Chapter 2: A Whispered Walk Back
The vibration died under his thumb. The screen went black, a tiny, profound silence in the roar of the city. He slid the dead phone into his pocket. It felt like shedding a weight.
Mia’s smile was slow, triumphant. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The first real thing you’ve done all tour.” She flagged the bartender, ordered two glasses of something amber and strong. “Now we celebrate.”
The hour that followed was a delicate unraveling. The whiskey was smooth fire. The conversation leapt from the ridiculous pressures of their respective worlds—the brutal scrutiny of his bowling average, the absurdity of her last photoshoot involving live octopuses—to fragments of life before the cameras and the crowds. He talked about growing up in Kent, the smell of damp grass, the sheer, uncomplicated joy of just playing. She spoke about Byron Bay, surfing before dawn, and the freedom of building a brand on her own terms, a glint in her eye when she mentioned her subscribers.
“They want a fantasy,” she said, swirling the ice in her glass. “I give them a version of one. But it’s mine. The control is the point. You should try having some.”
He laughed, the whiskey warm in his veins. “Control is all I have.”
“No. Discipline isn’t control. It’s obedience. There’s a difference.” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial brush against his ear. “Control is choosing to walk to the edge and look down. Just to see what it feels like.”
Her proximity was a live current. The scent of her, the easy drape of her body next to his, the way her green eyes held his without flinching—it was a different kind of contest, and he felt himself dangerously out of his depth yet wanting to play.
He checked his wrist out of habit, but his watch was back in the hotel room. The phantom schedule tugged at him. “I should go.”
“You haven’t finished your drink.”
“If I finish that drink, I won’t be able to walk a straight line, let alone find my hotel.”
“So don’t walk a straight line.” She shrugged, a magnificent, graceful roll of her shoulders. “The city’s more interesting crooked.”
He stood up, the world tilting pleasantly for a second before righting itself. The buzz was a low hum in his limbs, muting the alarms in his head. He placed a hand on the cool glass railing to steady himself. “Mia. This was… unreal. Thank you.”
She stood too, unfolding to her full, impressive height, leaving mere inches between them. The harbor lights danced in her eyes. “It doesn’t have to end because your imaginary clock says so.”
The challenge was back. It was in the set of her jaw, the slight, provoking tilt of her head. The restlessness he’d felt in the sterile hotel room roared back, amplified by the whiskey and her unwavering gaze. All the discipline, the early nights, the monitored meals—it felt like a cage he’d willingly locked himself inside.
He acted without thinking. One hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. She didn’t pull away. She inhaled, sharp and expectant.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was release. The pent-up tension of weeks, the frustration, the desire for something unscripted, poured into it. Her mouth was warm and tasted of whiskey and mint. She responded instantly, her hands coming up to fist in the front of his jumper, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, a greedy, exploring thing that made the city drop away.
Then she bit his lower lip. Not a playful nip, but a sharp, startling press of teeth that walked the line between pleasure and pain.
He gasped against her mouth, a shock of sensation shooting straight down his spine.
She released him, her breath coming fast. A faint, smug smile touched her swollen lips. “So you are in there,” she murmured, her voice rough. “Under all that training.”
He could still feel the sting. It was an anchor in the whiskey haze. He touched his lip, came away with no blood, just the vivid memory of the pressure.
“Walk me back?” he heard himself say. The words felt both inevitable and insane.
She studied him, her gaze flicking from his eyes to his mouth. “Your hotel’s a fortress. Lots of eyes.”
“I know a side door. Used for deliveries.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “Of course you do. You’re full of surprises, Josh the Cricketer.” She linked her arm through his, her body a warm, solid line against him. “Let’s get you home. Or at least to the fortress gate.”
They left the glowing warmth of the bar for the elevator, its mirrored walls reflecting their flushed, charged silence. The descent was a plummet back towards reality. In the sterile lobby, she collected a thin silk scarf from the coat check, wrapping it loosely around her neck.
The street air was cooler, a relief. They walked without hurry, their footsteps echoing in the canyon between buildings. The bustling crowds had thinned. He led her through a series of narrower, darker streets, away from the main thoroughfares, using a vague internal map formed from countless team bus arrivals.
“This feels suitably clandestine,” she said, her voice bouncing off the brick walls. An alley cat shot past a dumpster. “Very spy-versus-spy.”
“Just avoiding the main lobby. The night manager knows my face.”
“And what would he think, seeing you with me?”
“He’d think I was an idiot. A lucky idiot, but an idiot all the same.”
She laughed, the sound rich in the quiet alley. “Honest. I like it.”
They emerged onto a quieter street behind the hotel. The service entrance was a steel door lit by a single, buzzing fluorescent light. A couple of industrial bins stood sentinel. It was a world away from the shimmering rooftop.
They stopped in the pool of weak light. The hotel loomed above them, a grid of windows, many dark. His room was up there somewhere, empty and waiting.
The recklessness of the night condensed in this dank, concrete space. He had a powered-off phone in his pocket, a stinging lip, and a world-class athlete’ curfew shattered into pieces.
Mia leaned back against the cold steel door, looking up at him. The confidence was still there, but it was softer now, tinged with something like curiosity. “So. This is the drawbridge. You going in?”
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. To follow her into the elevator, to his room, to let this night spiral completely out of any controllable orbit. The image was visceral, overpowering.
But the bite on his lip was a phantom pulse. A warning and a promise.
“If I go in now,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended, “I’m not sure I make it to training tomorrow.”
“And that’s the line?” She didn’t move closer. She just watched him, letting the question hang in the damp air.
“It’s one of them. Yeah.”
She nodded, as if she’d expected that. She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw where his stubble was coming in. “You should go in, then. Alone.”
There was no mockery in it. Just a statement.
He caught her hand, held it. “This wasn’t a game to you, was it?”
“Everything’s a bit of a game, Josh. But no.” She squeezed his fingers. “It was real. That’s why you should go. Before the consequences get real, too.”
He understood. She wasn’t rejecting him. She was giving him an out he was too tangled to take for himself. The kindness of it was more devastating than any seduction.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. They stood like that for a long moment, breathing the same air in the yellow light.
“Can I see you again?” he whispered.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her green eyes were unreadable. “You know where I am. Online. Everywhere.” A small, wry twist of her lips. “But your phone’s off. So you’ll have to remember me the old-fashioned way.”
She kissed him again, briefly, softly this time. A goodbye.
Then she turned and walked back down the alley, her silhouette merging with the shadows until she was gone.
Josh stood for a full minute, the cold from the steel door seeping into his back. He fumbled the keycard from his pocket, swiped it at the service entrance. The light flashed green with a harsh click.
He slipped inside into the humming, dimly lit bowels of the hotel. The air smelled of laundry detergent and loneliness. As the heavy door swung shut behind him, cutting off the night, the only proof any of it had happened was the steady, aching throb on his lip.