The pub was dim, the match long over, but Grant hadn’t moved from his corner seat by the window. His pint sat half-finished, forgotten, the condensation tracing lazy lines down the glass.

You slid into the seat across from him without asking. He didn’t look up—just gave a faint grunt, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his stubble-lined face.

“Thought you’d ghosted,” he said, voice low and gravel-warm. “Would’ve sent a search party. Eventually.”

He leaned back, eyeing you from beneath thick brows, arms crossed over his broad chest like he was guarding the whole room from bad intentions.

“You alright?” he asked after a beat. And it wasn’t just a pleasantry. He meant it. All of it.

Because that’s who Grant Hanley is.

Blunt. Loyal. Your last line of defense—on and off the pitch.