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Chapter Six

M yst hopped off the ferry dock onto the cobblestone path outside the Tower of London, her black boots clicking against the stone as she spun around to face George. She clasped her hands behind her back, narrowing her eyes in mock seriousness as he approached.

“Welcome, sir, to the illustrious Tower of London,” she declared, her voice lilting with theatrical pomp. “I’ll be your tour guide today. Prepare to marvel at my encyclopaedic knowledge of… well, absolutely nothing.”

George grinned, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his coat. The brisk winter wind had tousled his sandy hair, and the faintest flush coloured his cheeks. “Nothing, huh? Sounds promising,” he teased, arching a brow. “I hope the price of admission isn’t too steep.”

“Oh, it’s free,” Myst replied with a dramatic wave of her arm, leading him toward the entrance. “But I do accept tips in the form of compliments. Something like, ‘Wow, you’re so incredibly talented and humble, Myst,’ or, ‘My life is better when you’re around.’ You know, standard stuff.”

“Right,” he said, chuckling as he followed her through the arched gate. “You drive a hard bargain, but I think I can manage that.”

Inside, the ancient stone walls loomed around them, carrying whispers of history and shadows of intrigue.

Myst tilted her head and squinted up at one of the towers.

“Did you know this place used to be… uh… some kind of mega-prison?” she guessed, gesturing vaguely.

“Pretty sure kings locked up all their enemies here. Or maybe just people who annoyed them.”

“Is that right?” George folded his arms, clearly enjoying her wildly inaccurate commentary. “And what about that building over there?” He nodded toward another structure.

“That?” Myst waved dismissively. “Oh, that’s the… er… dragon stables. Where they kept their pet dragons, obviously.”

“Obviously.” George’s deep laugh echoed against the stone walls, and Myst couldn’t help but grin at the sound of it; rich, unguarded, and entirely infectious.

They meandered through the exhibits until they reached the Crown Jewels. Myst pressed her face closer to the glass case, her pale blue eyes wide. “Look at that sparkle! Who even needs that many diamonds?”

“Reckon you could pull it off,” George said, leaning slightly over her shoulder. His voice dropped into an exaggerated stage whisper. “Should I ask if you can borrow something? Maybe a tiara for your next gig?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Myst murmured, biting back a smile. “Although my crown would probably have to come with a microphone attachment.”

“Very on brand,” George quipped. “What about me? Think I could rock the royal look?”

“Absolutely. A sceptre would really complete your ‘rugby royalty’ aesthetic,” Myst shot back. She turned to him, her eyes sparkling nearly as brightly as the priceless jewels behind the glass. “Who needs fame when we can just steal these and live out our days on the run, Bonnie and Clyde style?”

“Tempting offer,” he said, smirking. “But I think I’ll stick to rugby for now.”

Later, perched on a riverside bench, Myst balanced a paper tray of fish and chips on her lap, trying not to let any stray grease touch her coat. George was beside her, sitting back with one long leg casually stretched out, his own tray already half-empty.

“Okay,” Myst began, breaking off a piece of battered cod. “Teach me some rugby lingo. If I’m gonna date Australia’s Player of the Year, I should at least sound like I know what I’m talking about.”

“Fair enough,” George said, brushing a few crumbs off his jeans. “What do you want to know?”

“Start with the basics,” she said, taking a fry and popping it into her mouth. “Like… what’s a scrum? That’s a thing, right?”

“That’s a thing,” he confirmed. “It’s when the forwards from both teams pack together and try to push each other off the ball. Kind of like a wrestling match with more rules.”

“Sounds intense,” she mused. “What else?”

“Okay, here’s a fun one: What’s a ‘dummy pass’?” he asked, leaning toward her with a playful gleam in his eye.

“Uh…” Myst scrunched her nose, thinking hard. “Is it when someone pretends to pass the ball but doesn’t?”

“Exactly!” George exclaimed, pointing a chip at her like it was a gold medal. “You’re a natural.”

“Clearly,” she said with faux modesty. “See? I’m ready to join the team.”

“Sure, we’ll just need to bulk you up a bit first,” he teased, giving her a sidelong glance. “Not sure how you’d fare in a tackle drill.”

“Hey, don’t underestimate me,” Myst shot back with a grin. “I’ll have you know I’m scrappy. And fast.”

