My phone buzzes in my locker while I’m mid-lecture to myself. I ignore it at first. Then it buzzes again. I pull it out, expecting a text from Mum or the estate agent. It’s Freya. My pulse does something deeply unhelpful.
Freya:Random question… are you handy with tools?
I stare at the message for a full ten seconds. Handy with tools. I close my eyes briefly.Do not. Do not make that what it sounds like.I type back carefully.
Rory:Depends what you need fixing.
Which is measured. Controlled. Respectable. My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Freya:Leaky tap. And before you say it, yes, I’ve tried tightening it. No, I don’t know what I’m doing and yes I need a strong man to come fix it for me. Just call me a damsel in distress.
I can practically hear the dry humour in it. There’s something in the phrasing that feels… intentional. Light, but not accidental. I lean back against the locker and exhale slowly. This is fine. This is neighbourly. This is plumbing.
Rory:I can have a look. Might just be the washer.
There. Neutral. Practical. Boring. Her reply takes a little longer this time.
Freya:Of course you know about washers. Rugby player AND domestic competence. Very dangerous combination.
I actually laugh under my breath. She’s flirting. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The old Freya tone. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say something back. Something about how I’m multi-talented. Something about demonstrating skills in person. I want to. God, I want to. Instead I type:
Rory:Wouldn’t go that far.
Delete. Too cold. I try again.
Rory:Don’t set your expectations too high.
Send.
Safe. Dry. Annoyingly restrained. Her typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.Fuck, this woman is going to be the death of me.
Freya:So… Are you free before pick-up?
I have to sit down. Before pick-up. So it would just be us. In her kitchen. Alone. My brain lights up like a malfunctioning Christmas display.Say no. You are not equipped for this.Say yes and be normal. Just fix the tap. Do not imagine bending her over her kitchen counter and trailing my hands up the soft curves of her hips while I… RORY. Fucking chill.
I rub a hand down my face, snapping my mind out of these thoughts that will make any time alone with her very difficult.
I am thirty-five years old. I have played in front of eighty thousand people without blinking.
I can do this.
Rory:Yeah. I can swing by in an hour? I’m just finishing up at training.
I hit send before I can rethink it. Three dots appear again.
Freya:Hero. I owe you one.
I physically choke. I owe you one. Do not read into that. Do not. I type back:
Rory:It’s a tap, Frey.
Which is probably too clipped. Probably too distant. But if I let even an inch of what I’m actually thinking into that message, I will not survive it. I lock my phone and look up to find Noah staring me down.
“You good big man? You see, distracted.”
Noah and I are close. He’s my best bud on The Ravens team and we’ve been through a lot of shit together. He helped me massively through my public divorce and even put me up on his sofa until my mum was able to clear the spare room for me. I also supported him through a rough time when his parents died. Noah always knows when somethings up and I almost feel bad for not telling him what’s going on.
“I’m good man. Just stressed trying to find a place. My phone doesn’t stop with messages from the estate agent.” I lie.
