Mia

“I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Jordan’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles had gone pale, like he might turn the car around the second he got the chance. He was my best friend, and if there was one thing about Jordan, it was that he never joked when it came to me.

“It’s not,” I admitted, leaning back against the passenger seat. “Honestly, I know it’s not, but I don’t have a choice here. I can’t lose my job over the past. Not when I’ve worked this hard to get here.”

Jordan shot me a look, his sandy-blonde hair falling into his face. He had that infuriating, casual kind of handsomeness people noticed without him even trying, but right now all I could see was the rage in his brown eyes.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, shifting gears. “The idea of you being around him, around them, makes me sick. That guy doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, Mia.”

I closed my eyes for a second, letting his words sink in. He didn’t even have to say Liam’s name. He never did. The hatred was always there in his tone, and it was the same hatred he had carried ever since that night years ago.

“Jordan…” I sighed. “I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m not broken. I’ve healed. Being near him doesn’t undo that.”

“You think you’ve healed, but you don’t see what I see. Every time his name comes up, you tense like you’re waiting to be punched.”

I forced a smile, more for him than for me. “That’s called muscle memory. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re too forgiving,” he shot back. “That’s why I worry.”

Lyra stirred inside me; her voice was soft. ‘He’s only saying what you won’t admit out loud.’

‘Not helping,’ I whispered back to her silently.

Jordan pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex, the giant banner of the national basketball team waving proudly at the entrance. My stomach sank without my permission.

“Promise me you’ll avoid him at all costs,” he said, killing the engine.

I let out a humourless laugh. “You know that’s not possible. He’s the captain. I can’t just…avoid him. That’s like trying to avoid the sun in the middle of July.”

His grip tightened around the wheel again before he finally exhaled. “Fine. Then promise me you'll call me every night. Update me, even if it’s just a two-minute call. I need to know you’re okay.”

I softened, leaning closer with a small smile. “I’ll try.”

“You better,” he muttered, before pulling me into a hug. For a second, I let go of myself, breathing in the familiar safety that only Jordan ever gave me.

When he finally let go, I stepped out of the car, smoothing down my jacket. He watched with the window down, eyes following me like he could shield me with just his stare.

“Thanks for driving me, Jordan.” I waved. “Go, before you get caught spying.”

“Don’t joke about that,” he said, though his lips curved faintly. “Remember what I said, Mia. Call me.”

I nodded, and only when he finally drove off did I let out the breath I had been holding.

*********

Before any big sporting event, press conferences like this served as the warm-up chance to lay out the national team’s plan and give the public a taste of what to expect. But because the players were practically treated like rare gems, the coach only approved one private national television interview with our Media house for a total of fifteen minutes, because apparently, they couldn't risk stressing them before their road trip.

“They should be here anytime soon.” The event coordinator informed me as I stepped into the hall.

“Thank you, sir,” I muttered, fumbling to gather my journal and pen, running through the questions I had scribbled down earlier in the car.

I spotted my photography team already set up and hurried over. “Are you ready, guys?”

“Yes, Carrot. Everything is set.” The lead photographer grinned over the rim of his coffee cup, and I sighed at the nickname.

“What about the lights? Do you need to test them on me before we begin?” I asked, eyeing the lamps stationed at different angles.

“You don’t have to worry, Mia. We’ve done this a thousand times. And even if something goes wrong, remember—it’s not live. We’ll edit before airing.” He softened his voice. “I know it’s your first sports interview, but it’s no different from the others. I know you’re nervous, sure, but you’re in control.”

Relief washed through me, and I managed a smile. “Thanks, James.”

Almost immediately, the door swung open and about fifteen young men filed in. They had different faces and different haircuts, but all wore the same team jacket. Then came the last one, running a hand through his hair, like he wanted everyone in the room to notice him.

The sight of him hit me like a punch I hadn’t prepared for. He had that tousled dark-brown hair that looked like he just rolled out of bed, but in a good way and piercing blue eyes that could probably cut glass. His broad shoulders filled his jacket precisely, and that tall, dominating frame of his made the door seem too small for him.

Of course, he had to look like that. Like the golden boy who never stumbled, never cracked, never had to pay for the damage he left behind. Typical Liam Montgomery, a walking proof that life had favourites.

After picking a seat next to his teammates, his eyes wandered around before landing right on me. For a second, he froze. Those blue eyes widened just slightly, like he couldn’t believe it was me standing there with my notepad clutched to my chest like a shield. Then the surprise melted into something else, something colder. A smirk tugged at his lips; one I remembered all too well.

I offered a small, fake smile and leaned forward, pretending to take notes. “Liam, thank you for agreeing to this interview. To begin, how is the team preparing for the Olympics, and what’s the mindset going in?” My voice was steady, though my heart was pounding from our proximity. “Do you think you have what it takes to win the gold this year?”

The cameras turned toward me, and Liam leaned back in his chair like I had just asked if he knew how to tie his own shoes.

“Of course we’re ready,” he said smoothly. “We’re the best team this country has ever seen. We don’t need luck; we just need the whistle to blow.”

The other teammates chuckled, impressed. But I wasn’t done.

“And what about discipline?” I pressed. “There are rumours about tension in the locker room. Care to comment on that?”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, but the smirk stayed. “Rumours are for people who don’t have real stories. Don't you have real stories, Reporter?”

I wanted to throw my pen at his stupid, perfect face. Instead, I frowned so hard my forehead ached. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but edited recording or not, cracking a joke like that was peak jerk behaviour. Unbelievable. All this time, and he still hadn’t changed one bit.

Before I could help it, the memories from my past came rushing back. The way my seventeen-year-old heart had practically melted every time I saw him in the high school gym. The way I thought he was untouchable, too good, too far above me. Until the party happened on the night that twisted everything, that showed me the ugly side of boys in jerseys. I never proved he was part of it, but I never forgot his face being the last one I saw before everything went dark.

“Well, we are done here,” I said, closing my book to allow other reporters to ask their questions.

When the press conference finally ended after a few more questions that Liam, for once, managed to answer seriously, I packed my recorder quickly, trying to leave before he got another chance to humiliate me. But of course, fate hated me. He blocked my path, standing so close I had to tilt my head to glare at him.

“You’ve changed,” he said, his voice lower now, his eyes scanning me with that infuriating arrogance. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “I can’t believe you’re still a jerk.”

His smirk widened, and I could tell he had something cruel coming up. “And I can’t believe you’re still this… stupid.”

Shocked beyond measure, I turned away from him and stomped out of the room.