‘All in,’ she breathes against my skin.
I kiss her slowly and pour every unspoken promise into her mouth until the outlines of us blur. When I pull back, her blue eyes are full of light.
I’ve carried weight my whole life. Family, expectations, the team. But here, with her against my chest, I’m not bracing. I’m not assessing who needs what and how fast I can deliver it.
I’m at peace.
The fire is low, and she’s curled into me, head on my chest, one leg draped over mine. Her breathing matches mine. Or mine matches hers. I can’t tell which.
Ava’s phone vibrates on the coffee table. Neither of us moves at first. It’s probably spam. But it keeps buzzing again and again. Insistent.
She sits up, frowning, and reaches for it. She unlocks the screen, and the light washes her face pale.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Her hand shakes as she stares at the screen. I lean over to see. A text from her friend Laurel with a screenshot of a TikTok video.
A clip of Nevin.
He’s glaring into the camera with an expression of wounded bravery. His cheek is bruised, eye swollen and artfully displayed. A video designed to elicit sympathy. Poor lad. Look what they did to him. That arsehole should be in jail.
The caption reads:
Betrayed by those you invited into your home. Violence is never the answer, but the truth always wins. #SpeakingMyTruth
The warmth in the room evaporates.
Ava’s breathing goes shallow. ‘He’s…’ She stops. ‘He’s making himself the victim.’
I take the phone from her and scan a screenshot of his post. He hasn’t named me. Not yet. But he’s taken this public.
‘How many people have seen this?’ There isn’t a ripple in my voice.
‘Thousands, according to Laurel. It’s been up for two hours. I blocked him everywhere, I’m… I don’t know what to say.’
The comments are full of supportive messages. Outrage on his behalf. People demanding justice.
I know how to take a hit on the pitch. How to absorb impact, to keep my feet, to protect the ball when giants are trying to bury me. But this? This is a different fight. One I’ve no playbook for.
I’m running through solutions. Call the Rebels’ media liaison. Screenshot everything. Contact a solicitor. Get ahead of this.
‘Scottie.’ She drops the phone on the rug. Her hands are shaking.
‘He knows what he’s doing.’ She’s staring at the dead fire. ‘He doesn’t care about the punch.’ As she turns to me, I see her eyes are wild with fear. ‘He’s going to burn everything, Scottie. He’s going to burn you down to get to me.’
‘Let him try.’ My anger is calm, not the hot flash of the fight in Nevin’s flat.
You’re coming after my woman? Get ready to face the consequences.
‘You don’t understand!’ Ava jumps up, pacing the rug. ‘You have a career. You have the Rebels. You have… everything. He will take it. He’ll sue, he’ll lie to the press, he’ll go to the police, he?—’
I reach out and catch her wrist as she passes. ‘Ava.’
‘I have to go.’ She’s hyperventilating. ‘If I leave… if I say it was my fault… Maybe he’ll leave you alone.’
There it is. The thing that could actually kill me. Her, erasing herself to protect me, the way she’s been trained to disappear by every person who ever showed her that having needs drives people away.
‘Stop.’ I yank her towards me and wrap my arms around her waist, locking her in. ‘Stop and listen to me.’
