“I still can’t believe you’re Frank Armstrong’s daughter and that you hid it from us.” Carina came in behind Brooklyn with an empty glass and a plate of crisps. “But you got us VIP seats for the match, so you’re forgiven. All hail nepotism.”
Brooklyn laughed.
We were pre-gaming at my flat before the match this afternoon. It was too early to drink (though some would argue it was never too early to drink), so we’d whipped up mocktails and noshed on several meals’ worth of snacks.
“Sorry again for not telling you guys earlier,” Brooklyn said, a tinge of guilt coloring her voice. “But people get kind of weird when they find out who my father is. They think they can use me to get access to the players or something even though I’ve never met half of them before my internship.” Brooklyn wrinkled her nose. “I guess I should’ve known that wouldn’t be a problem with you guys, given your ties to Asher and Vincent.”
“Don’t feel bad. I understand.” I tried to ignore the prickles of pain in my leg. “I’m the same way about Vincent.”
I was taken aback when I first learned about Brooklyn’s family tie to Blackcastle, but I wasn’t mad at her for not divulging the information. We hadn’t known each other for that long, and I hadn’t asked about her background. When I did bring it up, she easily confirmed the truth, so I didn’t bear her any ill will.
The prickles intensified.
I sat down at the kitchen table, trying to pay attention to my friends’ conversation while simultaneously trying not to throw up. I felt a little lightheaded, though that might be from the drinks.
Brooklyn said they were mocktails, but I wouldn’t put it past her to slip a splash of rum into the glasses.
I scrolled through my phone for a distraction and pulled up my last set of messages with Asher.
Good luck with the match today
Can’t wait to see you kick ass on the pitch <3
ASHER
Can’t wait to see you, period
ASHER
We’ll celebrate later tonight. Just the two of us ;)
A bubble of anticipation floated past my aches. Asher and I didn’t see each other in person as often as we did over the summer, but we exchanged daily texts and calls. It was almost as good as face-to-face interactions.
Almost.
Despite the exhaustion weighing on my limbs, I was excited to spend some time alone with him tonight. He always recharged me.
“Maybe I should become a Premier League intern,” Carina mused. “But I’m guessing internships don’t pay much.”
“Afraid not,” Brooklyn said apologetically. “But if you need someone to whip up a personalized nutrition plan, I’m your girl.” She handed me my alcohol-free mojito and glanced at the clock. “Shit. I didn’t realize it was so late already. I have to go. Traffic is going to be killer because of the match.”
“Ugh, I have to go too. I have a tutoring session in half an hour.” In the absence of a steady side gig, Carina occasionally tutored secondary school students in maths. “Scarlett, we’ll see you at the match later?”
“Yep.” I forced myself to stand and help as we piled the empty glasses and dishes into the sink. The prickles shot up to my hips and down to my toes. “You guys go ahead. I’ll take care of the dishes later.”
Brooklyn frowned. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. I loved my friends, but I needed to lie down as soon as possible. My energy was running dangerously low, and it was barely noon.
It was a testament to my acting skills that they didn’t question me or pick up on the sweat drenching my back.
After they left, I collapsed into a chair again. It didn’t seem like the pain pill was working. If it was, why did I—
Someone knocked on the door.
“Scarlett?” Brooklyn’s voice drifted through the cheap wood. “I’m so sorry, but I think I left my bag in the kitchen. Can I grab it?”
A headache crept from the base of my skull up to my temples.
I scanned the kitchen until my eyes snagged on the purple tote sitting on the chair across from mine.
“Coming!” I yelled. My voice sounded unnaturally scratchy.
I blinked away the spots in my vision and grabbed her bag. I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, my steps sluggish. My flat had never seemed so endless.
I faltered beneath a wave of wooziness, but I shook it off and soldiered on. I just needed to make it to the door and hand Brooklyn her bag. Then I could lie down, close my eyes, and breathe.
It was a sound plan in theory, and it almost succeeded—that was, until my body decided it’d had enough of my plans and mutinied.
It seemed to happen in slow motion.
The bag slipped from my grasp.
My legs buckled.
My vision blurred.
And I crashed to the floor, my mind stretching out the fall so long it almost seemed graceful.
