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Mali stands in the carpark, the wind blowing the edge of her dress against her thighs. The patent leather of her briefcase feels clammy in her palm, even as the chill of the air burns her nose. The case is basically empty, but it’s vintage and cute, so she carries it as she stands outside anyway. She’s not nervous or anything. She already passed the interview with Ezra—the most terrifying man alive, and it has nothing to do with how he stands at six foot six and is built like a brick house. It’s not even because she had a poster of him in her room when she was a teenager, and he was her favourite player in the league. It’s because she’s not sure he’s ever smiled. He may be incapable of it. She remembers sitting in the pub garden with her parents watching him win the premiership title with his former team—the Dougals—and she never saw his cheeks lift once.

Ezra is easily the most popular member of the Titans. His fanbase stretches through the decades. He has the most chants dedicated to him—more than she’s ever heard for any other player. The fans don’t care that he’s grumpy; they don’t care he spends most of the games swearing; they don’t care that he’s not smiling in his photo ops. They care about his loyalty and his ability to knock down the biggest opponents.

Sponsors care, though. About the lack of smiling. If she could get him to participate in something, they could upgrade the outside of the training facilities so fast, if only so the first thing people saw when they turn up isn’t rusty walls and crumbling benches.

A car beeps as it unlocks next to her, and she jumps. Thankfully, her feet don’t actually leave the ground, as she sees the driver moments later, his keys still in hand. Zachariah Azan. The Titans’ newest recruit, who has somehow made himself a villain within the team already. The gossip within her mum’s friend group (the most untrustworthy source—a bunch of sixty-year-old women who have more time in their day than is reasonable, but still) is that the team doesn’t even talk to him. No slaps on the back when he scores a try, or a penalty kick, and he scores the majority of them. She’s seen him score a penalty kick when he’s basically in the stands.

He’s not a villain to her. She’s kind of obsessed with him.

And God, he’s fit in real life. Taller, too, and somehow, impossibly larger than she thought—like he might be about to block the sunlight out completely. As he steps closer, she sees his jawline in real time, and she wonders how it’s reasonable that a face like his exists. She watches the muscle in his cheek harden as he clenches his teeth. It’s like he’s carved out of fucking marble. He’s as magnificent as a statue they might put in an art museum she’d never want to visit. There’s a furrow to his brow that makes it harder for her to breathe, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t passed out.

Mali feels like a fourteen-year-old with a crush. Like she’ll start spontaneously giggling if he looks at her. How embarrassing. Then he does look at her, just the once, and she realises she might be staring. In her defence, the grainy newspaper photos don’t do him justice at all, and he still looks like a work of art in them.

He doesn’t say anything, but neither does she. Is she starstruck? Unsure, but she doesn’t like the feeling. She waits for him to say something. Anything. Mali has heard him talk before, and she thought about it for the longest time, until the memory of the deepness of his voice disappeared altogether. She decided not to go looking for the video online. It made her feel weird. She’s like a two out of ten on the wanting-sex scale, if that scale exists, but everything about Zachariah Azan makes her feel like she’s on fire. Even if she’s read he’s a ladies’ man, and that’s not her type. (She’s not stalking him. It’s common knowledge, as he’s in every local newspaper every week with a different girl on his arm.)

Sometimes he even makes the tabloids, but only for his sporting endeavours. The back-to-back games with over thirty-five points. The “wonder kid” who stepped up to save the Titans from relegation. It’s true it was mainly down to him that the ball hit the ground, but he had a whole team supporting him. Not that she thinks he would ever admit that. The after-game interview where he basically said he’s the reason Toulshire got promoted went semi-viral. Now, there are rumours about him leaving the team for something new. Something bigger. It would be a shame, Mali thinks, for him to leave so early, but if her mother’s group chat is correct, he’s not having a good time here. She’d better set up some sponsorship opportunities while she can.

Zach looks her up and down again as he gets to his car. Mali preens a little, because, well, he is hot, and he’s at least famous enough that he might get a free coffee from the local shop. Just because she’s had dirty thoughts about him in her bedroom doesn’t mean she’s going to act on it in the middle of the carpark, or ever. He knows he’s attractive, but Mali’s never been mad about that. It’s not his fault he has that jawline and those lips. Besides, the way his eyes linger doesn’t mean she would ever have the balls, or the gall, to flirt with him. He’s pretty, but he’s not her type. Commitment is her type.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says with a wink, as he throws his bag in the boot. Even with the deep vibration of his voice, the endearment sounds gross. “Want an autograph?”

