Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alara's Pov:
Alara Ferreira sat outside the hallway outside Conference Room 1A, hearing muffled voices of her publicist trying to save her from complete social ruin, i lean my head back, letting out a sigh of stress, and slight boredom. I hear the clock tick painfully by as my fate is decided just a mere door away. When i hear a voice cleared, and hear someone walking down the hall as if its a prison, room by room, cell by cell making their way to me. I look up and see the other "convicted inmate" walking to his death sentence.

Jamie Tartt. Of course he's late, I had done my research on the guy after Kelly my publicist told me to come with her to a meeting with this footballers publicist only to leave me outside as if a child, being reprimanded by the teacher.

He seems like a stuck up prick, a conventionally handsome dick, without a care in the world for his team mates, or the countless girls he slept with.

Their publicists were inside the room having what sounded like a very animated argument muffled voices rising and falling like two parents deciding which child ruined the holiday more. Spoiler: it was both.

Alara cleared her throat setting her head back against the wall. After he sits down two seats away. “Sooo.. are you the Jamie Tartt?

Jamie didn’t look up from his phone. “Dunno. Are you the ice dancing cancelled queen i'm here for because literally everyone hates you right now?”

She blinked. “…Wow. Straight in with the charm.”

He finally glanced over, eyebrows raised. “What? I’m just sayin’. You’ve been on telly nonstop this week and memes on me phone." he says thick Manchurian accent coming through

“Well at least people care enough to cancel me,”I shot back. “You’re more like… background noise. A cautionary tale in designer boots.”

His jaw dropped. “Oi I’ll have you know i'm a top 10 scorer in the league half the country still thinks I’m fit and wants to sleep with me.”

“yeah and the other half already have, and think your a proper prick” I mutter.

Jamie scoffed and shoved his phone in his pocket. “Mad they’ve got us both here, innit? Makes you wonder which one of us is the bigger PR disaster.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” i say. “You.”

“Me?!” He pointed at me with a dramatic flourish. “Nah, no chance. At least I didn’t nearly take down an entire sport.”

“I didn’t take down anything!” I hissed. “It was one mistake. One video taken out of context!” (you'll find out later ;)

He shrugged. “Still went viral though, didn’t it?”

“So did the footage of you pushing down one of your own teammates.”

“Hey! That wuss was in my way of a clean beautiful shot.”

They glared at each other, breathing hard, but I take a deep breath knowing this is useless and lean my head back again

Jamie exhaled. “This is gonna be bad, innit?” both of us mildly aware of the scheme they had planned.

Alara nodded. “Horrific.”

The door swung open. Two stressed publicists stared at their clients as if presenting sacrificial lambs to each other. They open the door and nod us into the room, the air uncomfortable, as if they know we aren't going to like what they have to say.

Jamie stepped forward, giving her a sideways grin equal parts cocky and nervous.
“Ladies first, cancellation queen.”

She nudged him with her shoulder as she brushed past. “Shut up, Tartt.”

They walked into the room like prisoners entering a trial.

And truly, they had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

Entering the Fake dating scheme....

Chapter Text

The lights in the arena were still bright enough to sting my eyes when they called my name. "Alara Ferreira", my heart still racing from my recent skate, big smiles I expected the world.
"Silver Medalist, 2024 World Figure Skating Championship." my heart cracked, but thats not enoughto describe it, fell? not even close, the announcement killed me i mean heart stomped on ran over, pushed and pulled my breath taken...
The sound was a dull roar in my ears. I heard it the same way you hear things underwater warped, distant, unreal.

Silver.

I just broke two world records and still got silver.

I walked up the stage my feet carrying me, but stood on the bar lower as if insignificant, its degrading being on there, the lower podium, like a second-place champion does. Cameras flashed so hard the white spots danced across my vision. The gold medalist stood to my right, beaming like she’d just discovered world peace. My rival. The girl everyone always compared me to. I was the underdog the innocent the young competitor on the rink in history, she was the beloved experienced darling of the judges standing over me, gold metal between her teeth.

I get handed a silver plate, a platter of pain right into my hands and i cant find it in me to smile so i just look ahead at the camera's.

I didn’t look at her. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, at a spot on the wall where a banner read “2024 world series figure skating championships.”

the plate was heavy in my hands, colder than the rink itself. My fingers kept twitching to drop it, but I couldn't. physically i don't think i could i felt sick and numb, my ears ringing tears pricking at my eyes. So I stood there, shoulders tense, jaw locked, pretending I didn’t feel the burn behind my eyes.

The photographers shouted for joy, at her. For triumph, at her. and then yelling at me how does it feel? pleading for some kind of expression. All they got was a blank stare and the pulse pounding in my temple.

Click. Click. Click.

The moment would be everywhere soon my “attitude problem,” my “poor sportsmanship,” my “unprofessionalism.” They wouldn’t talk about the fact that I was the youngest skater to ever perform here at nineteen. They wouldn’t care that I’d landed the first quad axel by a female in competition history. They wouldn’t even mention the perfection of the routine I’d bled myself dry to create.

They’d talk about the girl who didn’t smile.

My legs carried me off the podium, through the tunnels, into the locker room hallway, where the air smelled like sweat and flowers and the sickly sweetness of a victory I didn’t get. Coaches, athletes, volunteers moved around me, murmuring. I barley remember this part the walk to my locker room, I remember

my coach not talking to me, he just looks away from me, my sponsor looking down.
Until i hear,
“You should be proud”
not from my parents or friends but my mental coach, I know I know who needs one. but its a mandatory for most athletes and its funded for me but I want to hit her.

Proud.
Proud of second.
I wave her off

My fingers curled tighter around the silver plate they’d given me, engraved beautifully with my name like it was some kind of consolation prize for killing myself the last fourteen years.

When I reached my locker room, the door clicked shut behind me like a judge’s gavel.

Silence. Finally alone...

Then the sound tore out of me, raw and feral.

I slammed the plate against the tiled floor and a bench. i smashed it as hard as i could repeatedly until it started to bend, and i screamed, tears running down my face. I hit it once more and it flew out of my hands before crashing into a cabinet. Something inside me cracked with it. I kicked the metal locker, the impact reverberating up my leg, but I didn’t stop. I ripped open my skate bag and hurled the contents—blade guards, tape, laces—across the room like they’d betrayed me.

