The truth doesn’t knock; it kicks the door in. I want the man who knows how to be a wall without becoming a cage. I’m wrapped in the arms of a man who isn’t my boyfriend. The arms of his teammate. His brother on the pitch.
And the only thought in my head is: Closer. More. Scottie.
I don’t know how long we stay there. I count his heartbeats against my face, memorise the feeling of safety so I can carry it with me when I have to let go.
Then I pull back, and his arms release immediately, no demand in his posture. ‘Thank you, Bear.’
He doesn’t speak. But the softness around his eyes tells me he understands everything I can’t say out loud.
He is incredible. Too good to be true.
And yet here he is. Right in front of me.
I smooth down my dress, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, reassemble myself one piece at a time. The mask feels heavy now, an iron weight I have to lift back into place. ‘I-I should go back.’
‘That would probably be wise.’
I turn toward the corridor, the gala, the table where Nevin is waiting. My feet carry me forward through the long corridor.
Voices and laughter bleed through the walls as I approach the Great Hall.
What does it mean, this pull toward him? Why does it feel like I’m constantly tilting in his direction?
You know why.
If I name this, if I admit that I’m counting the days until I see him again, he’ll look at me the way men always look when you show them too much too soon. He’ll retreat. And I wouldn’t survive that. Our friendship would be over and I… No.
I step through the archway.
‘There she is!’ Nevin’s voice booms across the table. He is proper off his rocker.
I smile and let him pull me back into the candlelight, the laughter, the cage I’ve built from silence and endurance.
But my skin burns where Scottie touched me.
Chapter 11
Scottie
Nevin’s thumb presses into the hollow of Ava’s collarbone, and my hands strain with the urge to grab his shirt. You can’t lamp him. He’s your teammate.
MacKenzie Sporting banners are draped over nearly every surface. It’s early February, kick-off for the Six Nations, and the Sin & Tonic is heaving. The Mid-Season Mixer is acting as the official afterparty for the viewing.
I’m wedged into a corner booth, zeroed in on him directing her like a puppet.
No one else sees the truth of it.
The Sin & Tonic is rammed. Rebels, partners, MacKenzie Sporting execs laughing too loud at their own punchlines. Scotland scraped a win against England for the Calcutta Cup. The post-match atmosphere crackles through the room, victory bleeding into relief bleeding into alcohol.
I’m not celebrating.
The booth is my usual observation post. Sightlines to both doors, drink within reach but untouched. Same instinct that reads a defensive line. Pitch awareness doesn’t switch off because I’m holding a bottle of Coke Zero instead of a ball.
My gaze tracks them the moment they enter. Nevin’s arm wraps around her waist. Proprietary, not affectionate. His thumb hooks through the belt loop in her wide-leg trousers, tugging her against his side. Her posture is perfectly straight, which means she’s bracing. The roll neck of her jumper sits high. Hiding something, maybe? Or dressed the way he prefers.
Since Polly’s party in mid-January and the Burns Supper at Stirling Castle two weeks later, I’ve picked up on how she stiffens half a second before he touches her. Each fucking time.
I crack my knuckles and don’t look away.
