Page 22

Chapter 22

Charlie

T he succulent’s dying. Brodie gave it to me before everything went to hell, and I’ve not managed to keep it alive, not even for over a month.

Cruel symbolism.

It doesn’t even need much. Just enough light, a bit of water.

I hate how much I want to call him. How I wake up at three in the morning with my phone in my hand. Or how I’ve scrolled through his socials like a goddamn addict – yes, @PlantDaddy, too – desperate for any hint that he’s as miserable as I am. But he’s out there, clawing his way back to the top one game after the other.

I should throw that plant out. Let it die like the rest of whatever’s left of me. But I kept watering it, as if keeping it alive meant I didn’t mess everything up beyond repair.

Well, I fucked that up. And there’s no one to blame but myself.

A memory slips through the cracks. Brodie in his kitchen, frying bacon at 3 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep, wearing nothing but boxers and a lazy grin.

I keep telling myself it’s better this way. Better for him to be free of me. And vice versa. We’re too much alike. Too ambitious, too stubborn, too broken.

But he didn’t deserve me tearing into him like that, blaming him for my own fear.

I fumble the mug, barely getting a grip. Coffee’s gone cold, thick sludge at the bottom, but I swallow it anyway. Anything to distract from how my chest is caving in on itself.

I swallow, bitter heat rising behind my tongue.

God, I despise him for making me feel like this. For turning me into a wreck. For proving me right and wrong at the same time.

But he never should have been there in the first place. Shouldn’t have put himself in that room, surrounded by cards and cash and temptation like it didn’t matter. Like our deal didn’t mean anything. I trusted him. Mostly. It was the recklessness that made me snap.

One photo, one story, one misstep potentially ruining everything.

My career. His reputation. Us.

And maybe I didn’t trust him enough. Maybe that’s the real truth. Maybe I never believed I deserved him to begin with. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to screw it up so I could say See? I knew it . Like proving I was right would make losing him hurt less.

It didn’t. It doesn’t.

I focus on the emails piling up on my screen. Meeting requests, sponsorship updates, contract revisions. Busy work to drown out the brutal, constant squeeze in the centre of my body.

The agency’s doing well, though.

Maybe because I’ve been throwing myself into it, taking on clients like a workaholic on a bender. Any distraction is good. Last week, I took the train to London to visit Mum and Hannah, hoping a change of scenery and some tough love would shake me out of it.

It didn’t.

I came back lonelier. Emptier. As if I’d tried to outrun it and just dragged it along behind me.

Brodie’s not one of my direct clients anymore. I handed him off to Mac because it’s the professional thing to do. I’ve kept my head down, stayed away from games and events, haven’t been near the Rebels in a month. Too much like picking at a wound that’s never gonna close.

They’re in Italy now, and the updates keep pinging my phone. Interviews. Brodie’s back from the brink and playing the part. The media are lapping up the comeback story as if it were their idea. No bad press, not even a whisper about the poker game. Nothing leaked.

He’s overzealous on the field, smashing into every tackle like he’s got something to prove and nothing to lose. Playing with rage. Borderline illegal half the time.

But it’s working. His redemption arc is in full swing. And it’s good. For him, for the team, for my agency. His career’s on an upward swing again.

I should be relieved, right? It’s what I wanted — a success story.

But all I feel is this gaping void. I’m bleeding out slow and silent, nobody noticing because I’m too good at faking that I’ve got it together.

I’m not spiralling about Brodie. I’m surviving. That’s the plan. Don’t think about him. Don’t wonder how Italy’s going. Don’t check the sports news. Don’t replay the crack in his voice when I tore his heart out.

A soft knock at the door drags me out of the fog. Before I can answer, Theo strolls in, balancing a plate of shortbread and a glittery travel mug that’s probably full of some overpriced chai.

‘We don’t have a meeting,’ I point out, trying for brisk and efficient. I sound scratchy instead.

‘We do now.’ She shuts the door behind her, unfazed. ‘And I need you to listen.’ She sets the shortbread in front of me like I’m some charity case she’s trying to feed. ‘You look like shite. Talk.’

I shove the plate back at her. ‘Not hungry.’

Theo raises an eyebrow, picking up a biscuit and nibbling the edge. ‘You haven’t eaten properly today, have you? Or yesterday. Or the day before. This is me, remembering the takeaway boxes still sitting on your desk last time I was here. Jesus, Charlie.’ She sighs, leaning back in the visitor’s chair. ‘You’re telling me what happened, or do I have to force it out of you?’