I grabbed the damn silver plate again, raised it above my head, and brought it crashing down onto the wooden bench. A deep split carved its way across the surface.

“WHAT WAS IT FOR?” I screamed. My throat burned. I didn’t care. “WHAT WAS ANY OF IT FOR?”

All those extra hours. All the injuries. All the missed birthdays and broken toes and bloodied hands. Every late night staring at myself in the mirror asking if I was enough. The missed meals, and workouts, no boyfriends, hell no friends, no real school, and starving my body.

Enough for gold?

Apparently not.

A glass bottle rolled out from under one of the bags gifted from some sponsor I didn’t have anymore. Imported vodka. Nice. Fancy. Probably meant for celebration.

I snatched it, twisted the cap off, and took a long pull. Another. Another. The burn hit instantly, scorching down my throat into my chest, but it was better than the hollow ache swallowing me alive.

I drank again.

And again.

Half the bottle was gone before I registered that my hand was shaking.

When I caught my reflection in the mirror—mascara streaked, hair escaping its bun, medal still hanging around my neck like a punishment—I almost didn’t recognize myself.

The world’s new skating prodigy.
A once in a generation athlete.
A future legend.

Now?

When I stepped out of the room, the hallway was quieter. Most people had cleared out, but the security guard’s eyes widened when he saw the bottle dangling from my fingers.

“Miss are you?”

I shoved past him, bottle swinging loosely at my side, numbness creeping into my veins. “I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.
Obviously.

The cameras caught me outside the arena, stumbling slightly on the icy steps. Someone shouted my name. I didn’t look back. I kept walking.

By morning, the photos were everywhere. the photos clipped and the goddamn locker room video leaked, the smashing drinking crying.

UNDERAGE STAR DRINKING AFTER CHAMPIONSHIP LOSS.
FERREIRA’S MELTDOWN: IS THE PRESSURE TOO MUCH?
SPORTSMANSHIP QUESTIONED AFTER COLD PODIUM DISPLAY.
HULK OR AN EMOTIONAL TEENAGE WRECK?

And the worst—
IS THIS THE END OF SKATING’S YOUNGEST PRODIGY?

The figure skating league summoned me within 48 hours.

Drug test.
Review of my behaviour.
Discussions about whether the age limit should be raised.

As if protecting themselves from me would fix anything.

The drug test was negative of course it was. I wasn’t stupid. Or reckless. Just… broken.

They kept the age rule the same, but the damage was done. The shame. The headlines. The whispers. The sponsors backing away. The coaches “reevaluating” their commitment to my future.

My coach of five years quit.
My sponsor of seven years dropped me.
My choreographer blocked my number.

Everyone left.

Everyone except the scandal.

Present day.

I stared at the empty ice rink in front of me, the cold biting at my fingertips as I adjusted the gloves on my hands. My new coach stood near the boards, barely looking at me. My new team was smaller, quieter, and made up of people knew everything.

They watched me like I was a time bomb. It killed me, i just wanted to skate again.

I pushed off onto the ice, feeling the familiar glide under my blades. It was supposed to feel like home.

Now it felt like probation.

Every whisper from the stands.
Every online comment.
Every sponsor stipulation.
Every sideways glance.

Cancelled.
That was the word they used.

They didn’t care that I was nineteen.
They didn’t care that champions make mistakes.
They didn’t care that I’d made history.

All they cared about was the crash out.

The vodka.
The broken locker room.
The girl who didn’t smile.

I inhaled sharply, centring myself. My blade carved a line across the ice, the sound crisp and familiar. My body remembered even if the world didn’t want to.

I wasn’t done.
Not yet.

But standing there, alone on the ice, trying to rebuild a life that felt like it had cracked under my skates, I couldn’t help the whisper that lingered in my mind:

All this work… and for what?

The answer didn’t come.

Not yet.

But fate twisted, ridiculous fate was already moving pieces I didn’t know existed.

Chapter Text

Jamie Tartt had always liked the sound of a stadium chanting his name.
There was nothing else like it. The roar. The rhythm. The way it vibrated in your chest and made you feel like you were invincible.

Except today, they weren’t chanting his name.

They were booing it.

“Jamie Tartt you’re a wanker! You’re a wanker!”

He pretended it didn’t bother him. Pretended that his chest didn’t tighten every time the chant looped back around. Pretended the cameras weren’t catching every twitch of irritation on his face.

It wasn’t new, really. Jamie had always had haters. Comes with the territory when you’re the most talented on the pitch. At least, that’s what he told himself. Loudly. A lot.

But this time, the noise felt different.

Angrier.
Sharper.
More deserved.

“Oi, focus,” the coach barked from the sidelines, but Jamie already had. His eyes were locked on the rival striker jogging past him, smirking, mouthing princess under his breath.

Jamie saw red.

Literally.

Because six minutes later, after a shove, a foul, and an insult he definitely shouldn’t have said especially not with a mic picking up field noise the ref whipped out the red card like he’d been waiting all season to do it.

The crowd erupted.

The commentators didn’t even try to sugarcoat it.

“Jamie Tartt’s attitude strikes again.”
“This is becoming a pattern.”
“Brilliant talent terrible discipline.”

Jamie walked off the pitch with his jaw clenched, hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles ached. Inside, he was boiling. Not because of the card. He’d gotten those before.

Because he knew exactly what the headlines would look like.

The locker room was quiet when he walked in. Too quiet. No one made eye contact not even the kit manager who usually gave him a guilty sympathy shrug.

Coach followed him in a minute later, letting the door slam behind him.

“What the fuck was that?” Coach demanded.

Jamie snorted. “He pushed me first.”

“You called him a” Coach pinched the bridge of his nose. “Doesn’t matter. This can’t keep happening.”

Jamie crossed his arms, defensive. “I’m here to play, not be a saint.”

“You’re barely doing the first one,” Coach shot back. “Your attitude is costing us matches.”

Jamie’s mouth opened, ready with the usual comeback that he was the best on the team, that they’d be nothing without him—but for the first time, the words felt flimsy.

Coach sighed heavily. “Sit down.”

Jamie did.

“You’re benched for the next two matches.”

His stomach dropped. “You can’t be”

“And that’s not all.” Coach held up a tablet. Headlines flashed across the screen.

JAMIE TARTT PUNCHES RIVAL PLAYER IN TUNNEL
(That had been last month.)

STAR STRIKER CLUBBING 2 NIGHTS BEFORE MATCH
(That had been last week.)

