It’s followed by congratulations from all the guys, hugging me and patting me on the back. “Well done, Ruby. Well deserved.”
And then we all turn to Miles. “Your turn.”
He stares down at the envelope for what seems like hours.
“Actually,” he says eventually, folding the envelope in half and stuffing it in his pocket, “I’ve decided to go to the pub.”
CHAPTER 30
Miles
“Do you owe someone money or something?”
Ruby and I glance up simultaneously to find Eddie peering over his bifocals at us, drying cloth draped over his shoulder.
“What?”
He points at the table. “You two have been sitting in here staring at that envelope for half an hour. You haven’t said a word.”
“I didn’t realize we were under surveillance,” I grumble.
“Don’t give me that,” he gripes back, his mouth curving down under the droop of his mustache. “I can count on my fingers how many times you’ve come in here and not said a word. And the answer is none. So go on. What’s in that envelope?”
I try to speak, hearing my own mouth form the words, even if I don’t have the volume.
The simple—too-long-didn’t-read—answer is my handicap listing.
The more complicated version is that this envelope contains the evidence of my hard work since my accident. Since I had to relearn how to walk. Returning to a ten-goal handicap has been my sole focus.
I’ve allowed for no distractions.
I’ve busted my arse. Played every tournament I could. Worked the Flyers harder than they’ve ever been worked. Spent the off-season in Argentina training with the best of the best.
When the last handicap listing came out in January, I finally made it to nine after a long year at eight. It’s highly likely that’s where I’ve stayed, especially after the disaster in Hampshire. The EPA thinks I’m not ready, and I’ll go to ten next year. But next year isn’t good enough.
I want that ten now. I want it back after it was stolen from me. I want it for England’s Cup, like I had last time.
So it all comes down to what’s in that envelope. If I put off opening it a little longer, I can still pretend the dream’s alive.
I stare at it again, then back at Eddie. I swallow hard. “It’s my future.”
It’s all testament to Ruby that she doesn’t laugh or call me melodramatic, like my siblings would. She just slips her hand gently over mine.
Eddie’s gaze bounces between the pair of us. “Are you trying to tell me you’re pregnant?”
Oddly enough, as someone who’s actively avoided getting anyone pregnant since the first time I had sex, the idea of Ruby being pregnant is something I could actually get behind. Alex has one with another on the way. Max is around all the time. The idea of building a little family suddenly seems quite appealing, even if I am getting ahead of myself.
Ruby, on the other hand, lets out a very vocal, horrified laugh. “No, I am not.” Then as her patience officially runs out, she snaps, “Miles, just fucking open the envelope.”
I exhale shakily.
“There’s nothing in there to worry about.” She reaches over and picks it up. “If you’ve gone to ten, we celebrate. If you haven’t, we still celebrate because you’re having a phenomenalseason and we’re only halfway through.” Then she turns to Eddie and hands it to him. “Would you do the honors?”
“You want me to open it?”
“Neither of us seems capable,” I grumble, though my insides churn.
“All right,” he says, and rips it open with significantly less care than I would have.
