Page 23 of Star Rucked Lovers

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the hotel curtains, warming George’s face and coaxing him awake. He blinked groggily, reaching for his phone on the bedside table. What greeted him wasn’t the weather app or his usual sports news feed, but a headline plastered across social media: “Myst Sparks Romance Rumours with Antoine Delacourt: Is This Paris’s Hottest New Couple?”

Below it were photos of Myst and some bloke, tall, sleek, classically handsome, with a sharp suit and a sharper smirk. They were seated on what looked like a talk show couch, leaning toward each other as they laughed. Another photo showed him holding her hand as she stepped down from the stage, Myst flashing that bright smile George had somehow come to believe was only for him.

“Bloody hell,” George muttered, sitting up straighter. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, though he tried to tell himself it was ridiculous. It was just the tabloids doing what they always did, spinning stories out of nothing. Still, the images stuck in his mind, needling at the insecurities he thought he’d buried.

“Morning,” came Myst’s voice from the doorway. She was already dressed, her hair swept into a loose braid. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and setting the phone down screen-first. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Something wrong?” she asked, crossing the room with a concerned frown.

“Uh...” He hesitated, then sighed, picking up the phone again and turning it toward her. “This.”

Her expression darkened as she scanned the article. “Oh, for…!” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. “That’s rubbish. Antoine was just being polite. He helped me off the stage, and suddenly we’re soulmates?”

“Didn’t say I believed it,” George muttered, beginning to feel foolish and wishing he hadn’t called her attention to the article.

“Good.” She leaned down to give him a smacking kiss, and one of those smiles, before turning back to the door. “I’ve put the coffee on.”

George leaned on the edge of the balcony railing, staring out at the Paris skyline. The city sprawled before him in a haze of pale morning light and soft grey shadows, its beauty undeniable but strangely distant. He turned the coffee cup in his hands, the ceramic warm against his palms, though the drink had long since gone cold. Behind him, Myst moved around the suite, humming absently as she packed her bag for the day’s busy schedule.

“Hey,” he said finally, not turning around. His voice sounded rougher than he intended, like gravel scraping over asphalt.

“Mm?” Myst answered, distracted.

“Do you ever…” He stopped, frowning down at the rooftops below. “I dunno…do you ever feel like you don’t belong somewhere?”

That got her attention. Her footsteps softened as she crossed the room and came up behind him. He felt the gentle press of her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. A small touch, just enough to anchor him.

“Where’d that come from?” she asked, her tone careful now, layered with curiosity and concern.

He exhaled slowly, setting the cup down on the railing. “Your world, Myst. This whole thing.” He gestured vaguely toward the city, as if it represented every stage, every flashing camera, every whirlwind schedule he’d been swept into since they’d arrived. “I mean, bloody hell, look at me. I’m just some bloke who plays rugby. What am I doing here?”

“George…” She moved to stand beside him, her pale blue eyes searching his face. “You’re not ‘just some bloke.’”

“Feels like it,” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck, the memory of that tabloid headline still gnawing at him. “I know what you said about Antoine and all that, it’s just tabloid nonsense, but...it’s more than that. Your life, your career… it’s huge. It’s glamorous. And I’m...not.”

Myst tilted her head, studying him, her expression a mix of frustration and tenderness. “You think I’ve got it all figured out? That I wake up every day feeling like I belong in this so-called glamorous world?” She laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. “Half the time, I’m faking it just to keep up.”

“Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing,” George said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “You’re like a bloody rockstar superhero out there.”

“Yeah?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re Captain Australia, leading your team onto the pitch like some kind of gladiator. You thinkthatdoesn’t intimidateme?”

“Intimidate you?” He blinked, caught off guard.

“Of course!” she said, throwing her hands up. “You’ve got this whole other world I’ll never fully understand. Rugby’s more than just a sport to you; it’s...it’s part of who you are. And I see how much pressure you’re under, how everyone expects you to be perfect all the time. Do you really think I fit into that world any better than you think you fit into mine?”

George frowned, her words sinking in deeper than he wanted to admit. “Guess I never thought about it like that.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Myst said gently, placing a hand on his arm.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken doubts hanging thick in the air between them. George could hear the faint hum of traffic below, the distant shrill of a siren. For once, even Myst didn’t seem to have the right words to fill the quiet.

“Anyway,” she said eventually, her voice softer now, almost fragile. “I’ve got to get to soundcheck. We can talk more later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, though he wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

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