Is she still staring? Probably. Is he being kind? Unsure, but she’s leaning towards no. Either way, she doesn’t want one. Mali has always thought asking celebrities for a photo or an autograph when they’re just out and about is gross. What’s she going to do with a photo? Make it her background even though he has no idea who she is? Couldn’t be her. Besides, it’s her first day, and she doesn’t want to look like a superfan, even if she is. Mali wants to keep an air of mystery about her. It will last about two weeks because she’s incapable of keeping anything to herself, but she’ll try.

“Oh. No, thanks.”

He shrugs. “Your loss, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart? Are you secretly an eighty-year-old man?” she asks, before she can think of a good enough reason not to. Having to potentially work with him should have been a good enough reason, but alas. He squints, looking down at his body. She’s surprised he doesn’t drag his top up just to show off his stomach. Before this interaction, she wouldn’t have minded at all. Now, she doesn’t need the image.

“Do I look like an eighty-year-old man?”

Mali shrugs. “Black don’t crack and all that.”

Zach scoffs. “I call everyone sweetheart.”

“Well, colour me flattered, then,” she replies. He cocks his head like he was expecting her to say something else.

“It’s not my fault I thought you were a fan,” he replies. “I’m a fucking delight, after all.”

Mali’s not sure if he’s being sarcastic, or maybe a little self-deprecating, if she knew him well enough to filter out the fake voice. But she doesn’t. Mali rolls her eyes. It’s true that it’s not his fault he thought she might want an autograph. She’s not sure if she’s being rude. Sweetheart isn’t offensive . Zach doesn’t know she doesn’t like it. She could say sorry. Instead, she looks down at her outfit.

“I’m literally dressed to go to the office.” She wiggles her briefcase at him.

Zach laughs this time, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. She watches the movement of his throat as he rolls his neck. She could bite him. It wouldn’t help her in any way, but he looks so biteable.

“Your hair is purple.”

Mali squints as her blood runs cold. She moves her briefcase from one hand to the other. “Okay?”

“So.”

“So?” she replies, desperately trying not to look self-conscious. She wore purple hair to her interview, and they didn’t say anything. “All we’ve proved is that you’re not blind, though you did miss that catch from Johnson, so I guess the jury’s still out.”

He sighs, clearly bored of her now, but he still hasn’t gotten into his car. She stands there too. She’s not sure why. She could turn around and leave. She should, probably, so she isn’t late, but something keeps her here.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Mali isn’t used to being confrontational, but she will if she has to be. Or if it’s as amusing as it is right now. Zach appears to have no idea how to navigate a situation like this. She assumes it’s because he tenses his arms and everyone falls around him. To be fair, she’s keeping her eyes on his face and not his ridiculous body for that very reason. How embarrassing if her knees buckle at the sight of his biceps bulging in his jumper.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she replies, batting her eyelashes. “Can you?” Zach has the nerve to roll his eyes, running his tongue between his bottom lip and his teeth. Mali takes a deep breath. He is so ridiculously fine. Wanker.

“Y’know, I’m a pretty big deal around here. I’m not sure you wanna start burning bridges before you’ve even walked in the door.” He keeps saying lines that make him sound like a low-bar villain in a nineties romcom, and she can’t figure out why. He doesn’t have the same charisma as the playboy the papers make him out to be. Or maybe he does and he has no reason to be charismatic with her. Maybe he can’t be bothered to not be rude to her. He doesn’t know her, after all. Mali wasn’t raised in a barn—she thinks everyone should be polite to people they don’t know.

“Aren’t the team annoyed at you because you’ve been making outlandish claims you’re the only reason the Titans got promoted this season?”

Zach has the good nature to at least look a little sheepish. Mali isn’t sure the headlines are fair. His words were probably taken out of context, as they so often are with tabloids.

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know,” she replies, then says, “but it’s what you meant regardless.”

Zach frowns. “I did the lion’s share of the work.”

“So Adebayo—well, both Adebayos—had nothing to do with it? And what about Johnson? He always had your back, even when you got too cocky and refused to pass the ball to Lightman.”

He scoffs this time, and it makes her ecstatic. “What are you, a superfan?”

Mali smiles. He looks like an angry chipmunk when he’s annoyed. Annoyingly cute beyond that strong jawline.

“Something like that.” She turns to walk away, but then spins back around, walking backwards. “By the way, it’s my first day, and because I’m a fucking delight, I’ll be a pretty big deal around here by five this afternoon. Try not to burn any more bridges before then.”