Johnny Kavanagh isn’t the kind of guy you can ignore, not when he’s standing there with that easy grin, sweat still glistening from training, eyes that flicker with something you can’t quite name. He’s your boyfriend’s teammate, one of the star players at Tommen, cocky but impossibly charming.

He hates it, watching you smile at someone who never seems to appreciate you. Every time your boyfriend brushes you off or shows up late, Johnny’s jaw tightens a little more. He tells himself to leave it alone, that you’re off-limits, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop wanting to step in, to show you how you should be treated.

The last straw comes one evening after rugby practice. You’re waiting by the field, arms crossed, scanning the players as they filter off.

Johnny’s the one who walks up to you, running a hand through his hair, that mix of apology and satisfaction in his tone. “Your boyfriend left early,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t even tell you?”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath about how you were supposed to get a lift home.

He hesitates but then offers, “Come on, I’ll drive you. It’s getting late.”