Page 40 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Nobody,” he muttered, filling the glass at the sink. “I’m just tired, alright?”

“Sure, sure.” Kate popped a slice of orange into her mouth. “Tired of missing Myst, maybe?”

“Kate!” George turned sharply, his ears burning. “Who said anything about Myst?”

“Your face did.” Ellie leaned against the counter, smirking. “And the fact that you’ve checked your phone three times since walking in here. Subtle, mate.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” their mum interrupted, turning away from the stove. Her voice was firm, cutting through the teasing like a referee’s whistle. “Go set the table, you two, and then call the young’uns in and make them wash up before dinner. Let your brother breathe.”

“Fine,” Kate said, sliding off her stool with a dramatic sigh. “But we’re not done with this conversation, George.”

“Looking forward to it,” he replied dryly, watching them shuffle off with forks and napkins in hand to the formal dining room which was the only one that could accommodate his whole family.

“Now,” his mum said after a moment, wiping her hands on a tea towel and gesturing toward the patio doors. “Come outside with me, love. We need to have a chat.”

“Do we?” George asked warily, though he followed her out onto the deck anyway. The breeze off the ocean was cooler now, rustling the palm trees in the backyard. His mum settled into one of the wicker chairs with a quiet grace that always seemed to command attention.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the chair opposite hers. He obeyed, sinking into it with a heaviness he couldn’t quite shake.

“Alright,” he began, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What’s this about?”

“About you,” she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. “And why you’re pretending everything’s fine when it’s obviously not.”

“Everythingisfine,“ he insisted, though he knew his voice lacked conviction.

“George.” She gave him that look, the one that could peel back layers of bravado like they were tissue paper. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Myst?”

“Why does everyone assume it’s about Myst?” he muttered, staring out at the horizon. “Maybe I’m just stressed about pre-season.”

“Because I know my son,” she said, her tone softening. “And because I see the way your eyes light up when you talk about her.”

George exhaled slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s complicated, Mum. She’s... amazing. But her world is so different from mine. I don’t know if it makes sense.”

“Since when has love ever been about making sense?” she asked gently. “It’s about effort, George. About being willing to fight for something that matters. Does she matter to you?”

“Of course she does,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it’s not enough? What if it’s too hard?”

“Hard doesn’t mean impossible,” she said firmly. “It just means you have to decide whether it’s worth it. And if you’re asking me, I think you already know the answer to that.”

He looked at her then, his chest tightening. She was right, he did know. He just didn’t know if he had the courage to act on it.

“Oi, Dennis! You might wanna check this out.”

The training pitch buzzed with the usual pre-session banter; teammates ribbing each other, the slap of rugby balls against palms, and the faint whistle of the wind carrying salt from the nearby ocean. George had come in early to clear his head, not to get dragged into whatever nonsense was brewing.

“Sod off, Lachie,” he said without even looking up.

“Seriously, mate,” came the voice again, this time accompanied by a smirk George could feel without even looking. “Your girl’s got herself somecompany.”

“She’s not my girl,” George muttered automatically, tugging the knot tight on his bootlace.

“Right, right.” Lachie’s voice dripped with mock sympathy. “Just thought you’d like to know Antoine Delacourt’s getting cosy with her. Again.”

That made him pause. George looked up sharply, his heart sinking as he saw Lachie holding up his phone, the screen glowing with an image that felt like a kick to the gut. There it was: Myst, radiant as always, stepping out of some sleek car, her dark hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. And beside her, Antoine Delacourt, all smug jawline and perfect teeth, leaning in just a little too close.

“Bloody tabloids,” George grumbled, trying to swat the phone away as heat crept up his neck. But Lachie wasn’t giving up so easily.

“Relax, mate,” Lachie said, laughing. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a couple of ‘colleagues,’ yeah? Or is she keeping her options open?”

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