With a curt nod, she leaves my office and I live to fight another day. But between Charlotte and Josh, my little bubble of bliss has taken some significant damage.
Chapter Thirty
I wasn’t making an excuseto Josh when I said December was the club’s busiest time: The Christmas schedule is packed with games, and the lads are run ragged, especially those who just returned from a month of playing in the World Cup. In a way, the fact that I am drowning in work is a blessing in disguise. I barely have time to eat and bathe; finding extra time to stew on any one of my little collection of anxieties right now is nearly impossible. Good, because I don’t need the angst that comes with realizing this is my first solo Christmas in six years. Or the sorrow of thinking about my brothers and their families gathered at my parents’ house without me. Or the lingering question of whether Matt Fletcher is going to get me fired and deported. No, this year, December 25th is just another day.
New Year’s is a horse of a different color. As their way of making up for how hard we work through Christmas, the club goes all out for New Year’s Eve, throwing a very official fancy dinner and a very unofficial sloppy afterparty. The Comms team helps set up for the dinner, so at fivep.m.I find myself in the ballroom of the ritziest hotel in Liverpool in a new dress that is somehow both work-appropriate and kind of slutty (thanks to Sadie, of course). My stomach is full of butterflies and not much else, and I’marranging place cards and unstacking chairs and trying very hard not to think about how New Year’s is a time for fresh starts and resolutions, like, perhaps, a commitment to divorce one’s wife. Or to finally tell the unbearably handsome man you live with that you quite fancy him, actually. And even though I know that my attempts to have control over the space-time continuum have failed many times this year, I have decided that midnight is going to be the time when both of these things will happen.
At seven, the team trickles in and dinner commences. Lachlan and I aren’t at the same table, but seeing as I was in charge of place cards, I arranged it so we’d be facing each other—why yes, I did let all the power go to my head. He winks at me as he takes a seat, looking so dapper in his suit. He’s growing out his beard, and it’s just on the right side of scruffy. As ever, I’m possessed by a crushing desire to be near to him, to breathe the same air as him, to let my fingers roam where they may, in harmless little trails on his shoulders.
The dinner is excellent, I assume, though I can barely eat anything. The closer we get to midnight, the more the gnashing anxiety roils in my gut. It’s like I’m Cinderella at the ball, one eye on the prince and my future, one eye on my poor, pumpkin past. The formal part of the night is drawing to a close, so all the married players can get home to their families. Vogler stands and delivers a characteristically brief speech, grunted out in his clipped, accented English. A few other notables add their remarks, but anyone looking around the room can see the lads are getting anxious. The afterparty is at a club a block away, and since there’s no game for a full week, this night is perhaps second only to Training Camp Party as a team-sanctioned excuse to go wild.
Finally, the speeches wrap up. As the desserts are passed around, I see Matt Fletcher put on his coat, look at Lachlan, andjerk his head in the direction of the exit. My body goes cold—if fucking Matt Fletcher makes Lachlan leave before midnight, I will actually murder him. Lachlan looks confused but follows Matt into the hallway. I slip out of my chair to try to eavesdrop, but because my spy bona fides are certified rubbish, I get waylaid four or five times en route. By the time I find them, their argument is in full force. I take up a strategic hiding place behind a large potted fern and listen.
“You know I only want what’s best for you,” Matty says.
“But what’s best formeisn’t necessarily what’s best foryou.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“Yes, but in my own time,” Lachlan says. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Honestly, mate, do you?”
“I can’t keep having this conversation with you, Matty. Go home to your family and stop trying to micromanage mine.”
Ooh, that’s a good line, Lachlan. It seems to stop Matty in his tracks, because it’s a long time before he speaks again. Even though I can’t see his face, I could describe it perfectly for a sketch artist right now. He’ll be fuming—no one talks to Matthew Fletcher like this, not even Lachlan. I chance a quick peek and see the two of them squared off, shoulders tense. Then Matty jabs a finger in Lachlan’s chest. “Just be careful.” Without another word, he storms off down the hall.
Lachlan turns back in the direction of the dining hall and almost sees me. I duck back behind the fern before he does, but not before I catch the expression on his face: anguish. Pure anguish.
I run back to the table and slide into my chair, shoving a huge forkful of cake into my mouth and laughing at the ongoing conversation like I’ve been part of it the whole time. I try not to think about the look on Lachlan’s face, try not to overanalyze everysingle word of their conversation. Who isher? Am Iher? Is he going to tell me something? Or is it Claire? Or, God, someone else? I swear, if this is actually a love quadrilateral, I’m on the first plane back to Boston.
