Page 24

Chapter Fourteen

T he salty tang of the ocean hung in the air as George pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house on the Gold Coast on Christmas Eve.

The late afternoon sun stretched long golden streaks across the pavement, and the familiar sound of cicadas chirping in the gum trees brought a small smile to his face.

Home. It felt good to be back. He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and took a steadying breath before heading inside.

“Georgie!” His sister Ellie bounded down the hallway like they hadn’t seen each other in years instead of just six months. She flung her arms around him, nearly knocking his breath out.

“Ellie!” he managed with a laugh, ruffling her hair. “Still incapable of subtlety, I see.”

“Not when you show up looking like that.” She stepped back, eyeing him with exaggerated suspicion. “You’re all broody. What’s wrong? Did your team lose a secret scrimmage or something?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said too quickly, brushing past her toward the kitchen. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Ellie followed, clearly unconvinced.

The house was alive with the kind of chaos he’d missed while traveling for games and training camps.

His mum was at the stove, humming along to an old Crowded House tune crackling from the radio.

Another sister, Kate, sat at the counter peeling an orange, her phone propped up against a stack of cookbooks as it blared a makeup tutorial.

Kids were shrieking as they threw a ball around in the backyard.

George dropped his duffel on the floor with a thud, which made everyone look up.

“George!” Kate grinned, her face lighting up. “Merry Christmas! And what’s this?” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Is that... love I see written all over your face?”

“Don’t start,” he warned, pointing at her as he grabbed a glass from the cupboard. His sisters exchanged knowing looks, which only made him groan inwardly.

“Come on, Georgie,” Ellie teased. “You can tell us. Who’s got you looking like someone stole your favorite rugby boots?”

“Nobody,” he muttered, filling the glass at the sink. “I’m just tired, alright?”

“Sure, sure.” Kate popped a slice of orange into her mouth. “Tired of missing Myst, maybe?”

“Kate!” George turned sharply, his ears burning. “Who said anything about Myst?”

“Your face did.” Ellie leaned against the counter, smirking. “And the fact that you’ve checked your phone three times since walking in here. Subtle, mate.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” their mum interrupted, turning away from the stove. Her voice was firm, cutting through the teasing like a referee’s whistle. “Go set the table, you two, and then call the young’uns in and make them wash up before dinner. Let your brother breathe.”

“Fine,” Kate said, sliding off her stool with a dramatic sigh. “But we’re not done with this conversation, George.”

“Looking forward to it,” he replied dryly, watching them shuffle off with forks and napkins in hand to the formal dining room which was the only one that could accommodate his whole family.

“Now,” his mum said after a moment, wiping her hands on a tea towel and gesturing toward the patio doors. “Come outside with me, love. We need to have a chat.”

“Do we?” George asked warily, though he followed her out onto the deck anyway. The breeze off the ocean was cooler now, rustling the palm trees in the backyard. His mum settled into one of the wicker chairs with a quiet grace that always seemed to command attention.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the chair opposite hers. He obeyed, sinking into it with a heaviness he couldn’t quite shake.

“Alright,” he began, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What’s this about?”

“About you,” she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. “And why you’re pretending everything’s fine when it’s obviously not.”

“Everything is fine,“ he insisted, though he knew his voice lacked conviction.

“George.” She gave him that look, the one that could peel back layers of bravado like they were tissue paper. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Myst?”

“Why does everyone assume it’s about Myst?” he muttered, staring out at the horizon. “Maybe I’m just stressed about pre-season.”

“Because I know my son,” she said, her tone softening. “And because I see the way your eyes light up when you talk about her.”

George exhaled slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s complicated, Mum. She’s... amazing. But her world is so different from mine. I don’t know if it makes sense.”

“Since when has love ever been about making sense?” she asked gently. “It’s about effort, George. About being willing to fight for something that matters. Does she matter to you?”

“Of course she does,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it’s not enough? What if it’s too hard?”

