Ava’s beautiful, could light up the whole room. But she doesn’t because he won’t let her. That’s my problem right there. Her shoulders curve inward under his touch. She moves beside him in a contained performance so flawless it makes my teeth ache. This isn’t the woman who threw popcorn at silly Christmas films. This is a shell. It’s like the light inside her has gone out.
Outside, the cobblestones gleam wet under the streetlights. My breath fogs. I hang back, watching her move ahead through the throng of people.
My phone buzzes. It’s Finn:
You looked like you were on the verge of glassing someone back there.
* * *
I stare at the screen and type back:
Mind yer ain.
Saw you watching her. Nevin’s girl. The dancer.
* * *
My thumb hovers. I could ignore it. But I don’t. Finn notices everything. Except when he’s the one making the mess.
She needs a pal is all.
A pal. Right. That’s what that was. I’m not even gonnae ask how you know what she needs.
Get tae.
Love you too, sweet cheeks. But be careful, aye? Nevin’s a wanker but he’s a teammate.
* * *
I pocket the phone. He’s not wrong.
And that’s the fucking problem.
Teammate. The word used to mean something. It’s been weeks of sharing the pitch, the gym, nodding at a man whose bleached teeth I want to scatter across the changing room tiles. Rugby used to save me. Now it’s driving me insane. I’m beginning to hate it.
Because of her.
I’ve never noticed anyone the way I notice Ava. I used to think we were simply on the same page, but it’s more than that. She’s the only person I don’t want to get away from. Having her in my corner isn’t a bit of luck anymore.
It’s the only thing that lets me breathe.
* * *
The Drum Vault greets me with a blunt wall of sound and scent. Bass, sweat, perfume, spilled lager. I wedge myself against a pillar, half in shadow, and let the bass pummel my torso. The crowd flows in unpredictable lines, nothing like defensive drift, but my shoulders still angle to absorb contact that isn’t coming.
Connor finds me within minutes. ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘The lurking.’ He gestures at my pillar. ‘It’s unsettling. You’re six foot four and built like a shipping container. You can’t lurk.’
‘Watch me.’
‘What is it with you tonight? You’re wound tighter than Brodie at a press conference.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you say so. But you’ve got a tell, pal. Your jaw does this thing when you’re pissed off. Looks like you’re chewing rocks.’