JAMIE TARTT SWEARS AT FAN DURING LIVE INTERVIEW
(That was… okay, maybe that was yesterday.)

“Your reputation,” Coach said slowly, “is in freefall.”

Jamie stared at the screen. At his own stupid face in photo after photo, eyes half-open, hair a mess, drunk, furious, reckless.

He didn’t know when he had started recognizing himself less and less.

The club summoned him the next morning.

He walked into the meeting room expecting a scolding. Maybe a fine. Maybe another lecture about “professionalism” and “role model behaviour” that he’d tune out like usual.

Instead, he found the club owner, two PR reps and not keeley jones, and his agent waiting for him.

Never a good sign.

His agent adjusted his tie in that sweaty, uncomfortable way he did when he was about to deliver bad news. “Jamie,” he said tightly, “you’re trending worldwide.”

“Brilliant,” Jamie said, dropping into the chair. “Love a bit of publicity.”

“It’s not good publicity,” the PR woman cut in. She slid her phone across the table.

Jamie clicked the video. It was him, arm around a girl, a new one, one he doesn't remember the name of but he remembers her blow jobs, and he has a slight smile scratching his chin

He swiped, a photo of him walking through the tunnel not high fiveing fans, not even the kids that one made him sad, as he saw the smiles drop from their faces as he ignored them.

Swiped again another him at a bar, obviously drunk, night before a match, arm holding a shooting champagne bottle.

He swiped again, him and his teammates in a fight after he rolled sam over mid pitch to get him out of the way after seeing him in pain, and roy pushing him.

And the internet ate it alive.

JAMIE TARTT PARTY OVER PLAYING.
JAMIE TARTT A NEW GIRL, NO NEW SURPRISE.
JAMIE TARTT, RIVALS WITH HIS TEAM.

“They’re calling for disciplinary action,” his agent said stiffly. “Sponsors are pulling out. Owners are furious. The league is reviewing your conduct.”

Jamie swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. “I didn’t mean I was just"

“No one cares what you meant,” the PR rep said. “They care what they saw.”

The Rebeca's strong presence standing over him, folded her arms. “You’ve become a liability. Something has to change.”

Jamie felt something twist inside him. The kind of twist that felt like betrayal and fear and anger all tangled together. “So what, that’s it? You’re dropping me?”

“We’re giving you one last chance,” she said flatly. “Public image rehabilitation.”

Jamie blinked. “What does that even”

“It means you need to look like you’re fixing your life,” the PR rep said briskly. “New behavior. New attitude. New… connections.”

“Connections?”

“We’re arranging something,” his agent said. “You’ll meet with your new PR consultant in a few days.”

Jamie scoffed. “I don’t need rehab. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Coach said from the doorway. Jamie hadn’t even noticed him walk in. “And if you don’t get your act together, you won’t just be benched. You’ll be gone.”

The silence was suffocating.

Jamie dropped his gaze to the table. For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

Because deep down, beneath the bravado and the ego and the armor he’d been building since he was a kid, since his dad....

he knew they were right.

He was losing everything.

Present day.

Jamie sat alone in the training room, tapping a football between his feet, not really kicking it so much as nudging it anxiously. The empty field outside the glass wall looked foreign to him now. Like a place he wasn’t sure he belonged.

The chants from the crowd echoed in his memory.

Wanker.
Waste of talent.
Spoiled brat.

He hated them.
He hated that he was starting to believe them.

He raked a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered under his breath.

His phone buzzed.

Meeting with PR Consultant confirmed tomorrow, 3 PM. Attendance mandatory.

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. Can’t wait.”

He didn’t know then not yet that this “mandatory meeting” was the start of the most chaotic chapter of his life.

That fate was about to introduce him to Alara Ferreira.

A girl just as cancelled as he was.
Just as furious.
Just as raw.

A girl who would either fix him…

Or blow everything up.

He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Chapter Text

Alara:
The address my new PR manager texted me didn’t look like an office building.
It looked like a house.

A really, really expensive one, the kind that belonged to people who used words like organic lavender linen and had dogs with Instagram sponsorships. I stood outside the modern glass door, arms wrapped around myself, regretting the stupid sweater I chose.

I pressed the doorbell. It chimed like a fairy waterfall. Huh whimsy.

The door swung open to reveal a retired model I'd seen before she introduced herself as Keeley Jones, Jamie’s friends, and a PR company CEO. She was pretty cool, impossibly cheerful, sparkly, and wearing a pink blazer.
“Alara! So nice to meet you omg babes! Come in!” she beamed, ushering me forward. “We’ve got snacks, tea, sparkling water, actual water, whatever you want.”

I stepped inside. The warmth hit me immediately with the expensive cozy kind, pink LED’s so i assume we are at her house. Candles. Soft lighting. A giant vision board on the wall titled:

“THE JAMIE + ALARA PROJECT”

I gag, Kill me.

Keeley clasped her hands together. “Jamie should be here any minute!”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Thrilling.”
She didn’t notice the sarcasm. “We’re just gonna go through the basics today. Backstory, timeline, etc”

The door opened again.

And in walked Jamie Tartt.
Sunglasses. Indoors.
Tracksuit. Designer.
Ego. Larger than the room.

He stopped when he saw me, pushing down his shades just enough to reveal a smirk. Before taking them off fully.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

Wonderful. Exactly the level of enthusiasm I expected.
“You’re late,” I said, arms crossed.

He shrugged. “You’ll be fine.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear something cracked.

Keeley clapped, oblivious to the tension thick enough to butter a crumpet. “Right! Drinks? Snacks? No Okay! Let’s get started.”

Jamie flopped onto the couch like he owned it. I sat on the opposite end, keeping at least three continents’ worth of space between us. It looks like couples therapy, sitting on opposite ends.

Keeley opened her tablet. “First thing your origin story. Where did you two meet?”

Jamie smirked instantly. “In a dream.”

“In your dreams,” I shot back.

He grinned. “Trust me, love, you’ve been there loads.”

I let out an involuntary laugh before shooting him a glare with a smile “I will end you.”

Keeley blinked. “Okay! Soooo… not that.”

Jamie:
This whole thing was bollocks.
Like, yeah, he’d agreed to fake date the angry ice princess (not that he had much of a choice), but that didn’t mean he had to pretend he liked it. Or her. He sprawled on the couch, stretching like a cat, because he knew it annoyed her.

