Chapter 19 #2
It’s wild how much I’m feeling this. Him, the proximity, the low current of whatever this is between us.
I didn’t expect to let anyone in ever again, least of all this hot mess of a flanker.
But I can’t stop it. I can’t stop what breaks loose inside when he touches me, or the way my pulse picks up every time he’s near.
The continuous drip of something that might be love.
That word.
Big and heavy and scary.
But yeah. There’s a possibility that I might be in love with Finn Lennox.
I should be focussed on what Charlie’s about to say. I should have a guess, at least a whiff of a hint. I’m her assistant, for fuck’s sake. But I’ve got nothing. No memo, no whisper, no clue. And I don’t know whether to laugh or panic.
‘Spill it, boss,’ I say. ‘You’re making me a smidge nervous.’
Charlie beams and slams a thin folder onto the desk. ‘Tell me you like croissants, because you’re moving to France. RC Marseille-Provence wants you, Finn. As in right now, mid-season. They’ve made an offer.’
The office is suddenly airless. I grip the edge of my chair, nails digging into the faux leather.
Finn blinks rapidly, his mouth slightly open. ‘Marseille? A French club?’
‘Oui, a French club!’ Her eyes go wide with glee.
My brain whirs, trying to process this bombshell.
France. Finn in France.
The words refuse to connect properly, like mismatched puzzle pieces.
Marseille. France. As in, not here.
My mind races, piecing together the cryptic calendar entries, the hushed phone calls Charlie had taken over the past few weeks.
‘How did I not hear about this?’ The question spills out before I can filter it. ‘Were those the appointments with C. Dreyfus?’
Charlie’s smile falters slightly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m so sorry. I couldn’t say anything until it was official. Super top secret, need-to-know basis and all that jazz.’
‘Right.’ I nod mechanically.
Logically, I get it. She couldn’t tell me. I’m Elite Edge’s social media manager and assistant. Not privy to high-level negotiations. Still, a microscopic needle of hurt pricks deep in my chest.
Finn’s eyes dart between us, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. ‘Hold on. I’m missing something here. Why now? Why me?’
Charlie perches on the desk and crosses her ankles. ‘Their star flanker tore a ligament in his knee. Season-ending injury. French Top fourteen clubs can sign players outside the transfer window under “joker médical” rules. Essentially an injury replacement.’
‘And they want…me?’
‘They need a hard-hitting, high-profile flanker who can make an immediate impact,’ Charlie continues. ‘Someone who draws press attention both on and off the pitch. They’re known for taking on…less disciplined players.’
I watch his profile, the slight furrow between his brows deepening. His knee has stopped its casual brush against mine. Now it’s bobbing.
‘Their sporting director loved our rebrand strategy.’ Charlie grins, wickedly pleased with herself. ‘The redemption narrative we’ve been crafting worked like a charm.’
The muscle under his ear twitches. Locked down, but not fast enough.
Charlie doesn’t seem to notice his reaction.
‘Think about it. You’re perfect: young, talented.
There’s already media buzz swirling around you.
An affordable risk with a high PR upside.
’ She’s on a roll and oblivious to the two stiff people sitting in front of her.
‘The French club sees commercial potential in you.’
‘Right. Commercial potential.’ He stirs in his seat. The thread on his sleeve has unravelled further, and he tugs at it absently.
‘Most Top fourteen players are already under contract,’ Charlie explains. ‘But the pressure from Lord Dalcrieff, whose fiancée you…’
‘… slept with,’ Finn finishes flatly.
Charlie winces. ‘Yes. That situation makes this a perfect escape hatch. If you want it.’
A bitter tide surges in my stomach. Escape hatch. The phrase echoes in my head. My mind is a swirling vortex of what-ifs and oh-gods. France. He’d be in fucking France. For good.
‘When would this happen?’ I ask.
‘Soon,’ Charlie replies. ‘They want him in Marseille by next week.’
Next week. Two syllables, frostbite-sharp, carving space between my ribs.
‘What about my current contract with the Rebels?’ Finn asks.
‘I wanted to talk to you first before I poke that particular bear.’ Charlie says. ‘I’m sure they’d like to keep you, but considering what’s been going on, they might also be open to it. I could get it done.’
Finn rubs his palm across his jaw, the scratch of stubble audible in the quiet room. ‘I see.’
‘The financial package is impressive.’ She pushes the folder toward him.
‘200,000 pounds gross per year; 60,000 pounds signing bonus; 20,000 pounds per year in image rights and sponsorship. Fully covered relocation, housing, French-language coaching. Plus, Marseille in spring is lovely. Sunshine, Mediterranean lifestyle…’
I stare at a small water stain on the ceiling, trying to ignore the emptiness expanding in my chest. The Mediterranean is over a thousand miles from Edinburgh.
‘And what about—’ Finn starts, then stops abruptly.
Yeah. What about us?
Those unsaid words are like a tripwire between us, and we’re both too terrified to set it off.
Charlie glances at us. ‘This is a lot to take in. But career-wise, Finn, this is a golden ticket. The board at RC Marseille-Provence meets early next week. They want an answer in three days, so Monday.’
‘Three days?’ His tone fractures.
‘You know how it is,’ Charlie says. ‘They need to move quickly, since it’s mid-season.’
I force myself to breathe normally, even as panic bubbles beneath my skin.
Three days. One weekend. Seventy-two hours to process that the man who’s somehow become central to my existence with lightning speed, the only man who ever made me feel complete and myself, might drop out of my world just as fast.
This is the chance of a lifetime.
‘I need to think,’ Finn says, standing abruptly. His chair squeaks against the floor.
‘Of course,’ Charlie nods. ‘Take the contract details with you. Review the terms.’ Then she turns to me, eyes gleaming with pride. ‘Our first international contract! We did it, Theo!’
‘Our? We?’
‘Yeah. This wouldn’t have happened without you. Nothing would.’ Now she grins like the cat that got the cream. ‘How does a full partnership sound to you?’