“Fast, huh?” George’s expression softened as he paused, staring out at the river for a moment before speaking again. “You know, my dad always used to say speed was the most important skill in rugby. He used to take me and my sisters out to the park and make us race each other when we were kids.”

“Really?” Myst asked, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” George said, his tone warm with nostalgia. “He’d line us up, blow this little whistle he kept in his pocket, and we’d sprint as hard as we could. No prizes, no pressure, just fun. I think that’s where I learned to love the game. It wasn’t about winning; it was about playing.”

Myst felt something tug in her chest at his words. She reached out and nudged his elbow lightly. “Your family sounds amazing.”

“They are,” George said simply, turning back to her with a small, genuine smile. “Guess I got lucky.”

“Or maybe they did,” Myst replied softly, her gaze lingering on him a beat longer than intended.

The light danced on the rippling surface of the Thames, and a gentle breeze tugged at the ends of her wavy hair. George was beside her, balancing the last few chips precariously on the edge of the paper tray like he was setting up some kind of tiny rugby formation.

“Right,” he said, pointing a chip at her. “Ruck or maul? Quick, what’s the difference?”

“Ugh, I just learned this,” Myst groaned dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose for effect, though her lips quirked into a smile.

She turned to him, narrowing her pale blue eyes as if deep in thought.

“Okay. Ruck is… when the ball is on the ground, and players are trying to push each other off it?”

“Not bad,” George said with a grin, tossing the chip into his mouth. “And a maul?”

“Uh…” Myst hesitated, tapping her chin. “When the ball’s still being held, but everyone’s shoving around like they’re in a mosh pit?”

George laughed. “Close enough. Wouldn’t want to be stuck in a mosh pit with you, though. Sounds dangerous.”

“Hey, I’m small, but I can hold my own,” she shot back, giving his arm a playful shove. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, the weight of schedules and expectations kept at bay by the simple joy of being here with him.

Her phone buzzed on the bench between them, cutting through the moment.

Instinctively, Myst grabbed it, already dreading what the screen might show.

Sure enough, Jessie’s name glared back at her, followed by a string of emojis that hinted at urgency.

She unlocked it with a swipe, her stomach tightening as she read the message.

“Big media push for the single release next week. Need you at the gala Friday night. Remember: no dates. Focus has to be on you.”

“Everything alright?” George asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. He’d noticed the way her posture stiffened, how her easy smile faltered just slightly.

“Yeah,” Myst said quickly, locking the screen and slipping the phone back into her bag. “It’s just Jessie being Jessie. Nothing important.” She tried to inject some levity into her voice, but even to her own ears, it sounded forced.

George studied her for a moment, his sharp blue eyes searching hers. “You sure? You went from scrappy mosh-pit warrior to… I don’t know, someone who looks like they just dropped the ball during a World Cup final.”

“That bad, huh?” Myst laughed lightly, deflecting. She didn’t want to bring this up now, not when the day had been so perfect. “I promise, it’s nothing.”

But George didn’t look convinced. She could see the faint crease forming between his brows, and it made her heart sink. She hated keeping things from him, but how was she supposed to explain the impossible tightrope she walked every day between authenticity and image?

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice measured. But there was a shift in his tone, subtle but unmistakable. Less playful, more reserved. It stung in a way Myst hadn’t expected, sharper than any critique or headline she’d ever faced.

They sat in silence for a beat too long, the earlier warmth between them fraying at the edges. Myst reached down to fiddle with the strap of her bag, wishing she could rewind a few minutes and leave the phone untouched.

“Look,” she started, her voice softer now. “It’s just… work stuff. You know how it is. People have certain expectations, and sometimes I have to play along. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” George asked quietly. His gaze was steady, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, a flicker of doubt she wasn’t used to seeing in him.

“I get that your career’s a big deal. And I’m not saying it shouldn’t be.

But… sometimes it feels like there’s always going to be something more important than us. ”

“That’s not true,” Myst said quickly, shaking her head. She reached for his hand, her smaller fingers curling around his. “George, you’re important to me. This,” she gestured between them, “is important.”

“Is it?” he pressed gently, though his grip on her hand was firm. “Because I’m not sure your world thinks so.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.

Not because she didn’t believe what she wanted to say, but because she couldn’t ignore the nagging truth in his question.

Her world, the relentless machine of fame, didn’t leave much room for anything else.

And as much as she despised it, she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real.