And annoying her was fun.

She sat across from him like she’d rather jump into traffic. Every time her eyes flicked toward him, it was with the same expression people used for moldy leftovers.

Hot moldy leftovers, obviously, but still.
Keeley brought up a slideshow titled “BELIEVABLE COUPLE BEHAVIOR!”

Jamie smirked with a laugh. “Oh this’ll be good.”

Alara glared at him like she could melt the projector screen with her mind.

Keeley tapped her screen. “So! We need a meet cute that people will actually buy.”

Jamie raised a hand. “We could say she fell for me the moment she saw me. That’s realistic.”

Alara scoffed. “If by ‘fell’ you mean ‘tripped because I was running away,’ then sure.”

He pointed at her. “See? She’s obsessed.”

Her jaw clenched. “Say obsessed again. See what happens.”

Keeley sighed dramatically. “Guys, please. Let’s workshop.”

I lean in a bit, having a thought. “Um, we could meet at a charity event. Or a gala.”

Keeley nodded vigorously. “Yes! Charity events are good. Rich people love that.”

Jamie huffed. “Fine. Charity event. Whatever.”

Jamie then smirked. “And you couldn’t stop staring at me.”

“Oh absolutely,” she deadpanned. “I was blinded by the neon-orange fake tan.”

He pretended to gasp. “It’s golden caramel!”

“It’s radioactive.”

“Oi, no one said I’d get bullied today.”

She raised a brow. “I did.”

Keeley groaned into her hands.

Alara:
Keeley moved on as if babysitting wasn’t the primary part of her job.

“Next! First date. Needs to be cute and believable.”

Jamie perked up. “Bowling.”

“No,” I said immediately.

He looked offended. “Why not?”

“Because you’d make it a competition and throw a tantrum if you lost.”

He pointed again. “Obsessed.”

“I will throw you down a bowling lane.”

Keeley tapped her screen again. “What about a cozy café? Dim lighting? Hot drinks?”

Jamie tilted his head. “Bit boring.”

I shrugged. “Works for me.”

“Yeah, ‘course it does,” he muttered. “You look like someone who reads books on purpose.”

“I do read books.”

“Tragic.”

I glared. “I’m sorry you’ve never used your brain recreationally.”

Keeley clapped loudly before Jamie could answer. “Or ice cream in the park, I don’t know guys. I want you guys to make headlines and create some waves,” she says, getting excited by a little explosion with her hands. “Yeah yeah lets do that.”

She handed us printed sheets titled “Memorize”
Jamie groaned. “Homework?”

“Yep!” Keeley chirped. “Where you met. First date. Anniversary. Pet names” she says with a cheeky grin half kidding

“No pet names,” I said at the same time Jamie said, “Mine’s ‘baby.’”

I turned slowly. “If you call me that I will stab you with a pastry fork.”

He smirked. And smacks his teeth “Kinky.”

“Oh my god,” Keeley muttered, “you two are gonna kill me.”

Chapter Text

I had been to a lot of humiliating places in my life doping trials, sponsor meetings where they pretended not to be disgusted with me, press conferences where I had to apologize for things I wasn’t actually sorry for but somehow, this was worse.

Fake dating Jamie Tartt.
In public.
Eating ice cream.
In a park full of children, dogs, joggers, and judgment.

Perfect.

He was already there when I arrived, leaning against a tree like he was posing for a magazine called Men Who Think Too Highly of Themselves. Sunglasses, trainers too clean, hair perfectly messy.

Of course.

He smirked as I approached.

He ordered and payed, I got mint chip; him, “triple chocolate madness,” whatever i don't want to take away his sparkle because God forbid he ever choose subtlety and sat on a bench that was definitely smaller than it looked. Our knees kept bumping.

He took one bite of his ice cream. Made a dramatic moan.
“Mine’s class. Yours tastes like someone froze a dentist.”

“Your teeth would benefit from that, honestly.”

He choked on his laugh, tried to play it off. “You’re mean.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Habit.”

He grinned like I’d complimented him.

We sat like that for a minute eating, pretending to be normal, pretending the air wasn’t thick with awkwardness and forced PR chemistry and that’s when I saw it.

Not directly.
Not clearly.
But a reflection in the metal of the ice cream cart.

A man.
Big camera.
Long lens.
Hiding behind a tree.

Oh God.

I whispered under my breath, “Jamie. Don’t look behind you.”

Instantly, he started to turn.

I grabbed his forearm. “I said don’t look behind you.”

He froze. “Why, what’s behind me?”

“Paparazzi.”

His whole expression changed not scared, not annoyed, but calculating, like some machine in his brain turned on.

Then he said softly, “ight. You trust me?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

And before I could ask what he meant, he smashed a handful of his ice cream onto my face.

Cold.
Sticky.
Chocolate.
Everywhere.

I gasped like he had just murdered my entire family.

He burst out laughing. Loud, obnoxious, real laughing.
“Oh my God, look at your face”

“You. absolute. donkey.”

But then he grabbed a napkin, still laughing, and said in a stage whisper, “Play along. Smile. They’re takin’ pictures.”

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth might’ve cracked but I smiled. A big, shiny, fake smile, until it turned into a slight cough laugh as Jamie dabbed chocolate off my cheek with a napkin, making a huge show of how “sweetly” he was taking care of me.

“Hold still,” he said, wiping a smear at my jaw.
“You’re gonna ruin my makeup,” I muttered.
“Good thing you look better messy.” He says pausing his actions with a smirk.

I stomped on his foot. Gently. Kind of.

He yelped but kept smiling for the invisible camera. “You’re evil.”

“You started it.”

“I improved your face, actually.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said, arm suddenly sliding behind my shoulders in the fakest, most HollywoodPR way imaginable, “here you are, stuck with me.”

I smiled wider. A terrifying, beauty pageant smile. looking at him “Lucky me.”

My phone buzzed.

A text from Keeley:

“OMG STOP THESE ARE AMAZING. You two look so cute I can’t even BREATHE. Keep it up!! 😍😍”

I groaned so loud a dog barked at me."how did they already get them"

Jamie peeked at the screen. “Told ya. People love us.”

“No. They love the idea of us.”

“Close enough.”

He stood and offered me his hand. I ignored it and stood on my own.

He smirked. “You’ve got chocolate on your nose.”

“You put chocolate on my nose.”

