Page 7 of Star Rucked Lovers

Being team captain was a whole new world, he was discovering. He’d been a high-profile player for several years, tipped as a future captain almost from his first international game four years ago, and had thought he understood media attention. Being recognised everywhere he went was unnerving, though, and the way journalists seemed to jerk to alertness when he entered the room was something he didn’t think he’d ever get used to.

All of it paled into insignificance when he stepped out of the limo onto the red carpet at the event venue and a thousand flashbulbs went off in his face.

“Relax,” Myst whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the chaotic hum of the crowd. She glanced up at him with a quick smile, her pale blue eyes sparkling under the harsh lights. “Just keep walking. Left foot, right foot. You’ve got this.”

“Easy for you to say,” George muttered back, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably in the tailored suit that suddenly felt two sizes too tight. Somewhere to his left, someone screamed Myst’s name like they were announcing the second coming.

“Over here, Myst! Give us a pose!”

“Who’s your date, Myst?!”

“Looking stunning as always, Myst! Can we get a smile?”

She handled it all like she was gliding through water, serene and unshaken. Her free hand rose in a graceful wave, fingers fluttering just enough to acknowledge the crowd without seeming overly rehearsed.

“How do you even hear yourself think?” George asked, leaning closer to her ear. His tone was light, but the bewilderment in his voice was real.

Myst laughed under her breath, a soft sound meant only for him. “You don’t think, you float,” she replied, squeezing his hand lightly before guiding him forward. “And if floating doesn’t work, just smile and nod. Like this.” She turned her face toward the cameras, her expression shifting into something radiant but effortlessly natural. It was mesmerizing and…a little terrifying, frankly.

George tried to mimic her, though it felt more like he was baring his teeth than smiling. “Like this?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“Close enough,” she teased, her lips twitching as though holding back a laugh. “Though maybe dial it back a notch. You look like you’re about to tackle someone.”

“Force of habit,” he deadpanned, earning another quiet laugh from her. It was grounding, that sound. Amongst all the chaos, Myst was a steady presence, her poise wrapping around him like an invisible shield.

“Eyes up, rugby guy,” she murmured, tilting her head toward another bank of photographers. “They’ll eat you alive if you look lost.”

“Too late for that,” he said under his breath, but he lifted his chin anyway, trying to channel even half the confidence she seemed to radiate effortlessly. The cameras snapped louder, shouts rising in volume as Myst paused mid-carpet to shift her stance. She adjusted slightly, turning her body toward George just enough to include him in the frame but not so much that the moment became about him. She was shielding him, he realized, subtly deflecting the attention without drawing notice.

“Now smile,” she whispered, her voice carrying a playful lilt.

“Still feels like I’m being ambushed,” he grumbled, but he managed a grin anyway. He might’ve been out of place here, but he wanted to try. Not for the cameras, not for the crowd, but for her.

“See? You’re a natural,” Myst said, her eyes lifting to meet his briefly before she turned back to the sea of lenses. Her hand remained firmly in his, a tether in the storm. For someone so small, she had a way of commanding space, bending the chaos to her will. George could only marvel at how easy she made it seem.

“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, scanning the frenzy around them. People pressed against the barriers, craning for a better view. Microphones jutted forward like spears. “Feels more like being in the middle of a scrum.”

“Ah, but scrums are your specialty, aren’t they?” Myst quipped, throwing him a quick sideways glance. Her lips curved into a smirk, and for a split second, George forgot about the cameras, the crowd, all of it.

“Touché,” he admitted Her energy was infectious, pulling him out of his own head and into the moment. Maybe this world wasn’t his, but with Myst leading the way, it didn’t seem quite so insurmountable.

There were a lot of voices yelling, calling Myst to look in every direction at once, smile, asking who her date was.

“Don’t any of you watch sports?” Myst laughed, a shimmering sound which made George’s spine tingle. “This is my good friend George Dennis, captain of the Australian rugby union team, you heathens.”

The intensity of the flashbulbs increased again, making George blink. Questions were being yelled at him now, asking how he knew Myst, were they dating?

“Good friends, you jackals,” Myst said, her smile never wavering. “Leave the man alone. George, let’s move on in. There’ll be someone else arriving in a minute and I’m sure there’s someone on the red carpet waiting to shove a microphone in my face.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and nudged lightly, and he turned instinctively in the direction she indicated.

A tall, beautiful Black woman in a sparkling lime-green suit was waiting for them, a TV camera at her shoulder and a microphone in her hand. Myst’s smile widened, turning a little more genuine, George thought, as the woman stepped into their path.

“Rebekah. Good to see you.”

“It is faaahbulous to seeyouagain, Myst my dahling,“ the woman drawled. “And who is this delicious hunk on your arm? A little bird in my ear is murmuring he’s one of your fellow convicts, I mean Australians?”

George grinned, liking the woman immediately. “George Dennis, ma’am. A pleasure to meet you.” Gallantly he bowed over her hand, brushing the ghost of a kiss against her knuckles and winking at her as he straightened back up.

“My word,” Rebekah murmured appreciatively, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders. “Myst, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

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