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No, Lee was just fine right here—between Oliver and Lewis, with a couple of tables and plenty of polished wood floor to separate him from Alex. Polite distance counted as progress, didn’t it?
Afternoon heat presseddown on the pitch as the production crew set up for the commercial, directed by a mouthy bloke in his forties who was clad in a baseball cap and sunglasses. Lee wasn’t sure on what basis Hops & Heritage Brewing had been chosen as the team’s main sponsor when encouraging drinking among fans wasn’t exactly on message. Sure, they were advertising non-alcoholic beer, but that was a fig leaf at best.
Money talked, it seemed. Good thing the biggest offer hadn’t come from Philip Morris or Japan Tobacco.
“Andaction!” the director called.
Kieran led the team through a series of drills and sprints while cameras were swarming around them. Once the director and crew were satisfied with the amount of footage, the team was motioned over to a cooler filled with ice cubes and the sponsor’s non-alcoholic beer. Lee grabbed a bottle, condensation cool against his palm, and took an exaggerated sip as a camera zoomed in on his face. The beer wasn’t entirely terrible, at least.
“Look fresh, folks!” the director barked out. “All the taste, none of the buzz!”
Lee took another sip, then followed instructions to toast some of the other players—clinking bottles with Oliver, forming a little triangle with Oliver and Jeff as they threw their heads back in fake laughter, beers raised. Alex was motioned over to join them a moment later which Lee should have expected given that Alex’s looks, charm, and aristocratic upbringing made him a fan favourite. They stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing and carefully not looking at each other even as they toasted to victory, team spirit, and celebrating responsibly.
It set the tone for the coming days.
By all appearances, Alex had been subjected to a similar intervention as Lee because he seemed perfectly content to skirt around Lee the same way Lee skirted around him with hardly even a nod. Whenever Kieran paired them up, they worked in concentrated silence, and during matches, they managed to avoid clashing too openly when facing off against each other and succeeded in the occasional one-two when on the same team.
Maybe you got it wrong.
It was possible. But Lee wasn’t sure it really mattered at this point—they wouldn’t become the best of mates even if it turned out they’d gotten their signals crossed. That ship had set sail years ago, so far gone by now that it wasn’t even visible anymore on the horizon.
So what if Kieran seemed to watch them closely? So what if they lagged behind everyone else during an exercise that required navigating a blindfolded partner through an obstacle course using only verbal cues? Someone had to come in last, and anyway, there were eleven players on a team.
Lee didn’t see why it had to be a problem.
3
The team hotel near Alicante seemed undecided in its aspirations—one half of it wanted to be a massive old castle while the other veered towards clean, modern lines that abhorred any unnecessary ornamentation. Palm trees dotted the surrounding landscape, barren hills stretching in the distance, the lush green of a golf course just off to the side. The scent of orange blossoms and jasmine mingled with the warm, briny scent of the nearby sea.
Under a hot afternoon sun, Lee wrestled his luggage from the team bus and joined the parade of players and entourage wending their way into an air-conditioned lobby decked out in white and red leather with hotel staff lined up to welcome them. Kieran stood by the reception desk, chatting with the manager.
“Dibs on the first shower,” Lee told Oliver.
“Actually…” A hesitant look slid across Oliver’s face, and he lowered his voice. “Listen, just in case—keep your cool, yeah?”
Okay, cryptic. “In case of what?”
Oliver glanced around before his attention returned to Lee. “Kieran decided to take charge of rooming arrangements. Thinks it’s a chance to mix it up, improve the team dynamic.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“Oliver Bramwell.” Lee leaned forward. “You’re our bloody captain. It is yourdutyto—”
“I tried,” Oliver interrupted. “Told him people might find it more relaxing, easier to unwind, if we stick with the familiar arrangements—didn’t resonate. He said—”
“Everyone!” Kieran’s holler cut into whatever else Oliver might have added. “Gather ‘round, please!”
With trepidation weighing heavy in his stomach, Lee turned to find Kieran at the centre of the lobby, wearing his usual bright smile and a T-shirt that sported the words ‘Yes, you can!’ They were declared by a green leaf identified as an encourage mint.
Along with his teammates, Lee shuffled closer, but made sure to keep at the back of the group. If Kieran was about to announce what Oliver had implied he might… Bloody hell. Lee was perfectly content with the equilibrium he and Alex had struck—steer clear of each other whenever they could and limit any exchange to the utmost necessary bits when they couldn’t. Rooming together for a month, and longer if they survived the group stage? It was a blueprint for disaster.
“All right, lads,” Kieran continued, voice raised to carry. “Here’s the thing. We’re all human, right, and we like predictability. It’s bloody nice to hang out in your comfort zone, isn’t it? Well, I am here to push you a little.”
Clearly, Lee wasn’t the only one with rather mixed feelings about being pushed—there was a noticeable ripple of discomfort that ran through the group.
Kieran’s grin turned slightly mischievous. “I can see your enthusiasm, lads. Keep up the good work.” He paused to ensure that he had their undivided attention. “I took the liberty of sorting the rooming assignments, mostly on the grounds of who I think could combine well on the pitch.”
