until the woman beside me chuckles.
‘First rugby match?’
‘No.’ I smooth my hair. ‘Just the first one where I care if someone breaks their neck.’
She nods knowingly. ‘My husband plays. I still close my eyes during tackles.’
Finn bounces to his feet, shaking off the hit as if it’s nothing. He pats Brodie’s back, grinning through the mud and rain. When he glances toward the stands, I swear he finds me instantly, like there’s some invisible thread connecting us.
He gives me a thumbs up. He knows I’m worried. And my skin goes hot, neck to knees.
The rain intensifies and turns the pitch into a quagmire. Players skid and crash. Finn collides with a prop twice his width, wiggling out of the hold with a raw power that makes the crowd scream.
When he scores, the stadium erupts, and he points directly at me before being mobbed by teammates.
‘Lennox is brilliant today,’ the woman next to me says.
I suppose he is. Every move sharp, every decision precise. My phone pings with notifications. Social media’s already on fire with the gesture.
Not him pointing after the try
I hope she doesn’t regret taking him back.
Forget the try, that look he gave her should be illegal.
Finn pls. We saw that.
Concentrate on the game, pal!!
I should be pleased. This is precisely what we planned. Sure, the ghost of his scandal still haunts the algorithm. But all in all, engagement’s up and negativity’s down. The strategy remains sound.
And I remain entirely unmoved by the way his kit clings to his thighs and chest and?—
Then it happens.
The final minutes of the first half bleed away. Finn gets the ball near the halfway line, weaving through a wall of opposition players. He’s a blur of pink and blue, a force of nature. He’s almost clear when a tank of a player comes at him from the side. The tackle isn’t illegal, I think, but brutal.
Finn goes down. This time, he doesn’t get up.
The air in my lungs turns to glass. My notebook drops from my grasp, scattering pages across the damp floor. A collective hush ripples through the stands, even the rain seems to pause.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Medics are sprinting onto the pitch.
My body moves before my brain can issue a single, rational command. I’m on my feet, shoving past the corporate suits. My heels clatter a hectic rhythm on the concrete steps.
‘Miss MacMickin!’ One of the match day liaisons calls from the doorway.
I ignore him, and protocol goes up in flames. I’m already halfway there. I barrel into the restricted corridor at a near run, my sodden coat flapping behind me. A security guard with a neck like a tree trunk steps into my path, arm outstretched.
‘Staff only, miss.’
‘I’m his emergency contact.’ The lie comes out absolute. I brandish my all-access pass, my face set in a mask of authority I don’t feel. ‘Now move, please.’