“Yeah, but it’s funny.”

I wiped it off with a sigh. “Are we done?”

“For today,” he said, stretching like he’d just completed a workout instead of emotionally terrorizing me.

We walked out of the park together, two feet of space between us, pretending not to notice the rustle of a camera as we passed.

Publicly, we were adorable.

Privately, I fantasized daily about drop-kicking him into traffic.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s flat was expensive, and that counted for something. He kicked a pair of trainers under the couch just as his doorbell buzzed.

“Door’s open!” he shouted, even though it very much wasn’t.

Alara stepped inside like she was entering enemy territory.

It showed off a footballer's wealth, a clear interior designer had been picked and carefully hand chosen every furniture wall colour and decoration that made up Jamie's home.

But for some reason Alara could not piece together how this could be Jamie's apartment, it was spotless white barely anything laid on the walls everything seemed just a bit too clean.

Alara doesn't know him that well, but she knows his fashion style, his exotic personality and this just didn't really show that side of him. It didn't look like any side of him. It looked like a show-home. Fake.

Alara looked around as she walked towards the sound of his voice and some light jazz music playing, she saw a couple Transformers on a shelf and a cheap children plastic Spider-Man cups next to the sink.

She sees him on a couch legs propped up and a computer on his lap and walks over to him

“Nice place,” she said, looking around. “Very… male.”

“It’s called minimalism,” Jamie he says matter of fact as if he knows anything about this topic, but then looks down and and back at me, "club gave it to me, I didn't pick this
"
Then, nodding at the folder under her arm: “Is that… homework?”

“Press homework,” she corrected, dropping it on his kitchen island. “Keeley said we need to plan our next public appearance. Together.”

Jamie groaned. “Brilliant. Love a forced friendship.”

She ignored him and pulled out her own phone.

“‘woah they are having a field da New friendship blossoming between cancelled midfielder Jamie Tartt and disgraced skater Alara Ferreira sources say the two bonded over humility and lessons learned.’” i say reading an article

Jamie gagged loudly. “Humility? Me? That’s slander.”

“Oh wait, here’s a good one,” she said, voice brightening with malicious joy. “‘Two athletes, one comeback: though insiders worry there’s not enough charm between them to win public favour.’”

Jamie blinked. “Wow. They actually said we’ve got no charm?”

“None,” she said cheerfully. “Not a drop.”

“That’s rude,” he said. “I’ve got loads. Buckets. You, though”

She threw a cushion at his face.

He caught it one-handed and smirked. “See? Violent. Uncharming.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a tiny laugh hiding behind it, and Jamie caught it.

Progress. Sort of.

He cleared his throat and grabbed his own phone. “Right. Keeley said there’s some charity auction this weekend Richmond's they've got it every year. Need to show up together. Smiling. Looking like we don’t want to murder each other.”

Alara snorted. “So… acting.”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “We’ll walk in, pose for photos, bid on something stupid…they used to bid on players, last year they did'' but he snorts. "roy's didn't go so good so now they are auctioning off some art or idk" I’ll say you’re my date or whatever.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Ohhhh Your date huh?” i say with a smirk

“For the night!” he blurted. “For the charity! Not like Don’t make it weird.”

She folded her arms, fighting a smirk. “It’s already weird, Jamie.”

He pointed at her accusingly. “You’re enjoyin’ this.”

“Only a little,” she admitted.

Silence settled—not awkward, just… new. Softer. They could tolerate each other now. Maybe even laugh without biting.

Jamie leaned back on his counter, watching her scroll through more articles.

“Oi,” he said, nudging her arm with his elbow. “Find a nice one. There’s got to be, like… one.”

She hesitated, then smiled—properly this time.
“Actually… yeah. There is.”

She held the phone out.
A headline read:

“Tartt and Ferreira: The comeback kids we didn’t know we needed.”

Jamie tried not to grin too hard.

“See?” he said, bumping her shoulder. “Buckets of charm. Told ya.”

“Fine,” she said. “Maybe half a bucket.”

“But that's just ‘cause you’re here,” he shot back. “I’m making you look good.”

She tossed the cushion at him again, laughing.

And Jamie realized—not for the first time that this whole “fake partnership” thing might actually be… fun.

Maybe even trouble.
The good kind.

Chapter Text

5:03 a.m.

The alarm didn’t even get the chance to beep. Alara’s hand was already there, stopping it out of muscle memory more than willpower. Her body woke before her mind did a quiet, ingrained discipline that didn’t care how late she’d been up icing her knee last night.

She sat up, stretched, and listened to the familiar crack of her back. The unpersonalized modern room was dark, the grey sky outside still ink-black. This was the part people never saw the hours before the cameras, before the costumes and music and dramatic spins. The hours where figure skating was less “glittering fairy tale” and more “cold, lonely grind.”

low cal smoothie. Hair up. Out the door.

Her breath fogged in the morning air as she walked toward the rink. This early, London didn’t even feel like London. No traffic, no noise, no tourists just a quiet city pretending to sleep. Alara liked it better that way.

The rink manager nodded as she entered.
“Morning, lara” he said.
She lifted a hand in a half wave with a light smile. Talking felt too heavy at this hour.

The rink lights buzzed on, flickering to full brightness as she laced her skates. Completely alone. The cold air bit her skin the instant she stepped onto the ice and then, as always, everything went silent.

Skating was the one place her brain stopped running from itself.

She pushed off, letting the blades cut sharp lines across the fresh ice. Her routine was the same as it had been for years: warm up laps, footwork, rotation drills, jumps, landings, more jumps, more landings. Repeat. Fix. Repeat again. Sweat dripped down her spine despite the chill.

Somewhere around her twentieth attempt at the triple lutz combo, her right ankle sent a warning pulse of pain up her leg. She ignored it. Pain was part of the job. Quitting wasn’t.

she could hear her old coach yelling again.
The one who quit.
Quit her.

After warm up she went to the gym, and awaited her personal trainer then another skate at 10, she peeled off her gloves and stared at her reflection in the rink glass damp hair, flushed cheeks, exhaustion etched under her eyes. She barely recognized herself most days. Maybe that was the point.

By the time she walked home, her muscles buzzed with fatigue. The exhaustion wasn’t the bad kind it was the kind that reminded her she was still trying. Still moving. Still rebuilding something shattered. It was a routine, a never ending exhausting routine. she felt like a cog, to a rusty broken machine.