“Hard doesn’t mean impossible,” she said firmly. “It just means you have to decide whether it’s worth it. And if you’re asking me, I think you already know the answer to that.”

He looked at her then, his chest tightening. She was right, he did know. He just didn’t know if he had the courage to act on it.

“Oi, Dennis! You might wanna check this out.”

The training pitch buzzed with the usual pre-session banter; teammates ribbing each other, the slap of rugby balls against palms, and the faint whistle of the wind carrying salt from the nearby ocean. George had come in early to clear his head, not to get dragged into whatever nonsense was brewing.

“Sod off, Lachie,” he said without even looking up.

“Seriously, mate,” came the voice again, this time accompanied by a smirk George could feel without even looking. “Your girl’s got herself some company .”

“She’s not my girl,” George muttered automatically, tugging the knot tight on his bootlace.

“Right, right.” Lachie’s voice dripped with mock sympathy. “Just thought you’d like to know Antoine Delacourt’s getting cosy with her. Again.”

That made him pause. George looked up sharply, his heart sinking as he saw Lachie holding up his phone, the screen glowing with an image that felt like a kick to the gut.

There it was: Myst, radiant as always, stepping out of some sleek car, her dark hair cascading down her back like a waterfall.

And beside her, Antoine Delacourt, all smug jawline and perfect teeth, leaning in just a little too close.

“Bloody tabloids,” George grumbled, trying to swat the phone away as heat crept up his neck. But Lachie wasn’t giving up so easily.

“Relax, mate,” Lachie said, laughing. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a couple of ‘colleagues,’ yeah? Or is she keeping her options open?”

“Yeah, George,” another teammate piped up, grinning. “You sure she’s not still on the market?”

“Shut it, you lot,” George snapped, grabbing the ball nearest to him and tossing it hard into the chest of Lachie, who caught it with a grin. He forced himself to chuckle, to play along, but he could feel the weight of their words settling somewhere deep in his chest.

By the time they hit the field, the teasing had died down, replaced by drills and scrimmages, but George couldn’t shake the image of Myst and Antoine from his mind.

He told himself it didn’t matter, it was just PR rubbish, same as always.

And yet, as soon as training wrapped, he found himself pulling out his phone and firing off a message before he could overthink it.

“Photos of you and Delacourt are everywhere. What’s going on?”

The reply came quickly but did little to soothe him.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Just work stuff.”

‘Work stuff’ felt like a brush-off, like a wall going up between them. He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to say next. Finally, he typed back, “ If you say so “ and left it at that.

Thousands of miles away, in a recording studio in the heart of Istanbul, Myst stared at her phone, biting her lip. She hated how curt her response sounded, but there wasn’t time to explain. Not now.

“Are you listening, Myst?”

Her manager’s voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. She looked up to see her PR team assembled around the table, all sharp suits and sharper opinions.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, though she wasn’t sorry at all.

“About the Antoine story,” one of them began, flipping through a folder of glossy prints featuring her and Antoine. “We think you should lean into it. The narrative is good for visibility…”

“Visibility?” Myst interrupted, her pale blue eyes flashing. “I don’t need visibility . I need people to focus on my music, not... this circus.”

“Your fans love a good romance, Myst,” another added, trying for a placating smile. “And if we can keep the speculation alive, it’ll drive more engagement for your upcoming shows. It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” Myst repeated, incredulous. She rose from her chair, pacing the length of the room. “Do you have any idea what this does to my actual life? To the people I care about?”

“Antoine doesn’t seem to mind,” someone quipped, earning a round of quiet chuckles. Myst stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw tightening.

“Because Antoine lives for this kind of attention,” she shot back. “But I’m not Antoine, and frankly, I don’t give a shit whether he likes it or not.”

There was a brief silence and shocked faces as Myst swore, something she rarely did.

