She didn’t need to read them. She already knew the shape of them—the tone, the implication, the way a single clipped answer could be stretched into a narrative.
MOREAU FAILS TO IMPRESS IN PRE-SEASON MEDIA
ASHWORTH’S NEW STAR: TALENT WITHOUT TACT?
The media training room occupied a quiet corner of the upper floor: glass walls on three sides letting in pale winter light, neutral grey chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle, cameras mounted at precise angles to replicate the glare of a press pen. It smelled faintly of fresh coffee and recycled air, the kind of sterile brightness designed to strip away excuses.
Lucas was already there.
He was stationed by the far wall, not lounging this time but contained—arms folded, shoulder pressed back, ankle hooked loosely over the other. He wasn’t checking his phone. He wasn’t engaging either. Just watching. There was a stillness to him that felt deliberate, like a coiled engine idling low. His expression didn’t change—cool, detached, faintly edged with impatience. Not bored exactly. Just selective.
He also looked tense. Not the explosive kind—more the slow-coil variety, the sort that made the air around him feel heavier.It set her instincts humming. And damn it, it made her notice the way his thighs spread when he finally pushed off the wall and dropped into a chair, the outline of his muscles shifting visibly through the dark fabric.
“Good morning,” she said, keeping her tone even, professional, light enough to test the waters.
“Is it?” he replied, voice low, flat.
She ignored the jab. “This will take about thirty minutes.”
His gaze flicked to the cameras, then back to her. “I don’t need training.”
“I know,” she said calmly. “Humour me.”
That got his attention. His eyes narrowed fractionally—not anger, assessment.
She stepped fully into the room, set her laptop on the table with careful precision, and opened it just enough to glance at her notes. The ritual grounded her: questions queued, scenarios mapped, contingencies ready. Control where you could steal it.
“This isn’t about changing who you are,” she continued, meeting his eyes. “It’s about making sure the version of you that reaches the public doesn’t sabotage the rest.”
He scoffed softly, a sound that barely disturbed the air. “So I’m the problem.”
“No.” She kept her voice level. “Your delivery is.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m supposed to be charming. Like my grandfather.” The words came out clipped, matter-of-fact, no warmth, no crack in the armour. “Smiled for the cameras, waved to the crowds, played the hero. Everyone still talks about how fearless he was. How perfect. My father’s spent my whole life reminding me I need to live up to it. ‘Don’t disgrace the name.’ So forgive me if I don’t flash teeth on cue.”
Mia held his gaze steadily. No pity, no probing. Justacknowledgment. “I’m not asking you to smile. I’m asking you to give them something real. Not the ghost of a dead champion. You.”
He straightened slowly, spreading his legs a fraction wider, posture shifting into something open but unmistakably guarded—a deliberate performance of ease. She recognised it instantly: the Oxford boys who’d worn the same mask, confidence as deflection.
And right now, it was shrinking the space between them, making her acutely aware of the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of clean sweat and dark cologne that lingered from his morning sim session.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said.
She didn’t blink. “Good. First question.”
She read it aloud—neutral, measured. He answered the same way: technically accurate, emotionally barren.
She didn’t interrupt. Let the silence stretch, thick and deliberate.
He shifted in his seat. Barely noticeable, but his thigh brushed the edge of the table, inches from her knee. Heat prickled along her skin.
“Again,” she said.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Why?”
“Because that answer gives them nothing. And when journalists get nothing, they fill the void themselves. Usually with something worse.”
“I’m not here to entertain them.”
