Page 11

A shiver runs up Mali’s back as she stands on the sidelines, her phone trapped between her palms. It was her idea to get some photographs of training. She had a late lunch with Frankie last week and perhaps mentioned that thirst traps are a selling point, and it had nothing to do with how she was scrolling on Zach’s Instagram. (He hasn’t posted in weeks, but that also has nothing to do with it.) Now, Mali understands that not everyone wants to sell their body… but one quick message in the work group chat suggested everyone on the team was more than happy to do just that.

It was Frankie’s idea, though, to get the photos at the sunrise training because “aesthetics” and “vibes” and at the time, Mali foolishly agreed. Now, she stands in her jeans and a crop top. Mali might catch a cold, that’s true, but she (Toby) spilt tea all over her coat as she walked in, and it’s currently on a rinse cycle in the laundry room, and one look at the spare training kits suggested she might vomit if one touched her. Instead, she jumps on the spot a little before setting up a shot of Ezra.

Doing the shoot now makes sense. It means all the players will look their best and be on their best behaviour when Blyke turn up tomorrow. Blyke is easily the largest sporting company in the world. They have sportswear for every sport Mali can think of. They have buildings. They’re a household name, and they’re interested in sponsoring the Titans. She’s terrified, because the only person she’s told is Zach. If she tells the team, they’ll freak out. They know someone is coming in soon for a preliminary look. Only Zach knows how far along it is.

Mali takes a deep breath. The pictures are good so far, even with her vague photographic abilities and mobile phone. The players—and if she’s being honest, their muscles—are doing the heavy lifting. Frankie wasn’t wrong when she said sunrise would work as a background. She’s even managed to make Toby look hot. He is ducking his head in a lunge, so you can’t see his face, and he has decent thighs, but he doesn’t need to know that. There are abs galore, and she swears Kai oiled up for practice. The photos will definitely work, even if just to increase their social media presence. Maybe they can do a charity calendar or something. Their arses can pay for the funding of season tickets.

Mali’s hair blows in front of her phone for the twentieth time, and she’s about to whip her wig off just so it stops ruining the photos. Sure, for her Instagram, she’d be all over the lilac strands over the lens, but it’s not her the fans want to see. She probably has enough photos for now, but she’s shamelessly waiting for Zach to turn up. While she does, she bends down on one knee, getting a slow-motion video of Ezra and Kai stretching. Kai lies on the ground with his leg up as Ezra pushes it back, leaning over him. Rugby is some of the most homoerotic shit she’s ever seen.

“Fuck,” she mutters, as her hair slips through the slack ponytail she created with her free hand. She’s going to lose the shot. Then, before she can move a muscle, the hair is pulled back from her face. Fingertips trace the back of her neck, and it fucking better be Frankie… even though she can see her down the other end of the pitch. The only other person on the team she’d let touch her is Zach, and she thinks if she’s kneeling on the ground, and he has her hair wrapped in his fist, she might combust imagining what comes next.

She wants to turn—to check it’s not him—even though every fibre of her being knows it is. He drives her home most nights, and he’s still only spoken a handful of words to her. Somehow, despite the fact he turns up at five every day, he’s still decided that small grunts and nods are the only way he wants to interact.

The other day, she mentioned in passing that a fuse blew in her kitchen, and he wordlessly strolled into her house to fix it for her. She made him a cup of tea, and he half explained how his mother made him take up a trade in case rugby didn’t work out. “I’m an electrician, Mali,” he’d said, as if that was common knowledge. And ever since he stood in her kitchen, she’s imagined him everywhere else in her home. When she’s in the shower, in her bed, lounging on the sofa. She wonders if she should have let him move in just to see what he looks like in every room.

Now, she’s glad he doesn’t live there, because if he did, she’d have to be quiet when she thinks about this exact moment later tonight. As his hands move, Mali wants to ask what he’s doing, but he speaks before she can figure out how to move her tongue in a way that doesn’t feel sexual.

“How hard can I pull?” he asks. His voice is closer than she was expecting, like he might have bent his lips to her ear. She’s about to tell him she doesn’t mind a little sting, but her brain catches up to her vagina, and she remembers she’s wearing a wig. He’s asking if he’s going to pull it off.

“However hard. It won’t budge,” she replies, her voice as choppy as she thought it would be. She can blame it on the freezing weather if he dares mention it. Zach hums, and she takes the chance to stand back up, if only so she doesn’t do something stupid like crawl to him. Mali’s really not a sexual person. Truly. She only likes to sleep with people when there is a connection. She wants to like them; she wants them to like her. She’s also sure her knickers are getting wetter with every brush of Zach’s knuckles against her neck.

