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“Is it fair to say, then, that you are not close?”
Alex must have looked mildly panicked because Kieran tapped his microphone. “Can I just remind everyone to please keep your questions relevant to what we’re all here for—football?”
Unhappy murmurs of acquiescence from the assembled crowd of reporters.
A few questions followed that centred on their strategy against France, on strengths and weaknesses, on whether Finley would recover from a mild training injury in time for the match. Alex let Kieran and Oliver handle most of the questions and only chimed in once he was asked directly about his on-field chemistry with Lee—quite the evolution after their last Premier League encounter had led to a hotly debated penalty, wasn’t it?
“True.” Alex let his gaze sweep over the journalists and their microphones, seated in neat rows in a space that had all the charm of a small-town petrol station. He cracked a grin that didn’t feel wholly wrong. “When Kieran assigned us to room together, it took some five minutes before we found our footing. We have, though. At this point, I consider Lee one of my closest mates, and I guess that translates on the pitch.”
One of my closest mates who also happens to give me orgasms, and vice versa. Alex didn’t say that part.
“It is quite amazing to see the rapport Alex and Lee have built over these weeks here in Spain.” Oliver’s face was perfectly straight, only his eyes hinting at silent amusement. “We’re just waiting for them to start finishing each other’s sentences, honestly.”
Another journalist was called on and introduced himself before he addressed Alex. “Given what’s happening at home—how do you keep your mind on the game?”
It was a fair question, so Alex countered Kieran’s look with a tiny nod before he turned back to the journalist. “The way I see it, I can only control certain things in life. How I handle distractions is something I control, what’s happening at home is not. When I accepted Kieran’s invitation to join this team, I made an implicit promise that at least right now, there is nothing more important. I intend to fulfil that promise.”
“What if your parents want you home?”
Alex kept his smile in place. “I represent England on the world stage. My parents understand what an honour that is.”
As if.
“As a matter of fact, the accusations against the Duke of Eastwyck suggest that maybe he wouldn’t understand what an honour it is to represent England’s best interests.”
“I’m sorry—was that a question?” While Alex had aimed for a light tone, a hint of snark might have crept into it.
“All right, everyone!” Oliver stepped in before another reporter could raise their hand. “I think this is about all we’ve got time for today, so thank you, everyone. We’ll see many of you at our press conference before the match tomorrow—Finley McAllister will join Kieran and me for that one.”
When Oliver got up, Alex followed suit. More questions flew at him, and he ignored them, keeping his head high as he filed out of the room between Oliver and Kieran. As soon as they were safe in the car that would take them back to the team hotel, he sagged into the backseat and closed his eyes. “Man, that sucked.”
“You did well,” Kieran told him. “It’s tough, being in the spotlight for the wrong reasons.”
“Maybe I could just slowly stab my eye with a pen next time.” Alex exhaled. “Thank you both for the backup in there, by the way.”
“That’s what we’re here for.” Oliver’s tone implied that it was nothing special.
“Well, I’ve been taught that” —Alex let his voice go crisp and precise— “in the grand tapestry of life, one can trust only the stitches one’s own hand has sewn.”
“Being an earl isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, huh?” Kieran asked lightly, and Alex snorted.
“It’s a great conversation starter at parties. Which, you know—I doubt my parents will host one of those anytime soon.”
“Oh no,” Oliver drawled. “Think of all the champagne you’ll be missing out on.”
“Tragic,” Alex agreed.
“Would you like us to raise some money for you?” Oliver asked, and Alex nodded.
“That would be much appreciated.”
“You know,” Kieran told Oliver, “I don’t remember you being quite this sarcastic.”
“It’s the company I keep,” Oliver said.
They passed the hotel gate and turned into the driveway, the familiar castle-meets-modern-architecture structure just up ahead. When the car stopped, Kieran hopped out first and led the way into the lobby, where he turned left to join the coaching staff in reviewing some footage. Alex and Oliver turned right, heading for the lifts, and Alex caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirrored wall. He looked pale in spite of his tan.
“Hey, just to let you know…” Oliver cleared his throat. “If you ever want to talk—aboutanything…I’m here, yeah?” To his credit, he sounded only marginally uncomfortable, none of that matey lad vibe a lot of footballers projected. He might just have a point, too.
