Page 49 of Star Rucked Lovers

“That’s all you’re getting tonight,” she said at last, her tone light but final. Her hand never left George’s, even as they wove past a sea of intrigued faces.

“Handled that well, didn’t you?” George murmured once they found a quieter corner, his thumb brushing along hers.

“Years of practice,” she quipped, though her expression softened. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, glancing around. “It’s… different. But not bad.”

“Different is good.” She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before adding, “You’re doing great, by the way. Very stoic. Like a rugby captain should be.”

“Stoic. Right.” He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I just look confused half the time.”

“Well, then you wear confusion very handsomely.” Her teasing lilt made him chuckle, and for the first time that night, he felt like he belonged, not because he fit into her world, but because she made space for him in it.

As the evening stretched on, George found himself relaxing, even enjoying bits of it. He even laughed when one of her bandmates jokingly asked if he could teach them how to tackle paparazzi. Myst stayed close, her presence grounding him, and by the end of the night, George realized something important: he didn’t have to compete with this glittering, chaotic world of hers. He just had to be part of it, and she wanted him to be.

The next morning, the air between them was quieter, heavier. George stood by the vast window of Myst’s suite, gazing out at the Dubai skyline one last time. The city shimmered under the early sunlight, bold and unapologetic, much like her.

“Your car’s downstairs,” Myst said softly behind him. Her voice was calm, but he could hear the crack in it.

He turned, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight as he looked at her. She was dressed casually now, jeans and a loose blouse, but somehow she still looked like a star. Maybe because, to him, she always would.

“Wish you were coming with me,” he said honestly. His suitcase sat by the door, an unwelcome reminder that their time was up.

“Me too.” She crossed the room, standing in front of him. “But I’ll come visit. As soon as the tour ends, I promise. I need to see where you come from. Meet your family.” Her lips twitched. “I bet your mum’s already planning dinner.”

“She is,” George admitted with a rueful grin. “She’s probably got three menus ready.”

“Good.” Myst reached up, letting her fingers graze his jaw. “I can’t wait.”

The kiss they shared was slow, lingering, and full of unspoken words. When they finally pulled apart, Myst rested her forehead against his, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve got this, George. No matter how hard it gets.”

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice rough. “We’ve got this.”

Chapter Seventeen

The final whistle piercedthe humid Gold Coast air, and George doubled over, hands braced on his knees, lungs burning as though the match had stolen every ounce of oxygen he possessed. Around him, the crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their cheers rolling like waves along the stadium stands. A victorious grin tugged at his lips despite the ache in his body. They’d done it. His team had pulled off one of the toughest wins of the season.

“Oi, George!” Lachie slapped an arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking him sideways. “You beauty! That try was a bloody masterpiece.”

George chuckled, breathless but buzzing with adrenaline. “Team effort, mate.” He clapped Lachie’s back and joined the knot of teammates huddling mid-field, arms slung over each other, the exhilaration of victory binding them together more tightly than any game plan ever could. Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with the salt of triumph.

“Next round’s on you, Captain!” someone shouted through the laughter, and George raised his arms in mock surrender. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll think about it,” he called, grinning wide. These were his people. His turf. And today, they owned it.

As the group began to scatter, some heading toward the locker rooms, others lingering for interviews, George scanned the edge of the field out of habit. The stands were still packed with fans waving banners and snapping pictures, a sea of maroon and gold jerseys blending into the sunset hues streaking the sky. Then, just beyond the barrier separating the crowd from the pitch, something, or rather, someone, stopped him dead in his tracks.

Myst stood there, leaning casually against the railing, her petite frame impossible to miss even amidst the chaos. Her long dark hair shimmered in the fading light, cascading over her shoulders like silk, and she wore a simple white tee tucked into faded jeans, a bright scarf tucked around her throat. But it was her smile, bright, unrestrained, and aimed squarely at him, that knocked the wind clean out of him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, blinking as if she might disappear. She didn’t.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” Lachie teased, elbowing him before jogging off toward the changing rooms. George barely noticed. His feet were already carrying him forward, cutting across the grass with purposeful strides.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Myst called out as he approached, her voice carrying over the din. There was a mischievous lilt to her tone that made his heart stutter. “Figured it was my turn to cheer you on for once.”

“Colour me surprised,” he said, unable to stop the grin stretching across his face. He reached her and pulled her into a hug without hesitation, lifting her slightly off the ground. She let out a soft laugh, her arms looping naturally around his neck. Her warmth, her scent, something faintly floral mingled with the tang of ocean air, it all grounded him in a way nothing else could.

“Careful with the PDA, Captain,” she teased when he set her back down. “You’re going to steal the spotlight from the team.”

“Me? Steal the spotlight?” He arched a brow, stepping back enough to take her in properly. “You’ve got that covered, love. Half the crowd’s probably forgotten we even won.” Everyone around them was staring and pointing, and he could see probably fifty phones pointed in their direction.

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