Page 17 of Forbid It

I grin. “That’s my favorite too.”

The mom gestures with her phone. “Is it okay⁠—?”

“Of course.” I open my arm for Wren to tuck in beside me. It’s a little awkward with me still sitting in the first class bubble seat, but we make do.

I feel her body shaking under the arm I’ve placed around her shoulder, and I give her an encouraging pat on the back as she steps away.

A flight attendant hurries down the aisle to our little crowd. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be up here unless you have a first class ticket.”

“Say thank you Wren,” Wren’s Mom says.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

Wren waves goodbye as the flight attendant ushers them back up the aisle.

I readjust in my seat, the little spike of adrenaline making my heart pound. I love meeting my fans, especially the cute little ones, but I do want to spend the rest of my flight with my headphones in and a meditation playlist in my ears.

The flight attendant hurries back to me. “I’m so sorry about that, Miss Hamilton. They shouldn’t have been back here.”

“It’s all good, don’t worry about it,” I reassure her with a wave of my hand.

“I won’t let it happen again,” she insists.

I smile, but don’t say anything. Even if someone wakes me up from a nap, I’ll probably still take the picture.

7

ROBBIE

I love drills. The rhythm of repeating the same thing over and over again until my legs shake and sweat drips down my back. I like to get lost in the process, switch my brain off from any distractions, and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I do not like chatting while I do it.

“So King, you played for England, yeah?” Colby, one of the leftbacks’, asks.

“Wales.”

If my dad heard anyone seriously ask if I’d play for any country other than God’s own, he would blow a gasket. My mum’s half-English, so I had scouts try to poach me as a teenager, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be playing in red. My teammates at the time thought I was insane. England’s a bigger nation and, historically, a better team, but I love my country. Even if I have technically spent over two thirds of my life living anywhere else.

“So you’ll definitely be playing next year then?” Colby asks.

I grind my jaw. I still haven’t had the call from Geraint, the Wales team manager, and World Cup tryouts are on the horizon. My UK agent reassures me it will come, and I’d normally agree. I’m easily the best player on the national team. Or, I was. But maybe my transfer to a different league is just one final step before I leap into the dark abyss of obscurity. Maybe they will forget about me.

Anxiety gnaws at my gut, and I almost stumble on the ladder I’m supposed to be jumping up. Paul, the assistant coach, blows the whistle, and I swallow against the response I was about to stumble through. I walk away from Colby and head over to Dennis, who eagerly hands me a water bottle.

“Cheers.”

My teammates linger nearby as we take a short break, but I don’t join in on their conversations. We’ve played a couple of games together now and been around each other in practice, but apart from Santi, I barely know these guys. I could probably make more of an effort, but getting any closer just solidifies that I’m here to stay and that they need me to perform. I close my eyes as I gulp my water, eager to shake off the odd tightness in my chest.

I’ll get the call.

“How’s the leg?” Paul asks.

I squeeze the rest of the bottle over my hot face before I turn to Paul with a clipped, “Fine.”

It is fine. It was slightly tight this morning, and I didn’t hide it well enough. Unfortunately for me, the only one who noticed was Paul, who immediately ushered me in to see the Athletic Trainer, before letting me on the pitch. As if I haven’t spent every day since my injury doing everything I can to get my leg back in the condition it used to be in.