The press had never backed off, the echoes of the accident followed her everywhere. Sponsorships gone. Coaches gone. People whispering. People assuming. People turning her name into something sharp.

She stopped checking the articles mostly.

Except today, when boredom and curiosity got the better of her while she sat at her small kitchen table with an ice pack strapped to her knee.

“ALARA FERREIRA SPOTTED WITH JAMIE TARTT PR STUNT OR REAL CONNECTION?”

She snorted. Real connection?
They’d barely made eye contact since the ice cream outing a few weeks ago. It wasn’t like they texted. Or talked. Or… whatever normal fake-dating couples did.

Her publicist had kept emailing updates, not even just about Jamie just about her and even when she walked outside

Look connected.
Look friendly.

Jamie hadn’t reached out.
She hadn’t either.

Fine by her.

The next week blurred into a loop of training, gym, recovery, and sleep. If she wasn’t on the ice, she was reading recovery articles. Or stretching. Or falling asleep sitting upright on the couch stomach growling, and a snack of celery and watermelon and another low cal smoothie left in her hand.

People thought athletes were dramatic.
But the truth, the real truth, was that most of the drama happened in silence.

Days before the gala, she received the official invitation in the mail heavy cardstock, embossed lettering, a gold seal. It was elegant. Expensive. Nothing like the rooms she lived in or the life she actually had.

Black tie event.
Jamie Tartt’s team auction.
Her “first official appearance as them together.”

She set it on the table and stared at it for a long time.

Then she opened her closet. Empty. at least nothing good enough for this, sure she had nice clothes expensive, and just full of things that didn’t belong to this version of her. Training leggings, oversized hoodies, old competition jackets with names she didn’t want to see anymore. Nothing resembling a gala dress.

Her stomach knotted.

Most people would call a friend.
Ask for help.
Make a day out of picking a dress.

She didn’t have people like that.

Canada for a childhood she barely remembered.
The U.S. for most of her training.
Russia for a year program that nearly broke her.
Now here.

Always leaving somewhere.
Never building anywhere.

She grabbed her keys and took a deep breath.
Fine. She could do this alone too. She always did.

But walking through boutiques by herself felt strange like playing dress-up in a life she wasn’t sure she deserved anymore. Saleswomen asked polite questions she didn’t know how to answer. Dresses fit wrong or felt wrong or made her look like someone she wasn’t.

When she tried it on it was it, she found one. Simple. Elegant. A deep red, not bright, a rich dark warm silk, sharp neckline, low back. it was sexy, and beautiful, not quite tight, but nicely fitted, hanging just right It didn’t scream for attention it just existed quietly but beautifully. Like the version of her she was trying to rebuild.

That night, she stood in front of the mirror holding it up to her body. For a moment a fleeting, dangerous moment she imagined what the night might look like. Flashing cameras. Jamie in a suit. Their hands linked for the press. Smiling for strangers. Pretending.

Her chest tightened.

It was easier not to think about him.
Or how his stupid smile had gotten stuck in her head.
Or how he’d been slightly less of a prick at the park.
Or how the ice cream had actually made her laugh really laugh for the first time in months.

No.
Stop.
It was fake.
He was… Jamie Tartt. And she was Alara Ferreira. Both disasters. Both projects.

This was a contract. Nothing more.

She set the dress gently on the hanger and turned off the light.
Tomorrow was another 5 a.m.
Another skate.
Another day to keep her head down and stay focused.

The gala would come soon enough.
And with it — whatever chaos followed.

Chapter Text

Jamie woke before the sun, long before anyone at Nelson Road even thought about rolling out of bed. No alarm. His body didn’t need one anymore. Years of discipline had carved time into him like grooves in stone wake, train, push, repeat.

He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before swinging his legs out of bed. The flat was quiet. Too quiet, if he let himself think about it. He didn’t.

He pulled on his training gear and tied his shoes with the same quick, practiced movements he used every day. People thought he was late to everything. Lazy. Distracted. They didn’t see this part the version of Jamie Tartt who worked when nobody was watching.

Outside, the sky was still a dull gray. The gym wasn’t open yet, but he didn’t need it. The park worked fine. The pitch behind his building worked fine. Any empty space worked if you were desperate enough to be better than yesterday.

He jogged through the quiet streets, breath visible in the cool morning air. His headphones stayed off. Music made it too easy to forget things he had to remember how to run properly, how to keep rhythm, how to listen to the way his lungs pulled at the edges.

His dad used to yell at him for that, for anything really.
Still heard that sometimes.

By the time he reached the pitch, his muscles were warm, his body alive with the familiar hum of being awake in a way other people weren’t. He liked this version of himself focused, sharp, silent. No cameras. No teammates. No comparisons. No headlines.

Just the ball at his feet.

He worked on touches first. Dribbling drills he’d done a thousand times as a kid on cracked pavement in Manchester. Footwork his dad forced into him back when Jamie didn’t know training could be anything other than shouting. He shook the memory off like rain.

Technique.
Speed.
Power.
Control.
Over and over until sweat ran down his back and his legs started to shake.

People talked like talent was something you either had or didn’t. Like Jamie had just been born brilliant and cocky and fast. They never saw the years he spent in dark fields under streetlights, training until his toes went numb, until his breath hurt.

He kicked a ball against the wall repeatedly, catching it on the rebound. Left foot. Right foot. Chest. Volley. Land. Reset. Again.

If he messed up, he did it again.
If he got it right, he did it again anyway.

He didn’t know how not to.

When the first bits of sunlight started to creep across the grass, he finally stopped. Chest heaving. Hands on his hips. Sweat sticking his shirt to his skin. It felt good like he’d earned something before the day even started.

Back in the locker rooms hours later, training with the team was louder. Full of banter and noise and the familiar pressure of proving himself every second. His teammates didn’t dislike him anymore not really but they weren’t close either. Not the way they were with each other.

That was fine. Jamie liked it better that way. Or that’s what he told himself.

Sometimes he’d catch them laughing about something he wasn’t part of, sharing some joke he’d missed. He’d pretend not to care. Pretend he didn’t notice the tiny twist in his chest. Pretend like he liked being alone.

It was easier than trying to be someone people actually wanted around.

During drills, he pushed himself harder than necessary. Ran faster. Shot harder. Took criticism with a nod instead of an argument not because he liked hearing it, but because he knew Ted had been right about something he’d never say out loud:

Jamie Tartt was better when he wasn’t fighting everyone.

