chapter twenty-one
rory
I am, objectively, an idiot. Not in the charming, self-aware way.
Not in the “ah well, lads will be lads” way.
In the very specific, deeply inconvenient way where you discover the one thing standing between you and losing your mind never existed in the first place and has quietly been removed.
And instead of stepping forward like a normal, functioning adult, you immediately slam the brakes and reverse.
Freya is single. Single. I found that out standing in her kitchen, tea going cold in my hand, staring at a house that contains no evidence of another man and smells like vanilla and cinnamon and childhood and everything I’ve tried very hard not to want.
The second she said it, the second she casually explained that James was Theo’s dad and nothing more, something inside my chest detonated so violently I’m fairly sure it altered my DNA.
Which is precisely why I have been pulling back ever since.
Because when she was taken, it was simple.
Off limits. Morally uncomplicated. I could look, but not touch.
Feel, but not act. It was frustration with a safety net.
Now there isn’t one. Now if I look at her too long, that’s on me.
If I reach for her hand, that’s on me. If I ruin twenty-five years of history because I can’t keep my shit together, that is entirely on me.
And I have already been a possessive prick once at the fair, practically squaring up to Scott like I had any right whatsoever to police who she laughs with.
I replay that moment more than I care to admit, my hand gripping his shoulder too tightly, my jaw set like some territorial idiot.
So yes. I am being careful. I am not standing too close at pickup.
I am not letting myself stare at the curve of her neck or the way her mouth softens when she’s thinking.
Because I know exactly what happens if I don’t manage this properly.
I fall. And I can’t afford to fall. Not where Freya Collins is concerned.
Training doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I can be mid-drill, lungs burning, sweat running down my spine, and my brain will still conjure the exact image of her leaning against her kitchen counter, sunlight catching in her hair, telling me she hasn’t been with anyone since she was pregnant.
Which is a detail I did not need to know, but now have stored in high definition.
I drag a hand over my face in the changing room after training and mutter to myself like a man unwell.
“Get a grip.”
She deserves someone steady. Not someone who disappears to the city for years and then comes back acting like he owns the postcode. Not someone who gets territorial over a woman who has never once belonged to him.
My phone buzzes in my locker while I’m mid-lecture to myself. I ignore it at first. Then it buzzes again. I pull it out, expecting a text from Mum or the estate agent. It’s Freya. My pulse does something deeply unhelpful.
Freya: Random question… are you handy with tools?
I stare at the message for a full ten seconds. Handy with tools. I close my eyes briefly. Do not. Do not make that what it sounds like. I type back carefully.
Rory: Depends what you need fixing.
Which is measured. Controlled. Respectable. My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Freya: Leaky tap. And before you say it, yes, I’ve tried tightening it. No, I don’t know what I’m doing and yes I need a strong man to come fix it for me. Just call me a damsel in distress.
I can practically hear the dry humour in it. There’s something in the phrasing that feels… intentional. Light, but not accidental. I lean back against the locker and exhale slowly. This is fine. This is neighbourly. This is plumbing.
Rory: I can have a look. Might just be the washer.
There. Neutral. Practical. Boring. Her reply takes a little longer this time.
Freya: Of course you know about washers. Rugby player AND domestic competence. Very dangerous combination.
I actually laugh under my breath. She’s flirting. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The old Freya tone. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say something back. Something about how I’m multi-talented. Something about demonstrating skills in person. I want to. God, I want to. Instead I type:
Rory: Wouldn’t go that far.
Delete. Too cold. I try again.
Rory: Don’t set your expectations too high.
Send.
Safe. Dry. Annoyingly restrained. Her typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Fuck, this woman is going to be the death of me.
Freya: So… Are you free before pick-up?
I have to sit down. Before pick-up. So it would just be us.
In her kitchen. Alone. My brain lights up like a malfunctioning Christmas display.
Say no. You are not equipped for this. Say yes and be normal.
Just fix the tap. Do not imagine bending her over her kitchen counter and trailing my hands up the soft curves of her hips while I… RORY. Fucking chill.
I rub a hand down my face, snapping my mind out of these thoughts that will make any time alone with her very difficult.
I am thirty-five years old. I have played in front of eighty thousand people without blinking.
I can do this.
Rory: Yeah. I can swing by in an hour? I’m just finishing up at training.
I hit send before I can rethink it. Three dots appear again.
Freya: Hero. I owe you one.
I physically choke. I owe you one. Do not read into that. Do not. I type back:
Rory: It’s a tap, Frey.
Which is probably too clipped. Probably too distant. But if I let even an inch of what I’m actually thinking into that message, I will not survive it. I lock my phone and look up to find Noah staring me down.
“You good big man? You see, distracted.”
Noah and I are close. He’s my best bud on The Ravens team and we’ve been through a lot of shit together.
He helped me massively through my public divorce and even put me up on his sofa until my mum was able to clear the spare room for me.
I also supported him through a rough time when his parents died.
Noah always knows when somethings up and I almost feel bad for not telling him what’s going on.
“I’m good man. Just stressed trying to find a place. My phone doesn’t stop with messages from the estate agent.” I lie.
“I don’t remember smiling at my phone like that when my estate agent text. But you do you, bro.” He replies. The man knows me far too well. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Noah adds and fist bumps me before leaving the locker room.
I sit there, staring at my phone, heart hammering like I’ve just finished a match. Because what I wanted to say to Freya was:
You don’t owe me anything. I would fix your entire house if you asked.
I would stand in that kitchen all night just to hear you laugh again.
I would re-build an entire house from scratch if you asked me to.
Instead, I am going to fix a tap. And pretend that my hands won’t shake when she stands too close.
This is fine. Completely fine. Absolutely no part of me is combusting.