CHAPTER three
RORY
Driving back into Oakwood feels less like returning and more like stepping into something that never quite let me go.
The hills roll out the same way they always did and the houses appear one by one as the road narrows toward town, red brick and neat hedges and the sort of familiarity that sinks under your skin whether you want it to or not.
I used to think I would outgrow this place.
That I would build something bigger somewhere else and Oakwood would become a fond memory I brought out occasionally.
But it didn’t work like that. And if I’m honest, I’m kind of glad it didn’t.
I glance at Isla in the rear-view mirror because I always do, even when I don’t mean to.
She’s sitting upright in her seat, eyes scanning the street like she’s already assessing where everything fits.
She gets that from Sienna; the watchfulness, the quiet calculation, but the stubborn lift of her chin is mine.
In fact, any stubbornness in her comes from me.
The town starts noticing me before I’ve even parked my car. A couple outside the bakery do that thing where they try not to stare and fail. A teenager nudges his friend and says my name a little too loudly. I give a half smile, a small nod, something that reads easy and unphased.
I’ve never quite known what to do with being recognised.
On the pitch, I know exactly who I am. I know where to stand, when to move, how hard to hit.
. Off it, it’s less clear and it’s something I have never gotten used to.
I don’t dislike the attention, not exactly.
I just don’t feel entirely comfortable in it, especially here, where they remember the kid I used to be.
Isla squeezes my hand at the school gates. “They’re looking at you.”
“Let them,” I say lightly. “Gives them something to talk about.”
She grins, satisfied with that answer, and I’m grateful she doesn’t ask anything more.
Walking through Oakwood Primary again does something strange to me.
My body remembers the rhythm of the place before my mind catches up.
The smell of polish and old books, the scrape of chairs against floors, the echo of footsteps along corridors that once felt enormous.
There’s a framed photo of me somewhere in here, grinning in a Ravens kit, captioned with something overly proud.
Rugby made everything straightforward. Train hard. Play hard. Win if you can. It’s easier to be confident when the rules are clear. Feelings don’t come with rules, referees or scoreboards. They just sit there, unresolved.
We step back out into the playground, and the noise hits in a rush.
Children shouting, parents chatting, teachers calling instructions across the tarmac.
I loosen my shoulders, let the confidence settle into place automatically, because that’s what people expect from me and I’ve got it well-rehearsed.
And then I see her. Freya. She’s crouched down tying a shoelace, smoothing a coat afterwards with the same careful attention she used to give to everything when we were kids. It’s such a small, ordinary moment, and yet it pulls my focus immediately.
She stands and looks up. Our eyes almost meet but I look away first. Not because I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. But because the way my body reacts is inconvenient, and I’d rather not examine that too closely while standing in a school playground.
Get it together Bennett!
She’s different, of course. She’s grown into herself in a way that seems grounded and solid.
There’s a quiet strength to her now, something steady beneath the softness, and I’m aware, unhelpfully aware, of the curve of her waist beneath her coat, of the way her hair falls forward when she laughs at something another mum says.
It’s just familiarity, I tell myself. History has a way of dressing itself up as something more.
She’s probably with someone anyway. The man I saw with that same kid earlier didn’t look like a casual acquaintance.
Of course she would have moved on. Why wouldn’t she?
She’s the kind of woman men build lives around.
The kind of woman that you absolutely never let slip through your fingers. Unless you’re me.
I shift my weight and slide my hands into my pockets, settling into an expression that reads as easy and confident, like none of this has caught me off guard.
If she looks over again, I’ll grin. As if the past is something neatly boxed up and put away.
Except my mind keeps drifting back to her.
To the way she stood up just now. To the faint colour in her cheeks.
To the fact that even from a distance I can tell when she’s pretending not to notice me.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve been married. I’ve lived in cities bigger than this entire town.
I’ve stood in front of crowds who shouted my name like their lives depended on it.
I am not undone by a woman tying a shoelace.
It’s just attraction. That’s all it is. Old chemistry resurfacing because we’re back in the same place, breathing the same air. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.
I left once. That part’s simple. Whatever this is now? It’s just proximity. Just circumstance. Just my body reacting before my brain has had a chance to catch up.
I can handle that.