Page 69 of Try Hard
“They do too,” Hurley said, gesturing to one particular group, and I saw that they were all wearing shirts with Eve’s name and face on.
“Oh.” I smirked at Eve. “You didn’t offer me your face on a shirt.”
She rolled her eyes, hugging me tighter into her. “You can have my face on whatever you want, but I don’t actually go around handing those out, you know?”
“Should I ask where they got them?”
She growled, leaning in close to my ear, and the whole thing felt overwhelming and electric. “No.”
I laughed, feeling more than a little breathless, and I didn’t miss the looks Hurley and Brooke were exchanging. I pretended I did.
“Maybe Eve will get you one for your birthday,” Hurley suggested, their tone light but their expression mischievous.
Eve looked at them with narrowed eyes. “I don’t give people gifts with my face all over them. My ego’s not that big, thank you.”
Hurley laughed. “But if it’s what the woman wants…”
I laughed, surprised at how easy it was to be around Eve’s friends. Of course the people she was close with were wonderful, but I’d been around lots of wonderful people. Everything just felt better with Eve by my side—even when the rest of the team showed up and I was introduced to them and their knowing, accusing, and excited glances.
And, when Eve took a step away to pull her joggers off and reveal the shorts of her kit, I was silently begging none of them saw the way my gaze followed the movement, catching on the hint of a tattoo on her upper thigh.
Chapter Twenty
Eve
Playing while I knew Ophelia was watching was a new experience entirely. Her hair constantly reminded me of the most mesmerising fire, but, running down the field with her eyes on me felt like I was the one who’d been set alight. I loved it.
Even when I wasn’t in possession of the ball or holding up a scrum, I could feel her gaze on me. Every break in play was an opportunity to look her way, find her eyes glued to me, and drink in how beautiful and alive she looked. As far as I could tell, even when Brooke was talking to her, she was mostly looking at me—which I knew Brooke wouldn’t mind. Eight years since she’d met Hurley and the two of them still couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. They were the poster children for deep, happy love, and I relished seeing it.
I loved seeing Ophelia chatting with my friends. She was still so completely herself, but she fit in, they got her. It felt like she belonged there—with me, with my friends.
Luna nudged me as we set up for what would likely be the last scrum of the game and I reluctantly pulled my gaze away from the proud, secret smile Ophelia was giving me.
She laughed as she took in the look on my face. “I’m glad you’re one of those people for whom falling in love spurs you on, rather than those people who can’t get their heads in the game as soon as a pretty person enters it.”
I moved around her so I could look up into her face without the glare of the floodlights. “The double standards are ridiculous in this place.”
Luna gasped theatrically. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
I shot her a dark look as I took my spot. She rewarded me with another laugh. As if we all hadn’t been perfectly patient with her game of fifteen fumbles the first time she brought her girlfriend around.
The two of them were another gorgeous couple. The team seemed to be full of them. And Luna brought Avery to almost every game these days, managing to not get so distracted she fumbled the ball every time she touched it.
The scrum started and bodies pressed into mine with force, my own colliding with those around me. I couldn’t help wondering how it felt for Ophelia to watch. My mum had always said that, aside from actual injuries, scrums worried her the most when she was watching a match. Was it the same way for Ophelia? Or did it feel like being in them did—a rush?
The final minutes were a blur of pushing the ball forward and keeping it in play until the clock ran out. We didn’t squeeze in a final try, but knowing we’d won with Ophelia watching felt like we had.
The second the game was over, I beelined for her. Ophelia was the only thought in my head, like a beacon calling me home. She was cheering like we’d won the World Cup. Seeing her there, pulling her up into my arms, and spinning us around together felt like we had.
She squealed—a sound I was certain she’d think was undignified, but I loved it. “You’re supposed to be celebrating with your team,” she told me.
“In a sec,” I called back, inhaling the scent of her as I stopped spinning and simply held her close. “I celebrate with them every week.”
She breathed a laugh, holding me just as tightly. “You win every week, do you? No beating the famous Eve Archer, even in retirement.”
She was joking but she didn’t sound surprised by the idea. It was as if she really thought I was good enough that my team won every match. Rugby didn’t work like that, but I couldn’t help the happiness that sparked my insides from her belief in me.
“We do not,” I told her. “Seems like you’ll have to be here every week, good luck charm that you are.”