In the evenings, when the clubhouse emptied and everyone went home to their families or friends or whoever was waiting, he stayed. Did extra reps. Extra runs. Extra ball work. A few people noticed, but no one said anything. And Jamie would’ve denied it if they had.

He wasn’t doing it to prove anything.
He was doing it because he didn’t know how to stop.

He trained until the lights dimmed on their automatic timers. Then he showered in quiet and went home to a flat that felt too big for one person.

He made dinner or whatever counted as dinner and sat on the couch scrolling through his phone, ignoring messages he didn’t want to open, deleting ones that made his stomach twist.

That week, the headlines about the fake-dating scheme had slowed. Mostly. A few still popped up, obnoxiously bright:

"JAMIE TARTT'S NEW GIRLFRIEND COULD BE THE FIX HE NEEDS."
"TWO CONTROVERSIAL ATHLETES: MATCH MADE IN PR HELL?"
"FERREIRA AND TARTT IS THIS THE REDEMPTION ARC?"

He scoffed and shoved the phone under a cushion.

He didn’t know her that well.
Didn’t not like her.
Didn’t particularly want to think about her.
And yet she kept showing up in his brain, usually in the form of some sarcastic remark he should’ve said back at the park.

He didn’t text her.
thought about it
but didn’t even know what he’d say.

When he closed his eyes, his mum’s voice came to him from back when he was younger, back before football swallowed everything:

"You do things proper, Jamie. Even when no one’s watchin’. That’s what makes you better."

He exhaled slowly.

He missed her.
He could use a hug like that from her right now
Loved that she believed in him even when he barely believed in himself.

He trained again that night before bed. Just a bit. Just enough to quiet the restlessness. Enough to keep the anxious buzz in his stomach from turning into something bigger.

By the end of the week, the gala hung over him like an overdue assignment. Fancy suits. Cameras. Pretending to be charming. Pretending to be taken. Pretending not to care.

He’d have to text her soon. Coordinate. Make it look real.

He didn’t want to.
He would anyway.

Because the truth the part he’d never admit was that he wanted to get it right.
For the club.
For the press.
For his career.
For the version of himself he kept trying to rebuild.

He was given a suit a nice suit Dolce and Gabana, fitted loose pants a collar shirt, and a pinstripe top and slacks, but he needed a tie, he was given a black one.

But Jamie doesn't like the complete lack of colour, he wants just something, he knows people don't like his outfits but he does, he likes the fun colours, and its grounding, makes him feel something, little warmer.

But what colour, he's holding the suit up to him in a mirror, when he thinks of him but then, Alara, by his side, at the gala hand in hand, pretending. He starts to wonder what she will wear, maybe she has a colour, he hopes so he hopes its not black though.

He starts to draft up a text, texts to girls are never this hard he thinks retyping message after message until landing on "hey ready for the gala on saturday? what colour r u wearing, keeley said we should match" she didn't but Alara doesn't have to know.

Chapter Text

Jamie had been ready for fifteen minutes.

He stood in front of the mirror again, tugging at the knot of the tie deep velvet red, sharp against the black pinstripe suit. He wasn’t supposed to wear this tie. He was supposed to wear the boring black one the stylist forced on him.

But he’d hated how it looked.
How it felt.
Like he was going to a funeral instead of a gala.

He needed colour.
A spark.
Something grounding.

The text he’d sent her sat open on his phone

hey ready for the gala on saturday? what colour r u wearing
keeley said we should match

She’d replied ten minutes later:

idk dark red. Why??

Jamie’s stomach had dropped in a weird, stupid way.
He didn’t answer.
Just said:

cool. see u at mine at 7

Now it was 6:53.

He checked the mirror again.
Hair gelled perfect.
Suit pressed perfect.
Tie on? He had to watch a youtube video on it, its not like his dad ever taught him. it was hard but he thinks he got it
Okay. Not perfect. But it felt right.

He paced.
Sat down.
Stood up.
Pointlessly fixed his cuffs. He felt so grown up.
Told himself he was not nervous.

He was Jamie Tartt.
He didn’t get nervous.
He made other people nervous.

Then the elevator dinged down the hall, and everything in his chest tightened, like he’d been hit with a free kick straight to the ribs.

He opened the door whoops just as she reached his flat.

For a second a full, real, unfiltered second they both froze.

She looked…
Well.
Beautiful wasn’t the right word.
Too soft. Too sincere.
She looked dangerously good the kind of good that made his brain short out.

The dress was deep red. Silky. Perfectly cut. Sharp neckline, low back, elegant lines. Clean. Confident. Young. It matched his tie so exactly it almost looked planned. It was.

Her eyes did a slow sweep of him too, and she visibly swallowed, fingers tightening on her clutch.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You… dressed up.”

Jamie blinked.
Then stood straighter, rubbing a hand over his tie like he hadn’t been obsessing about it for half an hour.

“Yeah well… s’not every day I gotta pretend to be someone’s fancy boyfriend,” he said, voice wobbling despite his best effort. “Figured I should, y’know. Try a bit.” he says pushing his chin down to itch at his shirt collar.

Her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.
Then her eyes narrowed.

“Is that red?”

Jamie stiffened. “What? You hate it?”

“No!” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I It’s just… I thought you’d wear black.”

“no Thank fuck it’s not black,” he muttered before he could think.

Her eyebrows pinched.
“What’s wrong with black?”

“Nothin’!” he said fast. “It’s just—borin’. Dead boring, actually. And I don’t like like feelin’ boring. Makes me feel like I’m… disappearing.”

He immediately regretted saying that. Too honest. Too revealing. Too Jamie at his therapist level.

But she didn’t poke at it. Didn’t laugh. She just looked at him with this soft, complicated expression he couldn’t decode.

“Well,” she murmured, “you definitely don’t look boring.”

His throat closed a little.
So he coughed. Loudly. Stupidly. fuccckkkk, he internally groans

“Right,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “We, uh, should go. Paparazzi’ll be outside. Best to get it over with.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder, both trying not to bump the other, both failing and pretending it didn’t send a tiny jolt through them.

When they reached the lobby, he pressed the button on his key fob and the headlights of his Porsche 911 flashed in the dark sleek, black, spotless. Jamie didn't like black but he liked his car, like a lot.

Alara blinked. “You drive that?”

