You’d barely had time to settle into the hotel bed—room service tray untouched, TV murmuring in the background—when there was a knock at the door.

You opened it to find Jamie standing there, hoodie thrown on over his training gear, hair a mess like he’d been tossing in bed for hours. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you with that wide-eyed, restless expression he only ever wore when something deeper was eating at him.

“Can’t sleep,” he muttered finally, scratching the back of his neck. “Need… a distraction.”

You raised a brow, stepping aside to let him in. “And I’m your what, entertainment for the night?”

He walked past you into the room without answering, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets. The quiet hung between you, unfamiliar. Jamie was always full of noise—cheeky remarks, stupid jokes, smug confidence. But now? He just looked… tired. Fidgety.

You closed the door gently. “Jamie. What’s actually going on?”

He turned to you, jaw clenched like he was fighting the words.

“I dunno,” he admitted. “Felt weird all night. Couldn’t stop thinkin’. About the match. About you. About… everything. S'not like me, right?”

You nodded slowly. “No. It's not.”

He stepped closer, thumb brushing your cheek with a touch that sent heat rushing through your chest. His voice dropped, quiet and raw.

“Unless you’d rather I leave…”

It caught you off guard—not the words, but the hesitation. Jamie Tartt never hesitated. Not on the pitch, not with people, and definitely not with you. You were his best friend. The one person who called him on his bullshit, the one who stayed when everyone else walked.

But now… this was different.

You looked up at him, your voice steady even if your heart wasn’t. “I’d rather you stop pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “Yeah?”