Page 20

Chapter 20

Charlie

M y hotel room’s too quiet. Too big. Feels like a warehouse with a bed stuck in the middle. It’s only half past nine, but I’m ready for bed – or I would be if I could sleep. I pace the space between the door and the window, trying to unhook the knot between my ribs.

The bed’s too wide without Brodie. Absurd, because we’re not even living together, and I’ve managed on my own just fine before. But now? Now it feels like if I fall asleep without his warmth next to mine, I’ll wake up wrong. The pillow doesn’t smell like him. The sheets don’t feel right.

It’s not just the bed that feels too wide. It’s me. Hollowed out in the exact shape of him.

I flatten my palms over my eyes until colours pop behind my lids. I think about what he said. About how I’m acting like just being with him would destroy me.

And maybe that’s what scares me most.

Because it might.

Because he could destroy me.

Not like Callum or Dad. Not like anyone else who tore bits off me until I didn’t know who I was anymore. Brodie doesn’t chip away at me. He builds me up. He makes me feel like I could be and have all the things I was too afraid to want before.

And that’s what’s dangerous.

It’s scary. Because if I get used to that and lose it? If I lose Brodie? I don’t know how to go back to being the woman who didn’t have him.

I breathe through the ache in my centre.

He didn’t deserve my fucking shitshow on the plane. He didn’t deserve me pulling away like that.

Brodie’s been nothing but good. Stopped gambling, did all the shit I forced him to do. Cooking show, library, media training, karaoke. Massaged my feet. And the rest of it, too. He’s never done a single thing to make me feel less than adored. Appreciated.

I’m the one being an arsehole, and for what? The fear of people talking? The worry about losing a few clients who can’t handle me having a fucking life? They didn’t sign me because I was some pristine, corporate lapdog.

They signed me because Charlie Harrington… Gets. Shit. Done.

Because I’m ambitious and clever, and I know how to make them money.

The MacKenzie deal for Brodie and the Rebels? Exhibit bloody A.

I’m good enough at my job to keep doing it even if I’m dating a rugby star. They can deal. They have to if they want me working for them.

And they will want me working for them.

Callum? Inconsequential. He can sneer all he wants.

And my dad? It’s not his life. I don’t need his approval anymore. I’m a grown woman.

And I’m in all-encompassing love with Brodie MacRae.

Love him so much it’s turning me inside out.

The truth lands so fast I forget to breathe. When did that happen? How long have I known? Doesn’t matter. I know it now. And that’s not something to run from.

My breath shakes as I pick up my phone. I’m done hiding and letting fear pull me backwards. I yank on my joggers and a baggy jumper, shove my feet into my UGG slippers. With trembling fingers, I grab my key card and head out, not giving myself time to second-guess it.

I’m going to find him and tell him I love him. I have to. He deserves it. And so do I.

My furry slippers shuffle over the carpet as I scan the corridor for any sign of Brodie. Nothing but stale air and hush. I knock on his door. Hesitant, like I’m afraid he’ll actually answer.

Nothing.

I frown and pull out my phone, shooting him a quick text.

(ME, 21:44): You in there, babe?

The message stays unread.

Weird.

My heart’s doing that strange fluttery thing that it never used to do before him. I hate it. It’s irrational, but the longer I stand here, the more my thoughts pile up like a landslide.

I call him, but he doesn’t answer.

Even weirder.

He’s a night owl, never goes anywhere without his phone.

A muffled shout echoes down the hall, followed by a faint burst of laughter. I squint at the far end, where light spills from underneath the last door on the left.

I make my way down. Voices blend into a bassy murk that thickens as I get closer. I don’t know why the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but they do.

I have experience with athletes. I could find anything in there. Anyone.

The door’s slightly ajar, and the lads are yelling, laughing, there’s the clatter of something hitting the floor. I rap my knuckles against the wood, louder than intended.

The door swings open. Finn’s standing there, shirtless, tattooed all over, grinning like a maniac and not at all fazed by my panda eyes and South Park hoodie.

‘Charlie! Come to join the fun?’ He makes a sweeping gesture, and I catch sight of the scene behind him.

The two single beds shoved to one side, leaving space for the room’s small desk dragged into the centre. Four chairs crammed around it. Scottie, on one side, Jamie and Tommy on the other. I guess the empty chair’s Finn’s.

And there’s Brodie.

Back against the headboard, legs stretched out, cap pulled low over his eyes.

Relief whooshes through me as I see him. For a moment, I almost laugh.

Then I spot the pile of cash.

The cards.

Poker?

Ice pours down my spine.

Brodie doesn’t gamble. Not anymore.

He promised.

We agreed.

I step inside, and the noise crashes to a halt. Brodie glances up, and his half-grin slips, confusion lining his forehead.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I hear myself shout, and every head whips around.

Brodie uncrosses his arms, straightening up. ‘Charlie—’

‘No, Brodie. What the fucking fuck?’

‘He’s not allowed to hang out with the team?’ Scottie cuts in with a lopsided smirk, clearly too distracted to notice the tension. ‘Didn’t know your girl was the strict type, MacRae.’