“I don’t have a hair tie,” she mumbles.

“I’ve got it,” he replies. Mali distracts herself from his voice by taking more photos of the team. She zooms in on Ezra. His head is thrown back as he drinks a water. Someone’s going to sponsor that photo alone.

Zach tightens her ponytail, and she feels it slip a little the moment he lets go, but it doesn’t fall out. She reaches her hand around to feel.

“What is that?” she asks, and he steps to her side. Holy fucking shit. He has no T-shirt on, and her tongue feels too big for her body. Mali knew Zach was built. Everyone can tell he’s built like a fucking brick wall. The muscles in his back are visible under everything he wears, the lines in his shoulders follow her anytime he walks past her, and she daydreams about his chest when she’s not even thinking. Her swallow is audible, but Zach either doesn’t hear it over the wind, or he doesn’t want to entertain her.

“My armband,” he replies, as he looks out onto the pitch. Mali wonders if he’s cold. “Here.”

He turned his face to look at her, so she takes what he offers her without looking. She’ll really do whatever he asks if he drops an octave. Hussy. Mali grips the material in her hand hard enough to force her gaze away from his face, or his stomach, or God forbid it slips to his thighs. Fuck, what she’d do to his thighs.

“Your top?” she asks, seeing Azan in green letters over the back. “You want some shots with it?”

“I want you to put it on.”

“What?”

“It’s the long-sleeved one,” he says, bending down to riffle through his bag. Mali looks between him and the top. “Mali. You’re going to freeze to death. Put it on.”

“What if I don’t want to?” she asks. She does, though. She wonders if it will smell like him, and how likely it is that she can sneak it home.

“Do you think I won’t put it on you?” he challenges.

Mali narrows her eyes. “Not if I asked you not to.”

Zach laughs lightly. “You’re such a brat. Just put the top on.”

Mali wonders if everything he’s saying has a sexual undertone, or if she’s looking for one. Either way, she stands her ground, though she’s not sure why. She’s fucking freezing.

Zach closes his eyes like he’s three seconds away from tossing her over his shoulder and forcing her to go back inside. She’s sure he could throw her around. It’s nothing she’s actively thought about before, but knowing he could do whatever he wanted with barely any effort is something that does it for her.

He lets out a deep breath. “Please…” His eyes track her face, and she’s never seen him look so worried. “Put it on.”

“You’re so bossy,” she mutters, but she hands him her phone and puts the T-shirt on. God, it is nice, and she brings her hands to her mouth to try and warm them up.

“You should leave a spare jacket here,” Zach says, using her phone to take photos of the team. She’s excited to see how different they will look from hers.

“But then how will I steal your jerseys?”

Zach groans, and it warms her to her toes. She reaches for her phone, and her fingers brush over his knuckles. Zach all but snatches his hand away, and Mali wonders if she’s really that cold, but before she can move, he grabs her wrist, then rolls the sleeves of his T-shirt up so they don’t cover her hands. His calloused palms against her make her heat up from her toes. His fingers touch her forearm, and for the longest time, she’s going to think about other ways he could use them. Perv.

“Get on the pitch so I can go inside,” Mali says, once he let’s go of her hands. Mali does a few small jumps to keep her circulation moving. Zach pulls a scarf out of his bag, and Mali waits for a full feather-down coat to be next. Before she can scoff, he’s wrapped it around her and tucked it neatly under her chin. He pulls her ponytail out lightly, and his fingers rest behind her ear.

He smiles at her, just once. “Cute.”

“Does my hair look ridiculous?” she asks, and he thinks about it too long—so, yes—but he did it for her, so she’s unlikely to take it out anytime soon. Zach reaches for his phone and then holds it up so he can take a photo of her. She turns to the side so he can see her hair. There must be something off about the lighting, because he repositions a couple times. Then, before she can tell him it doesn’t matter, he rests his hand under her jaw, tilting her head slightly. His thumb rubs against her cheek, and she laughs lightly, looking over at him.

“It tickles,” she says, and he smiles at her, dimple and everything. God, she could look at him for an embarrassingly long time.

The whistle blows, and Zach jumps, his hand dropping from her face. He clears his throat, then shows her his phone. The sky is pink behind her—one of those annoyingly good sunrises that people who get up early gloat about seeing.

“Oh,” she replies, looking at the photo. It’s cute. Really cute. A photo she’d expect to see on Pinterest. She can see his name on the back of her top, his hand on her face, his face in her mind. “That’s pretty.”

“You are,” he replies quietly. Then he closes his phone, throws it in his bag, and turns to run away. “Make me look good, Okeye,” he calls back to her.

She wonders if there’s any other way for him to look.