And there he is.
Finn stands cornered by two volunteers in matching MacKenzie Sporting polos, clutching their clipboards. His hair catches the light, that pink faded to the colour of candy floss. He’s nodding, lips pulled into a smile, but I recognise the tight line of his shoulders and the way his knee is bobbing.
Swallowing takes longer than it should. It’s him, down to the restlessness he thinks no one notices. And somehow that’s worse than seeing a stranger. It’s worse because I know that body. I’ve kissed that jaw. And now it belongs to someone I don’t get to touch anymore.
‘I’m telling you, the name tag is weird smack in the middle,’ one volunteer says, squinting up at his chest. ‘Side placement’s more natural.’
Her colleague leans in. ‘Right, but… Well, everyone knows who he is. D’you reckon he even needs one?’
‘Excuse me.’ I step forward, professional smile clicking into place. ‘Theo MacMickin, Elite Edge. Thanks for helping with the set-up.’
They turn toward me, startled and a little flustered, as if I’ve caught them debating whether to smack a Hi, I’m Finn sticker on his nipple. Which I kind of did.
‘I’ll take it from here,’ I add smoothly, reaching for the roll of name tags on the clipboard. ‘Let’s go with first name, upper left. Branding stays consistent, and we keep the focus where it belongs.’
Their expressions change into careful neutrality. No one mentions why exactly he’s so famous now that he doesn’t need a name tag.
I lean in for a quick peck on the cheek, the bare minimum required for our public charade. The familiar scent of his aftershave seeps past every flimsy defence I’ve built since Friday. The scrape of his stubble on my neck, the sound he makes when he’s close… I lock it down. He’s not mine to miss.
I pull back too quickly and paste on my brightest smile. ‘Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’
Chris, the store manager, appears. Anxiety radiates from every pore. ‘We’re ten minutes behind schedule. The queue’s getting restless.’
‘Everything’s under control.’ I scan the room. ‘Where’s Scottie?’
Chris’ face falls. ‘How should I know? Not my circus, not my monkeys.’
Nothing to do about that now, so moving on. Brodie’s trademark scowl is firmly in place. Jamie’s beside him, lost in his phone, and his expression is as inscrutable as ever.
‘Right.’ I turn back to Finn. ‘Ready?’
He finally meets my eyes, and I hold his gaze. It’s like pressing on a bruise only to check if it still hurts. It does. It’s all there. The wanting. The regret. The way he used to look at me right before he kissed me like it might kill him.
God help me. How am I supposed to survive this?
‘As I’ll ever be.’ His voice is rougher than I remember, or maybe that’s simply the way memory works, smoothing out the edges until you hear them again.
I need to say something, anything else. ‘Where’s Scottie?’
‘He didn’t come home last night.’ Finn examines the trainers on the wall behind me.
‘Again?’
‘He’s probably just shagging someone.’
‘Good for him. And…also…good crowd today.’ My mouth moves, but everything underneath locks up. ‘Remember, extra smiles for the kids, no promises about next season, no word about the tape?—’
‘I know the script, Theo. I’ve read the memo.’
I nod briskly and turn away, clicking into work mode. Check the banners. Adjust the lighting. Brief Trish, the photographer. I won’t let my personal disaster derail this event.
On my sign, the volunteers open the doors, and fans stream in, a tide of excitement washing over the store. Finn morphs into his public persona. Charming, cocky, attentive, laughing at the right moments. I watch from the periphery, acting like my heart isn’t sitting on the floor somewhere between the yoga mats and kettle bells.
A young girl approaches Finn, seven or eight years old, wearing a Rebels jersey that hangs to her knees.
‘You’re my favourite,’ she declares sternly.
Finn crouches to her level. ‘That right? Well, you’ve got excellent taste.’
