CHAPTER FOUR
◆◆◆
Mia
The headlines were still open on Mia’s laptop when she closed it.
She didn’t need to read them. She already knew the shape of them—the tone, the implication, the way a single clipped answer could be stretched into a narrative.
MOREAU FAILS TO IMPRESS IN PRE-SEASON MEDIA
ASHWORTH’S NEW STAR: TALENT WITHOUT TACT?
The media training room occupied a quiet corner of the upper floor: glass walls on three sides letting in pale winter light, neutral grey chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle, cameras mounted at precise angles to replicate the glare of a press pen.
It smelled faintly of fresh coffee and recycled air, the kind of sterile brightness designed to strip away excuses.
Lucas was already there.
He was stationed by the far wall, not lounging this time but contained—arms folded, shoulder pressed back, ankle hooked loosely over the other.
He wasn’t checking his phone. He wasn’t engaging either.
Just watching. There was a stillness to him that felt deliberate, like a coiled engine idling low.
His expression didn’t change—cool, detached, faintly edged with impatience. Not bored exactly. Just selective.
He also looked tense. Not the explosive kind—more the slow-coil variety, the sort that made the air around him feel heavier.
It set her instincts humming. And damn it, it made her notice the way his thighs spread when he finally pushed off the wall and dropped into a chair, the outline of his muscles shifting visibly through the dark fabric.
“Good morning,” she said, keeping her tone even, professional, light enough to test the waters.
“Is it?” he replied, voice low, flat.
She ignored the jab. “This will take about thirty minutes.”
His gaze flicked to the cameras, then back to her. “I don’t need training.”
“I know,” she said calmly. “Humour me.”
That got his attention. His eyes narrowed fractionally—not anger, assessment.
She stepped fully into the room, set her laptop on the table with careful precision, and opened it just enough to glance at her notes. The ritual grounded her: questions queued, scenarios mapped, contingencies ready. Control where you could steal it.
“This isn’t about changing who you are,” she continued, meeting his eyes. “It’s about making sure the version of you that reaches the public doesn’t sabotage the rest.”
He scoffed softly, a sound that barely disturbed the air. “So I’m the problem.”
“No.” She kept her voice level. “Your delivery is.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m supposed to be charming.
Like my grandfather.” The words came out clipped, matter-of-fact, no warmth, no crack in the armour.
“Smiled for the cameras, waved to the crowds, played the hero. Everyone still talks about how fearless he was. How perfect. My father’s spent my whole life reminding me I need to live up to it.
‘Don’t disgrace the name.’ So forgive me if I don’t flash teeth on cue. ”
Mia held his gaze steadily. No pity, no probing. Just acknowledgment. “I’m not asking you to smile. I’m asking you to give them something real. Not the ghost of a dead champion. You.”
He straightened slowly, spreading his legs a fraction wider, posture shifting into something open but unmistakably guarded—a deliberate performance of ease. She recognised it instantly: the Oxford boys who’d worn the same mask, confidence as deflection.
And right now, it was shrinking the space between them, making her acutely aware of the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of clean sweat and dark cologne that lingered from his morning sim session.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said.
She didn’t blink. “Good. First question.”
She read it aloud—neutral, measured. He answered the same way: technically accurate, emotionally barren.
She didn’t interrupt. Let the silence stretch, thick and deliberate.
He shifted in his seat. Barely noticeable, but his thigh brushed the edge of the table, inches from her knee. Heat prickled along her skin.
“Again,” she said.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Why?”
“Because that answer gives them nothing. And when journalists get nothing, they fill the void themselves. Usually with something worse.”
“I’m not here to entertain them.”
“No,” she said, precise now. “You’re here to lead a team, secure sponsors, represent a brand worth millions. That requires communication. Not performance art—just enough to keep the narrative on your terms.”
His eyes narrowed further. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
She saw it then—the flicker beneath the irritation. Not arrogance. Something sharper, more defensive. Vulnerability, quickly buried.
Good.
“You don’t trust the process,” she said, softer but no less firm. “And they can smell it.”
Silence again.
For a heartbeat she thought she’d overstepped.
Then he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, closing the distance until his face was inches from hers.
She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, smell that same warm, dark scent that made her pulse stutter.
“And you do?” he asked, voice low.
Mia held his gaze. “I trust preparation. And I trust patterns. Yours are easy to read.”
Something shifted in his expression—amusement? annoyance? A mouth-curve that wasn’t quite a smile. “Congratulations. You’ve just volunteered to fix me.”
She didn’t flinch. “That’s my job.”
She told herself the tension coiling low in her belly was professional satisfaction. Nothing more.
She told herself that—and moved on to the next question.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas hated this.
Not the cameras. Not the questions. He could handle those blindfolded. What he hated was the way she watched him—not fawning, not judging. Like she was quietly dismantling him piece by piece, deciding which parts were worth salvaging.
Mia Brookes didn’t flinch when he pushed. Didn’t soften the edges. Didn’t rush to smooth the silence. She let it sit there, heavy and deliberate, until the pressure forced him to move first.
It was infuriating.
It was also… working.
He answered the next set properly—fuller sentences, less clipped, a touch less defensive—and caught the subtle easing in her shoulders. Not praise. Just quiet relief. Like she’d expected better from him all along.
That bothered him more than any criticism ever had.
“Stop crossing your arms,” she said without looking up from her laptop.
He stilled. “I’m not.”
“You were.” Flat. Factual.
He dropped them deliberately, resting his palms on his thighs. The movement pulled the kit tighter across his chest, outlining the hard planes beneath. “Happy?”
She glanced up then, one brow lifting. “Neutral.”
The word hung between them.
He leaned back, watching her properly now. The controlled posture. The clipped efficiency. The way she occupied space without apology, never over-explaining, never asking permission.
She didn’t act like someone grateful just to be in the room.
And yet—there was something tightly reined about her. Something careful. He recognised it because he wore the same thing, only his was colder, sharper.
“You’re very calm,” he said suddenly.
She paused mid-note. “This is my job.”
“No.” He tilted his head. “You.”
Her eyes met his. Cool. Assessing. “So are you. When you want to be.”
A beat.
He felt it then—the strange, unwelcome pull.
Not just lust. Curiosity edged with friction, the kind that made his blood run hotter.
His cock twitched, thickening against the snug fabric as his mind flashed to closing the gap, pinning her against the table, testing exactly how long that calm would hold if he pressed his mouth to the soft hollow of her throat, felt her pulse jump under his tongue.
She stood abruptly, signalling the end. “We’ll keep working on this. It gets easier.”
“Does it?” His voice came out rougher than intended.
“Yes,” she said. “When you stop fighting it.”
She gathered her things and moved past him—close enough that her hip brushed his arm. The brief contact sent a jolt straight to his groin. He stayed seated, forcing himself still, refusing to react, refusing to reach.
Professional, he reminded himself. She was part of the team now. Part of the machine.
But as the door clicked shut behind her, Lucas exhaled slowly, pulse hammering in his ears, cock still half-hard and aching beneath the table.
This wasn’t going to be simple.
And for the first time since stepping into Ashworth, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to be.