“It is,” she says proudly. “Consistency is important.”
“Boujee,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
She grins. “Ready for another thrilling day of herding small humans?”
“Always,” I say. “I live for the chaos.”
She raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests she knows I am lying.
Hannah teaches reception and I won’t lie, I am a little jealous that the reception teaching assistant has worked here for twenty years with no sign of leaving. I love my year fours but there’s something magical about that first real year of learning and being able to mould them into tiny little humans.
The morning unfolds in the steady rhythm I have come to rely on. Phonics sessions, playground disputes, paper aeroplanes that refuse to fly but are treated like feats of engineering. Somewhere in between, I pass the main hallway. And there he is. Rory Bennett. Oakwood Alumni. Pro Rugby Player. His photo hangs in a simple black frame, shoulders broad in his Ravens kit, expression caught between confidence and something slightly unsure. I stop without meaning to, my gaze lingering for a beat too long.
He looks older now, of course. More defined. Sharper around the edges. He is also very much the same. The fact that he is back in Oakwood feels less like coincidence and more like a quiet shift in the ground beneath my feet.
There are children waiting for help with their reading. There are break times to supervise. There is a life I have built here that feels solid and safe. And yet, as I walk away from the hallway, I cannot shake the awareness that some parts of our story never quite finished.
Whatever Rory Bennett is to me now, I have a feeling it will not stay uncomplicated for long.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rory
Today is Isla’s first full day at school, which means I have a few hours to look at houses and pretend I am not still technically living in my parents’ spare room as a thirty-five-year-old professional rugby player.
She clings to my hand a little tighter than usual as we walk toward the gates, though she would never admit to being nervous.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her as I squeeze back.
“I know,” she replies, with the confidence of someone who genuinely believes that. I envy that about her. Although, I guess she gets the fake confidence from me.
The playground is already filling up and I can feel the shift as soon as we step onto the tarmac. A few nods. A couple of double takes. Someone says my name. I nod, polite but detached, the way I’ve learned to do when I don’t particularly want to invite conversation.
Isla lets go of my hand once she spots her classroom door. I watch her walk inside, shoulders straight, chin lifted, and something fierce and protective rises in my chest. She is the only part of my life that feels uncomplicated. I know what I am to her. I know what I owe her. Everything else feels slightly less clear. Without her beside me, I am suddenly aware of myself again. Of the way people look. Of the fact that I cannot simply blend in here.
I start walking back toward the exit and that’s when I see Freya. She’s standing near the edge of the playground, half turned away from me, laughing at something one of the other mums says. The sound hits first. Then the way she tilts her head slightly when she laughs. Then the fact that I am looking far longer than is reasonable. For a split second I consider pretending I have not noticed her. That would be easier. Instead, I let my gaze linger, just enough that if she looks up she will know I am there. If I am going to be back in this town properly, hiding from her feels ridiculous.
She does look up. And there it is. That flicker of recognition. Something that looks suspiciously like heat before she covers it with composure.
I feel it low in my stomach. Shit. This is inconvenient.
She looks good. Not in a nostalgic way, not in a polite former-friend way. In a way that makes me immediately aware of my own body and the fact that I am standing in a primary school playground having thoughts I should not be having.
I force my expression into something easy and casual.
Casual Rory, you’ve got this.
Inside, I am annoyed. It has been years. Years. I have had an entire marriage. A child. A divorce. A life that did not include her. And yet one look and my brain has apparently decided to revisit territory I left behind a long time ago.
I tear my gaze away and head toward the car, telling myself firmly that things will be normal between her and I soon. I’ll be able to look at her without my dick growing and my pulse increasing.
Back at my parents’ house, the quiet greets me. Mum and Dad left yesterday for the Caribbean, which means the house feels larger and emptier than usual. Mum batch-cooked enough meals to feed a rugby team, which she insists is not a comment on my inability to function as an adult.
I drop my keys onto the hallway table and head upstairs for a shower, trying to shake the image of Freya standing in the playground. It does not work. Under the hot water, my mind betrays me completely. The way her jeans hugged her curves. The way her mouth curved when she laughed. The faint flush on her cheeks when she realised I was looking at her.