Difficult as it is, I try not to stare directly at Lachlan when he comes back into the room, as I’m sure my face would give away that I’ve been eavesdropping. But when he passes me, the anguish is gone from his expression. He brushes his fingers lightly across my back, ruffling the ends of my hair and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. I turn over my shoulder to catch his eye, but all I can see is one side of his mouth hitched up into a mischievous grin. I cover my mouth to hide my smile, and some of my anxiety dissipates. I know it will always be there, lurking, skulking around for an opportunity to pop back up as soon as I let my guard down, but I plan to drown it in champagne in the meantime.
Sadie notices the whole thing, because she’s got the eyes of a hawk, if a hawk hunted for sexual tension instead of voles. “So you guys are finally fucking, huh?”
I blush, obviously, but I’m not offended by the question. Not this time. “Not yet, but I swear, Sadie, if it doesn’t happen soon, I think we both might die.”
It seems I have finally flapped the unflappable Sadie, as her brows shoot straight up. I know she was expecting me to demur or remind her that he’s married or do any of the other things I’ve done the other dozen times she’s asked me, but I’m past tiptoeing around it.
“I’ll drink to that,” she says, and clinks her glass to mine. “But remember to be careful. It’s so much easier when no one knows.”
The champagne turns sour in my stomach; it seems neither Lachlan nor I are being cautious enough for our minders. Andokay, maybe that’s true, but for once, I’m forcing that thought away. Just for tonight, I don’t want to stress. Just for tonight, I want to truly be the person I’ve been trying to become these last few months: less timid, less apologetic, less anxious. Just for tonight, I want to let my life happen and not worry about what comes tomorrow.
I wrap this feeling around me like a coat, link arms with Sadie, and head into the bracing cold of Liverpool.
Chapter Thirty-One
At the club, we’re allwhisked past the velvet rope—an actual velvet rope! with actual bouncers!—and ushered straight inside. Dozens of heads turn as the lads breeze in and head for the semiprivate area reserved for the team, and I get a thrill at being with them, the object of fascination from all the Normals dancing their way into the new year. My life has become like a dream sequence from a movie, a sensation augmented by the fact that an unbelievably handsome man with a gingery beard is nodding at me across the dance floor, beckoning me to him.
Lachlan hands Sadie and me a shot, then grabs one for himself from a passing waitress (who looks like she’d gladly give him more than alcohol). The lads have all undone their ties and they’re getting into the music, proving that their feet are good for more than just kicking balls. The shots keep coming and I find myself wishing I’d eaten a bit more at dinner, because it’s all going straight to my head. But fuck it, I’m leaning in.
Just before midnight, Kieran Campbell climbs up to the DJ booth and whispers something to the guy behind the turntables, who laughs and nods. I guess when you’re the Boy King of Liverpool, you can do whatever you want, because at 11:57, the first notes of “Mr. Brightside” ring out. There’s a surprised sort ofmumble from the Normals, but the Mersey lads are losing their minds. We all get into a circle, jostling and waving in an uncoordinated sway, arms slung over shoulders, bottles and glasses in hand. The floor is sticky with spilled beer and someone keeps stepping on my toes and we’re belting the chorus at the top of our lungs and the sweat is rolling down my back and everything is light and good and perfect. It’s a repeat of our karaoke performance at the end of training camp, but now the bonds between old and new are real, unbreakable. Even Beto Gomez has managed to learn the words. There’s nowhere in the world any of us would rather be than right here.
From somewhere in the background, we hear the countdown start, and we join our voices as the song winds down. As the clock ticks over into 2023, the Mersey circle becomes a Mersey mob, as everyone hugs and slaps and kisses and bounces in a raucous, jubilant mess. It’s the happiest I can remember feeling in a very, very long time. The love I have for this team is almost too powerful to be contained; it rattles wildly inside me, a thousand bouncy balls dropped on a trampoline. It makes me want to scream with joy, with pride that these are my people.
Then Lachlan throws his arms around me and presses his lips to my cheek. “Happy New Year, Stripes,” he murmurs in my ear. “Let it be the first of many we celebrate together.”
I already know this comment will be held up to the light, examined with a jeweler’s loupe, burnished until it shines in my brain. But for now, all I can do is just nod, because I’m afraid I’ll start crying if I open my mouth. I think he gets what I’m trying to say, though, because his smile is warm and loving and genuine, and the light in his eyes is soft and simple.