My jaw sets, and I focus harder on my computer. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Liar. Even your hair looks sad. And it’s supposed to be the indestructible, always gorgeous kind.’ She gives me a pointed once-over, like she’s trying to figure out where all the bones went. ‘Talk to me, Charlie. Please.’

I glance at the biscuits again, stomach queasy. ‘He fucked up. And then I fucked up. And then he fucked up again and here we are.’

‘Yeah, I got that much from the way you’re rearranging your life like you’re in witness protection. Care to elaborate?’

‘He was in a poker room. I mean, a hotel room where poker was being played.’

She frowns, waiting for more. When I don’t give it, she leans in. ‘Okay, and? Did he gamble? Did he make some massive mistake I don’t know about?’

‘He says he didn’t.’

Theo rolls her eyes. ‘Charlie, that’s not an answer. Did he or didn’t he?’

‘He didn’t. Said he was just there to build rapport with the team, as their captain. But it doesn’t matter. He was in that room, Theo. Cash everywhere. Cards. The whole fucking setup. It could have torched everything.’

She watches me carefully, quiet for once. ‘Yeah… But it didn’t.’

I drag my hands through my hair, squeezing the roots. ‘It could have. One second of him appearing like he’s back to his old ways. That’s all it would’ve taken. Months of rebuilding his image – gone. And I—’

‘And you panicked and freaked.’

‘Yeah, I snapped.’

Theo’s mouth pulls into a half-smile, soft around the edges. ‘And you’re mad at him for putting himself in that position.’

‘Yes!’ I throw my hands up, words spilling out too fast. ‘Because he’s not that na?ve. He knew better. He knew the risks. We talked about it a hundred times. Stay clean. Stay out of trouble. One mistake and it’s all over.’

She nods slowly. ‘You’re not wrong. But…was he trying to hurt you or ignore you or treat you like crap?’

I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. ‘What?’

‘Was he trying to hurt you? Was he trying to blow his career up on purpose? Or was he just being a bit of a daftie because he wanted to be pals with his teammates and didn’t think it through? Underneath that gruff routine and ruthless ambition, he’s a wee people pleaser, in case you haven’t noticed.’

My vocal cords cinch tight. I don’t let the thought take shape. Rage is simpler. Rage keeps me standing.

Theo doesn’t let up. ‘What did he actually do to hurt you, Charlie? Not the risks, not the potential fallout.’

I want to argue. Want to say he broke my trust. Want to insist that he put everything on the line for a night of cards. But the words won’t come. Because she’s right. He didn’t actually do anything. He made a mistake. A thoughtless mistake. Not one that deserves—

‘You’re comparing him to Callum,’ Theo says gently, like it’s obvious and I’m too dense to see it. ‘But Callum lied. Repeatedly. Callum hurt you intentionally. He knew what he was doing when he was shagging other women. He was proactively and consciously choosing to hurt you in a very personal way. What did Brodie do? Did he lie? Did he cheat? Did he manipulate you? Or did he just fuck up because he’s a bit of an eejit?’

‘I’m not comparing him to Callum,’ I fire back, but it tastes like a lie.

‘Aren’t you? You’re terrified of getting played. I get it. You’re scared of looking like a fool. But Brodie’s not Callum. Just sayin’.’

The urge to scream crowds every inch of my insides. I stare down harder at the emails again. They blur into nothing, shapes and lines that make no sense.

‘Boss…’ Theo leans forward ‘You’re in love with him.’

The words hit like a slap. I don’t answer.

‘You’re hurting because you’re in love with him, and you’re afraid that makes you weak. But Charlie,’ she says quieter, almost a whisper, ‘it doesn’t. It means you’re human. And for humans, love can be a superpower.’

I shake my head, but I’m not sure who I’m denying – her or myself.

Theo picks up the mug and nudges it toward me. ‘Drink. And stop acting like your heart isn’t dragging you through hell. You might be able to fool everyone else, but not me. I’m next door if you need me. For hugs or biscuits or talks. Anything. I’m here, okay?’

She leaves me there, staring at the shortbread and the dying succulent, stomach in knots and hands trembling, because somewhere deep down, I’ve run out of excuses. I curl up in the chair, hands over my face, and let one broken sob tear out before I shove it back down.

Because I’ve already done the damage I can’t come back from.