ELLIE
There’s a sizzling tension in the air.
Was he going to kiss me? Was I going to let him?
I can’t be sure, but the vibration of my phone breaks the spell and whatever that was is well and truly over as Mike and I stare at the screen of my phone, face up on the counter.
And in the split-second I take to glance back at Mike, his expression turns sour.
“Rick Langdon?” he says, his eyebrows pulling together. “Surely it can’t be—that’s not Patrick Langdon … is it? What the—what’s he doing texting you?”
Mike’s face reddens, like the living embodiment of the ‘angry face’ emoji.
“I—we’re just messaging socially, that’s all.”
His eyes widen in disgust, then his whole face seems to crumple—fury softening into something far more fragile.
“Is this who you’re seeing?” he says, his voice frail and uneven.
It takes a second to register what I’m hearing. Then it hits me—he’s upset. Properly upset.
Why? Why does it matter that much to him? But then I remember … Mike and Rick were both named in the Team GB prelim squad. Are they rivals? Is it more personal than that?
“Is this who you’re seeing, Kitch?” he says again, more quietly this time.
“What? No.” I hesitate for a moment before continuing. “Okay, so I don’t have a boyfriend. I panicked when your mam asked me and?—”
“Right,” he cuts in, but he doesn’t look at me. He just keeps staring at the phone.
I scramble to explain, desperate to see that light in his eyes again. The same he had when he was about to?—
“He’s texting me because he’s the best man of my sister’s fiancé. That’s all. He’s trying to de-conflict some wedding plans.”
Mike scoffs. “Like hell he is. He’s a guy. He doesn’t give a shit about wedding plans—he’s trying to?—”
“He’s not trying to do anything,” I interrupt.
“Rick Langdon.” Mike repeats his name over and over under his breath, shaking his head. “Honestly …”
“Why do you care who I’m texting, anyway?” I ask, though I have a feeling I already know the answer.
He downs another shot before leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Because the guy is a complete asshat with no social skills. I bet he doesn’t even laugh at Christmas cracker jokes.”
“What do Christmas cracker jokes have to do with anything?” I blink at him, trying to follow.
“It’s my way of saying he has no sense of humour and he’s not a team player.
Christmas cracker jokes are terrible because everyone can agree that they are bad.
Imagine there’s a decent joke nestled inside, but only half the family gets it …
it’ll divide the crowd and cause animosity.
So, by everyone having a common enemy in the tune of a poor joke—it’s a team effort. ”
I consider it for a moment. I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it before, but it explains why Kathryn doesn’t so much as smirk at a festive quip.
“I see,” I say.
“I’m just saying. The guy is an idiot. And he owes me a few grand.”
“What? How?” I say.
“The playoffs last year. Langer opted to aim a dirty hit at me and I ended up in the hospital. Concussion. My mam took it to the extreme and kept me at home all summer, which meant my job was off the cards. ”
He looks down at his shoes and the memory of Mike’s brother, Jeremy, rises to the surface. He died from a head injury, and it was heartbreaking. A swell of emotion creeps through my chest and all I want to do is reach out and squeeze him tight.
But I don’t.
“Oh, my God. That’s awful,” I say instead, putting a hand over my mouth.
“It wasn’t ideal,” Mike says. “But he knew I was a problem for him, and he targeted me specifically. Though, the jokes on him because we won, anyway. Honestly—everyone talks about death and taxes being dead certs, but there’s a third thing that no one mentions.
” He pauses, only offering me insight when I raise my brow.
“Rick Langdon having it out for me. He knows I’m better than him. ”
“That doesn’t sound like the Rick I know,” I say, though I’m not sure why. “He seems laid back and—” I’m about to say ‘flirty’ but Mike’s scowl deters me.
“He’s not laid back,” he snaps. “Honestly, I reckon it’s because he’s probably in Matt Rodgers’ inner circle or something.”
Mike reaches for the bottle of Macallen and pours himself another measure.
“I don’t know who that is,” I say.
“Yeah, well … I wish I didn’t either. But he’s another Rick—except probably worse because…” He clenches his jaw. “He’s the reason someone’s posting shit about me online … well, part of the reason.”
Mike stops abruptly, and I realise I’ve not been able to mask my expression. His eyes lock on mine as his mouth hangs open.
“You’ve read it, haven’t you?” he says.
“Well … yeah. But?—”
“You didn’t believe it, right?”
But when I take longer than three seconds to answer, Mike shakes his head.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks the screen, tapping rapidly. Then he practically shoves it into my hands.
“Read that,” he says.
It’s a message thread with a contact he has saved as ‘Rochelle – DO NOT ANSWER’ followed by ‘You have blocked this contact’.
I skim read the last few messages — all vile insults, and threats — before deciding that I’ve seen enough.
I hand him his phone back.
“That’s what I’ve been dealing with,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “An obsessed stalker-ish person who has nothing better to do than to ruin my life. You know they can’t prove Rochelle made those posts, but there’s not a doubt in my mind.”
“But what’s this Matt guy got to do with it?”
“It’s a long story,” he says, reaching for the bottle of tequila. “One I don’t want to go into.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. But be careful. I mean—I can’t tell you who to date or whatever … but Rick Langdon?”
“I’m not dating him,” I say.
“Well … regardless. He’s still a prick,” he says. “We were about to kiss, and he cock-blocks me.”
I gape at him, my cheeks flaming as his mouth twists into a half-smile.
And there he is. Back to being the usual confident, self-assured self.
“We were not about to kiss,” I say.
“Oh, really? Because we were having a moment.”
He’s right. We were sort of having a moment…
“Didn’t you need the toilet like an hour ago?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from that particular topic.
“You’re too good for him,” he says, reaching for the shot glass, still ignoring his bladder.
“Excuse me?” I say defensively. “That’s not for you to say. ”
“I’m just stating a fact, sweetheart.”
And there it is again.
Sweetheart.
With his eyes fixed on mine, he downs a shot, and I swallow—the alcohol clouding my brain.
“Imagine if you got my texts?” he says, breaking away. “I reckon we’d be married for real now.”
I laugh out loud. The booze is definitely running this conversation.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, I may have a small dick, but it’s not all about that, is it? I’d still have you seeing God.”
He smirks again, and a wave of something ripples through me, but I shake my head.
“I’d be fixing the house up too, making sure your tyres were in a fit state … not to mention all the flowers I’d buy you.”
I gasp. “What do you mean by that?”
“About my little?—”
“No. The flowers.”
“You told me you’re a hopeless romantic. Flowers are up there, right? I bet Langer would never buy you flowers.”
I stare at him in disbelief. As if he remembers me mentioning flowers all those years ago. I don’t even remember how it came up, but the fact he remembers is wild.
His lips twitch with the threat of a smile and a shimmer of something flickers in his eyes, causing a light bulb to spark on in my head.
Even though I find it hard to believe he did like me like that … it’s now written all over his face.