“Look,” her manager interjected, attempting to calm the rising tension. “We’re not saying you have to confirm anything. Just… let the story breathe. Don’t deny it outright, and the buzz will handle itself.”

“Absolutely not,” Myst said firmly, crossing her arms and sticking her chin out stubbornly. “I won’t do that. I’m not going to jeopardize something real for the sake of a few headlines.”

“Real” hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, no one spoke. Then the meeting broke apart, murmurs of irritation trailing behind as the team filed out one by one, leaving Myst alone with her thoughts.

She sank back into her chair, pressing her fingers to her temples.

The pressure was relentless, a constant tug-of-war between maintaining her public image and protecting what little privacy she had left.

And then there was George. Sweet, steady George, whose text still lingered on her screen, unresolved.

Her thumb hovered over George’s name on her screen, the little green call button taunting her.

“You’re not busy for once,” she muttered to herself, taking a sip of the too-sweet tea. “Just call him.” It was morning here, which meant late afternoon there.

Before she could second-guess herself, Myst hit the button, the dial tone humming in her ear.

She leaned back into the cushioned chair, ready to hear his gravelly Australian accent cut through her homesickness.

But after three rings, it wasn’t George’s voice that greeted her, it was an automated message.

“Hey, this is George. Leave a message, mate.”

“Ugh.” Her shoulders slumped. She hesitated briefly, then ended the call without saying anything.

What was the point? He’d probably just finished tackling someone or running drills.

She pictured him in his training gear, all sweat and focus, oblivious to the way her stomach twisted when their schedules misaligned yet again.

“Fine. No big deal,” she said aloud, standing abruptly. But even as she steeled herself to get back behind the microphone and carry on laying down the demo vocals for the song she’d written about him, the weight of disappointment settled over her like a stubborn storm cloud.

George tossed his mouthguard into his bag, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

Pre-season training was supposed to be tough, but today had been brutal, starting with a long run and then endless drills under the punishing Queensland summer sun.

His legs felt like lead, and every muscle in his body screamed for reprieve.

“Oi, Dennis, you look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” one of his teammates joked, clapping him on the shoulder as they headed toward the locker room.

“Feels about right,” George replied, forcing a grin he didn’t quite feel. Inside, he wasn’t just tired, he was drained in every sense of the word. The relentless pace of training camp was one thing, but his mind kept wandering elsewhere, to Myst.

As soon as he reached his locker, he checked his phone. A missed call from her flashed on the screen, and his chest tightened. There was also a text: “Had some time earlier. Was hoping to catch up. Call me when you can x”.

“Shit,” he murmured, guilt bubbling up. He quickly tapped her number, leaning back against the cool metal of the lockers as it rang. He needed to hear her voice, to feel that electric buzz that came whenever they talked, no matter how brief.

“Hello?” Myst’s voice came through, muffled and rushed.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call. How are you?” George asked, his tone softening instantly.

“Can’t really talk right now,” she said, her words clipped. In the background, he could hear shouts and the faint thrum of music. “We’re mid-rehearsal. Timing’s a bit rubbish, huh?”

“Yeah, seems to be our specialty,” he tried to joke, but it came out weaker than he intended. “All good. Just wanted to… I don’t know. Check in.”

“Same here.” Her voice softened slightly, but then someone yelled her name in the background, and she sighed. “I’ve gotta go, George. Rain check?”

“Of course,” he said, even as disappointment coiled tight in his chest. “Talk later.”

“Bye!” And then she was gone, the line cutting off with a sterile beep.

George stared at his phone for a moment longer before shoving it back into his bag. The hollowness he’d tried to ignore all day seemed to expand, filling every inch of him. He knew Myst wasn’t to blame, her schedule was insane, just like his, but damn, it was hard. Harder than he’d expected.

“Come on. Shower, food, sleep. Reset tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, grabbing his towel. But as he trudged toward the showers, exhaustion dragged at him, heavier than any tackle he’d taken that day.