Page 85 of Almost Ours

“Did he tell Josh to stay away from me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“What did Josh say to him? When he told him to back off?”

Emma looks back towards the pitch. “That he wasn’t planning on fucking around with you.”

Right.

Am I stupid for thinking that might mean he would take me seriously if he were to take me at all?

Josh has given me very little indication that he sees me as anything more than a friend.

We spend loads of time together, pretty much all the time we can, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he just likes having someone to hang around with. Maybe I do too. Maybe we bonded over Bernardo trying to eat his toe and I’ve somehow turned that into a love story because I’m an idiot—No.

Come on, Ruby.

He asked your brother if you’re single.

The same Josh who only fully laughs with me. Who relaxes around me. He is eager to see me. The same Josh who looked like I’d fried every useful part of his brain when I climbed between his legs and put my hands around his neck.

I look across the pitch again feeling every part of me come alive.

He asked Oscar if I was single.

“Why didn’t Oscar tell me?” I demand.

Emma lifts her shoulder. “You know why. He didn’t want to meddle.”

I bark out a laugh. “Oh, piss off. He’s always meddling. He just didn’t want me getting notions.”

“Well, yeah.” Emma turns enough that she can see my face. “There’s that too.” She looks over the rim of her cup. “Is it giving you notions?”

“No.” Yes.

“Liar,” She scoffs.

I elbow her for the smug look on her face, and we’re both giggling when Josh receives the ball near the touchline. A De Montfort player launches into the tackle, sliding in hard and catching him around the ankle before Josh has a chance to get the ball away.

His leg folds underneath him, twisting the rest of his body sideways so his shoulder hits the grass first and the side of his head smacks against the ground with a horrible thwack that carries all the way over to the fence.

“Oh my God!” I yell, reaching out to grip Emma’s arm. There’s a silence as the crowd watches him lying there, one arm trapped underneath his body and his face turned towards the grass.

He doesn’t get up.

I can’t bring myself to blink, scared I’ll miss it when he gets up, my body tight with tension.

Get up.

Please get up.

Oscar starts running towards him and one of the De Montfort players is nearby with both hands on his head, while the referee blows his whistle and waves towards the sideline.

I start to feel an intense wave of panic. “Why isn’t he getting up?”