Page 41 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Yeah, George,” another teammate piped up, grinning. “You sure she’s not still on the market?”

“Shut it, you lot,” George snapped, grabbing the ball nearest to him and tossing it hard into the chest of Lachie, who caught it with a grin. He forced himself to chuckle, to play along, but he could feel the weight of their words settling somewhere deep in his chest.

By the time they hit the field, the teasing had died down, replaced by drills and scrimmages, but George couldn’t shake the image of Myst and Antoine from his mind. He told himself it didn’t matter, it was just PR rubbish, same as always. And yet, as soon as training wrapped, he found himself pulling out his phone and firing off a message before he could overthink it.

“Photos of you and Delacourt are everywhere. What’s going on?”

The reply came quickly but did little to soothe him.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Just work stuff.”

‘Work stuff’ felt like a brush-off, like a wall going up between them. He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to say next. Finally, he typed back, “If you say so“ and left it at that.

Thousands of miles away, in a recording studio in the heart of Istanbul, Myst stared at her phone, biting her lip. She hated how curt her response sounded, but there wasn’t time to explain. Not now.

“Are you listening, Myst?”

Her manager’s voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. She looked up to see her PR team assembled around the table, all sharp suits and sharper opinions.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, though she wasn’t sorry at all.

“About the Antoine story,” one of them began, flipping through a folder of glossy prints featuring her and Antoine. “We think you should lean into it. The narrative is good for visibility…”

“Visibility?” Myst interrupted, her pale blue eyes flashing. “I don’t needvisibility. I need people to focus on my music, not... this circus.”

“Your fans love a good romance, Myst,” another added, trying for a placating smile. “And if we can keep the speculation alive, it’ll drive more engagement for your upcoming shows. It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” Myst repeated, incredulous. She rose from her chair, pacing the length of the room. “Do you have any idea what this does to my actual life? To the people I care about?”

“Antoine doesn’t seem to mind,” someone quipped, earning a round of quiet chuckles. Myst stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw tightening.

“Because Antoine lives for this kind of attention,” she shot back. “But I’m not Antoine, and frankly, I don’t give a shit whether he likes it or not.”

There was a brief silence and shocked faces as Myst swore, something she rarely did.

“Look,” her manager interjected, attempting to calm the rising tension. “We’re not saying you have to confirm anything. Just… let the story breathe. Don’t deny it outright, and the buzz will handle itself.”

“Absolutely not,” Myst said firmly, crossing her arms and sticking her chin out stubbornly. “I won’t do that. I’m not going to jeopardize something real for the sake of a few headlines.”

“Real” hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, no one spoke. Then the meeting broke apart, murmurs of irritation trailing behind as the team filed out one by one, leaving Myst alone with her thoughts.

She sank back into her chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. The pressure was relentless, a constant tug-of-war between maintaining her public image and protecting what little privacy she had left. And then there was George. Sweet, steady George, whose text still lingered on her screen, unresolved.

Her thumb hovered over George’s name on her screen, the little green call button taunting her.

“You’re not busy for once,” she muttered to herself, taking a sip of the too-sweet tea. “Just call him.” It was morning here, which meant late afternoon there.

Before she could second-guess herself, Myst hit the button, the dial tone humming in her ear. She leaned back into the cushioned chair, ready to hear his gravelly Australian accent cut through her homesickness. But after three rings, it wasn’t George’s voice that greeted her, it was an automated message.

“Hey, this is George. Leave a message, mate.”

“Ugh.” Her shoulders slumped. She hesitated briefly, then ended the call without saying anything. What was the point? He’d probably just finished tackling someone or running drills. She pictured him in his training gear, all sweat and focus, oblivious to the way her stomach twisted when their schedules misaligned yet again.

“Fine. No big deal,” she said aloud, standing abruptly. But even as she steeled herself to get back behind the microphone and carry on laying down the demo vocals for the song she’d written about him, the weight of disappointment settled over her like a stubborn storm cloud.

George tossed his mouthguard into his bag, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. Pre-season training was supposed to be tough, but today had been brutal, starting with a long run and then endless drills under the punishing Queensland summer sun. His legs felt like lead, and every muscle in his body screamed for reprieve.

“Oi, Dennis, you look like you’ve been run over by a truck,” one of his teammates joked, clapping him on the shoulder as they headed toward the locker room.

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