“What? It’s practical,” he said defensively.

“It’s literally the opposite of practical.”

He smirked.
“Still impressed though.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes, but colour warmed her cheeks, and he couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or something else.

He opened the passenger door for her pretending it was for the paparazzi, pretending he wasn’t taught somewhere deep down to be a gentleman despite the rest of his upbringing.

She slid inside, smoothing her dress.
He shut the door carefully too carefully then circled around to the driver’s side.

Once inside, he took a quiet breath.
She smelled like something expensive.
Something subtle.
Something he didn’t know how to name.

Flashes went off outside the garage.
Not close just far enough away that they could pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Okay,” she said, staring straight ahead. “What’s our story?”

“Our… what?”

“Jamie. If we’re doing this, we need details. Where we met. How long we’ve been seeing each other. Something believable.”

“Oh.”
His mind went blank.
Then too full.

“Right. Yeah. Okay. Uh… we met at”

“If you say ‘a club’ I swear to God,” she groaned.

He snorted. “I was gonna say somethin’ classy! Like… a charity thing. Or like… you accidentally hit me with an ice skate or summat.”

“That’s not classy.”

“Kinda is.”

“Jamie.”

“Fiiine.”
He drummed his fingers on the wheel.
“What about… mutual friends? Keeley?”

“She will absolutely kill us if we drag her into the fake timeline.”

He grinned. “True. Right, okay. Um… an event then. Sports thing. Award show?”

She nodded slowly.
“That works.”

“Our first date?” he asked.

She turned her face toward the window, pretending to look at the paparazzi.

“We’ll say our first date was the ice cream.”

He blinked.
“Weren’t really a date though.”

“No,” she said. “But… it wasn’t awful.”

His chest did something weird again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Weren’t awful.”

"although maybe we should say something longer ago maybe it was 2 months ago and idk mini golf"

He started the engine.
The car hummed beneath them.

he starts driving and his phone buzzes can you check it password is "password9999"
I snort a laugh "why"

"well i'm #9 and "password" cause idk but I got em yeah I spelt it with two s's good eh"

I look at him with a smile, dang he can't spell, and I snort which makes him laugh

"its a text from keeley" I say, "she says she's there and just got through the photos, don't forget to smile, and have fun!"

I swipe out of his phone but before I do I notice a video, How to tie a tie for noobs huh, cute i think to myself with a smirk

The night waited ahead.

Two disasters dressed like perfection.
Two strangers pretending not to be intimidated by each other.
Two athletes with too much history and too many walls.

And a gala that would force them closer than either was prepared for.

Chapter Text

The moment the car door opened, the world erupted.

Flashes hundreds, maybe thousands burst like fireworks, ricocheting off every surface. They would burn the average eye, but these two were born for it.
Jamie stepped out first, posture straight, expression instantly shifting into that controlled, camera ready look athletes master after years of press conferences and sponsorship shoots.

Then he turned, offering his hand.

For stability.
For the performance.
For the illusion.

I took it.

The crowd screamed louder.

When I rose from the passenger seat, I could feel it that soft ripple of approval when a dress hits the light just right. The red silk caught the flashes like it had been born for them, and Jamie… Jamie looked like the kind of problem rich men’s wives warned them about.

The red tie matching perfectly didn’t hurt.

As soon as my heel touched the carpet, Jamie leaned slightly toward me, voice low and measured.

“Alright,” he murmured, eyes still forward. “Follow my lead. Look left first that’s the side with the better lighting.”

I snorted. “Since when do you care about lighting?”

“Since always,” he said, shifting his jaw the tiniest bit. “I’m fit, yeah, but even I can get done dirty by bad angles.”

I tried not to laugh. Cameras clicked like mad.

We moved forward together not touching, but close enough that the pictures would suggest we were. Jamie adjusted his stance subtly every few seconds, repositioning our shoulders and hips with movements so small the average person wouldn’t notice.

Athlete instincts.
Rehearsed poise.
Performance mode activated.

And then while smiling toward a wall of lenses he leaned in, pretending to whisper something romantic.

But his voice was anything but.

“See the woman in the green dress?” he murmured, lips barely moving. “That’s the same colour my toothpaste turns when I’m sick.”

I choked actually choked on a laugh and i flash my whitened teeth with a true smile, and he's just smirking still holding my waist, and the cameras went wild.

“Oh my god,” I whispered through a smile that looked too serene to be real. “You’re terrible.”

“Correct,” he muttered back. “And now there’s photographic proof you find me hilarious.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he said with a tiny, smug upward twitch of his mouth. “You’re doing it for me.”

The crowd screamed again.
Questions are yelled at us "Jamie what happened to the last girl?", "where did you guys meet", "Alara did you go to rehab for your drinking problem" ouch but you cant stop smiling for a moment

At one point he moved behind me, adjusting the fall of my dress so the train fanned out properly a gentlemen"s gesture so smooth and practiced it looked like choreography. When I glanced back at him, he simply shrugged, i almost roll my eyes but remember the presence I'm in.

We kept moving in sync turning, pausing, tilting our heads just so like we’d done this a hundred times together.
Like we were partners, not strangers forcing a narrative into existence.

Another burst of shutters exploded as Jamie leaned in again, pretending to whisper something sweet.

“Alright,” he murmured, “new bet. Ten quid says half these headlines tomorrow call us ‘soldering’.”

I bit back a laugh. “Soldering? Really?”

“Oi, don’t disrespect the classics.”

“You’re impossible.”

“True,” he said, “but look how good we look doing it.”

And damn it he wasn’t wrong.

The images would be everywhere by morning.
Her in red. Him in black and red.
Smiles perfectly timed.
Laughs caught in mid sparkle.
Two athletes performing their roles a little too well.

At the end of the carpet, just before the entrance, Keeley practically launched herself at us glittering, excited, fullbody vibrating.

“OH. MY. GOD. You two” She pointed at both of us with both hands. “You look unbelievable. Fan-freaking-tastic. Like a magazine cover. Like twelve magazine covers.”

Jamie grinned. “Told ya the red’d be good.”

I elbowed him lightly, still smiling for the cameras behind us.

Keeley looped her arms around ours, pulling us in close.
“Alright lovebirds,” she said brightly. “Let’s get inside before someone sets off fireworks or faints or honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t be shocked.”

The doors opened.

The lights shifted.

And the night messy, glittering, dangerous began.