The look on Jackson’s face tells me he wants to say more, but then he changes his mind. My spidey senses tell me there’s something brewing amongst the senior leadership team, some big secret I’m not supposed to know. Except Jackson quickly schools his face back into the open, friendly, approachable expression he usually wears and the moment passes.
I’m close to asking what’s going on, but if he wanted to tell me he would. We’re friends, aren’t we? I should just ask.
But there’s a part of me that’s a little afraid. I’m afraid it’s about the future, about next year, and I don’t know how I feel about that. I still get asked in every interview about whether I’m going to retire at the end of the season, and although I always brush it off and give an answer full of stock phrases that give absolutely nothing away, the truth is that I don’t know. It’s been so much harder this year, harder on my body, harder to deal with the chaos that Harper’s brought to the team, harder to stay focused.
And for all Harper’s chaos, his results have been incredible. Even if Elijah recovers before the end of the season, they might choose to keep Harper anyway. They might even select him over Elijah for next season. It’s unthinkable.
The only person I want to talk about this with is Elise, and she’s not here. She’s also got so much on her plate already that I don’t want to add to her burden. It feels like Jackson and I are building a real friendship, but he’s still the son of my boss and I clearly have trust issues.
‘Ready for bench press?’ I ask. I want to get this workout done so I can face whatever shitshow Harper has waiting in the motorhome while I’ve still got the will to live.
But, when Jackson and I are done and I eventually get back to the motorhome, Johannes is in the living room, and Hendersohm catering containers are scattered across the floor. They’ve both got their feet on the coffee table and they’re playing videogames on full volume.
‘Really?’ I ask, wiping my feet on the team-branded welcome mat. I know I sound like a nag, but I can’t hide the annoyance in my tone. It’s one thing being out and about with Johannes, but another bringing the competition into our current home where he could catch a glimpse of sensitive team documents or overhear any kind of calls.
‘Nice to see you too, Kian,’ Johannes replies, unconcerned.
‘Nothing against you, Johannes, but just wondering if you could maybe take him to puppy-training classes, cos I’m sick of living with someone who isn’t house-trained.’
‘I’m right here, you know,’ Harper says, like I could possibly ignore him.
‘I’m going to take a nap before the strategy meeting. Is there any chance you could keep it down in here for the next hour?’ It’s a long shot, but as I’m being nice enough to ask, maybe he’ll be polite enough to oblige.
Harper says, ‘Yeah, sure,’ but neither of them is looking at me as they continue to compete in whatever pointless bullshit shooting game they’re playing. The volume stays exactly where it was.
For fuck’s sake.
I’m so bloody close to losing it with him.
ChapterFourteen
Harper
Ihave entered a whole new level of petty. I set an alarm for ten minutes before Kian’s usually goes off – he sticks rigidly to a schedule so it’s not difficult to notice. I make a mushroom and ham omelette and a cup of hot blackcurrant, making sure to create as much mess as possible, and then I plonk myself down on the sofa in the lounge and wait. Anticipation tingles in my stomach, spreading to my whole body.
Just like clockwork, at 6.28am, Kian emerges from his bedroom to begin his 6.30am yoga. At first, because it’s still dark in here, he doesn’t see me. But when he turns the light on, he jumps out of his skin.
It’s hilarious.
‘You wanker! What the hell?’
He’s growly, his morning voice thick and rough. Christ, it’s almost enough to have me sporting a semi. If I could get him to say my name right now I’d probably cum in my pyjama bottoms.
I say nothing, just kick my feet up on the coffee table as I take another bite of my toast.
‘Do you mind?’ he asks irritably, from where he’s unrolling his purple yoga mat in our living room. He’s wearing an oversized vest and the tightest shorts I’ve ever seen. They cling to the tree trunks he calls thighs and I’m mesmerised by the way his quads clench when he’s annoyed.
‘Do I mind what?’ I play dumb because it’s just so much fun to see him wound up.
‘This is not a spectator sport.’ It comes out in his best teacher voice, but it doesn’t deter me.
‘Coulda fooled me,’ I say, eyeing his junk in those tight, tight shorts.
This is going to fill my wank bank for years. I’m not giving up the opportunity to see him do downward dog for anything.
‘You’re not moving.’
‘Thank you, Captain Obvious.’ I tuck my feet under myself and get cosy, grease dripping out of my folded omelette and onto my fingers. I lick off the drips and hear him take in a sharp breath.
