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That didn’t stop our relationship becoming more obvious in some ways, though.

“Fucking hell, they’re getting worse,” said Cory at the end of one particularly tough training session. We were showering, and as ever, he’d chosen the shower head next to mine. He was looking at the love bites that peppered my chest, some new and purple, some old and yellowing. “Whoever they are, they must be feelingrealfrisky.”

I laughed uncomfortably. At least he wasn’t looking at the ones on my upper thighs, or the one I was certain George had given me on one butt cheek the night before. It took me a second to realise Cory had mentioned athey, rather than she. And it made my heart beat a little faster, though obviously he was using it as a sign of support.

“They are feeling frisky,” I said, stepping out from under the spray and wrapping a towel around myself. “But so am I. So it’s all good.”

When I got back to my bench and pulled my phone from my training bag, there were two notifications. One, I’d set up for the Reynolds Blog, which had been renamedSportswatch: Holding Rugby to Account, and a text from the man himself. I checked the message from George first.

G: Do I get to see your place tonight?

I sent off a reply to confirm, glad I’d had the cleaner in whilst I was training today. And I checked out his latest article to give it a like and a share on social media.Why Soccer Referees Could Take Lessons from Rugby.

“Oh, that guy is taking potshots again, is he?” asked Cory.

“Do you mind not reading over my shoulder?” I asked, turning my phone screen away from him.

“Jeez, just asking questions. I’ve been following him too. But he uses a few too many long words for me.”

“Like what?” I scanned the article quickly. “Gregarious? Frenetic?”

“That one,” said Cory, pointing.

“Professional? Surely you see that one all the time.”

“Oh…yeah.” Cory looked away, then started drying off like he was in a hurry.

“Cory, have you ever been tested for dyslexia?” I asked.

“No…why…why would I?” Cory had pulled on his shorts, and yanked his t-shirt over his head.

“Just…you seem to struggle with stuff. Stuff that maybe you shouldn’t.”

“I’ve gotta go,” said Cory. He grabbed his phone and ran out of the room. He’d left his training bag and his wallet on the bench without even looking back.

One of Sven’s shovel-like hands came to rest on my shoulder, and I jumped. “Is he OK?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“I will go after him. He needs support.” Sven grabbed Cory’s wallet and had followed him out of the changing room before I could blink.

I pulled my t-shirt on and grabbed my bag. My heart thudded with anticipation the entire drive home. George and his apartment had become a safety blanket from the outside world. It felt strange to let him into some of my world, no matter how small a part of it.

I took the private lift up to the penthouse, then remembered I’d need to let him know the code. So I did, and lounged on my sofa as I waited for him to text me back.

Five minutes later, the lift doors opened and George strode into my living space with the confidence that I loved, and was on top of me before I could even say hello. We were both wearing grey training sweats. He laid on top of me and ground up against me until I got hard.

He peppered me with kisses, and I knew exactly what he wanted as he kissed down my neck toward my collarbone.

“People have been asking about these,” I said.

“Yeah?” George asked, his voice muffled by how close he was to my skin. “Good.”

“You absolute caveman,” I said, but I didn’t push him away as I made my marks.

“You’re mine,” George said. “I can’t tell people that, so I’m making do. And every time I see an article about which woman they think did it, I know it was me.”

“I’m yours? Who said?” I teased.