I don’t breathe. Everything goes still. Everyone’s looking at me, at him. Scottie’s grinning like he just cracked the joke of the century, completely oblivious.

His girl.

They know. They all fucking know.

Did he tell them?

My mouth’s gone dry, and my hands tingle.

Brodie shoots Scottie a look like he’s just drop-kicked a puppy, but Scottie shrugs. ‘What? We saw the hand-holding. Not exactly covert ops.’

‘Scottie, for fuck’s sake!’ Brodie blasts out.

He moves towards me, but I hold up a hand and shrink back. I can’t help it. The betrayal is like acid burning through my chest.

‘Don’t.’ The walls are pressing in, and the air is getting too thick. ‘Don’t touch me.’

He reels back, pain splintering across his face. ‘Charlie, it’s not what it looks like.’

‘You’re sitting here with a mountain of cash and a deck of cards, surrounded by your teammates, and you’re telling me it’s not what it looks like?’ My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate how broken and angry I sound. ‘You know when I heard that fucked-up sentence the last time?’

His face tells me he does. I have to say it, anyway. ‘When I found my fiancé with his trousers round his ankles.’

I can’t even feel my fingers.

Scottie’s staring at us like he’s watching the roof cave in. One of the younger lads mumbles something about getting out of here, but no one moves. The whole room’s frozen, tension so dense you could drown in it. My hands shake, and I have to tuck them into my sleeves. I feel every eye on me, waiting to see what I’ll do next, and I’m naked. Exposed. Like they’re dissecting each word and gesture, like they’re already thinking of how this’ll play out when the press gets hold of it.

I shake my head, fighting back a flood of tears. ‘I-I have to go.’

‘Charlie!’ He steps forward, and his hand touches mine for a second before I yank it back. ‘Don’t fucking walk away. Let me explain—’

If I let him talk, I’ll cave. I’ll crumble, and then I’ll never claw my way back out of the mess I’ve made.

I don’t give him the chance. I spin on my heel and storm out, ignoring the shock I leave in my wake. The world blurs as I shove my way out the door, running from it with teeth and claws. My feet barely touch the ground, slippers skidding over the hotel floor.

I don’t stop moving until I’m back in my suite, door slamming shut like a full stop. My ribcage rattles with every panicked beat, my hands trembling so badly that I drop my key card twice before throwing it onto the bedside table.

It hurts. Hurts worse than anything has a right to hurt.

A knock.

‘Charlie. Please.’

No. Not now. Probably tomorrow. I need a moment.

‘Go away.’

Nothing. He stays.

‘You really think I’m that fucking careless? You think I’d risk it like that? After everything?’ He sounds muffled through the door, but he’s mad and he’s loud and I hear every word.

‘How the hell am I supposed to know what you’d risk, Brodie? I thought I knew you. I thought I could trust you.’

The air itself is bracing for impact. Then a sharp thud. My body jerks. I recognise that sound. His flat palm on the wood. Not forceful enough to scare me, but enough to tell me he’s on the edge.

His fucking temper.

‘You’re the one still too scared to call this real!’ He’s yelling now. But I hear how he’s fighting it. Fighting the anger.

‘That’s not fair,’ I say towards the door, suppressing the sob that’s building in my throat.

‘Isn’t it? You keep me at arm’s length and then get pissed off when I’m… hanging with my team. You don’t want anyone to know, but you’re furious when they figure it out on their own. I can’t fucking win with you, Charlie!’

A dull sound. Like he’s leaning his forehead against the door in defeat. I can almost see it, his hand braced against the frame, shoulders hunched, his whole body trying to cage in the frustration.

‘Listen to me, woman. I did NOT play cards.’

‘You shouldn’t even have been in that room! If anyone took a photo—’

‘They didn’t. No one did. They’re good lads.’

I don’t know how to answer. All I can see is the headlines. The fallout.

‘Charlie. For the last fucking time: I didn’t gamble. I just sat there with them because they’re bonding, and I’m supposed to be their captain, and—’

‘And telling them about us? Is that bonding too?’

‘I wouldn’t do that to you. I didn’t tell them, Charlie. You heard Scottie. They figured it out. I’ve given you everything. Every damn part of me. And you still think I’m going to break it.’

I say nothing. A lot of nothing. For too long.

Because…

‘That’s it, Charlie.’ His voice is flat. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m not a fucking plaything. It’s over.’

Silence. Dense as fog, pushing in from all sides.

And I know he’s gone.

Not just physically. But he’s gone from me. I can feel his absence. I want to scream. Punch something. Anything to drown out the roaring in my ears.

Instead, I curl up on the bed, dragging the covers over me like a shield. I jam my fist to my mouth to keep from making a sound. If I let it out now, I’ll fall apart. And if I fall apart, I’m not sure I’ll be able to collect the pieces.

Then I grab my phone and book the first flight back to Scotland.

Damage control. Fixing things. Regroup.

It’s what I do.