He and Mara held hands and walked toward an empty table. There was a smattering of applause but mostly people stared in shock.

Byron scratched his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Me either.” Willow looked at Psycho. “What about you?”

“I knew,” he said miserably. “I got accidentally CC’d into some emails. Derek asked me to keep quiet.”

“Sir, your omelette.”

Willow tried to smile as the chef slid a green and yellow disk onto his plate. His head was spinning. When the media found out about Derek, they were going to have a field day. The fans were going to shit bricks. There might even be riots.

“I can’t believe it,” Byron repeated. “I knew he was having knee problems, but the Sharks’d pay through the roof to keep him on. Even just for one year.”

It was the most Willow had ever heard him say. “I know, they might still be trying to make a deal.”

“They can’t.” Psycho leaned forward. “Derek’s refusing to negotiate. We talked a bit after I saw the emails. The doctors told him if he keeps playing, he’ll need a reco.”

The whole table winced. A knee reconstruction was one of the most painful and complicated recoveries in sport. Every player’s worst nightmare.

“At first he was thinking about doing it,” Psycho whispered. “Then he and Mara started talking kids and I think he changed his mind.”

Willow turned to look at his mate. As he sat talking to Kasun Pershad and Michael Tully, Derek’s face was smooth, his colour restored. He didn’t look like he had any regrets.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. It was a text from Eden.

Hey Willow, I hope you’re feeling okay. I’m sorry about last night. You’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met but this isn’t the right time. I don’t regret anything though, even though it feels like I’m dying. Being with you was such a dream.

Eden

ps. I did write a song about you. I’ve linked it here.

Willow smiled. She’d kept humming something and refused to tell him what it was. When he teased her about being her muse, she denied it. But he was right. She’d written a song about him. How fucking romantic. He decided to listen to it later when he was free to cry like a baby.

He’d been stupid to ask her to move to the Gold Coast with him. He’d acted like her parents—do what I want, change your plans to suit me, sit in the corner and give me what I need. Eden had grown up alone, the only person who believed in her music. She was right, touring with Francis was her chance. It just sucked that it would keep the two of them apart. He pushed his phone into his pocket, feeling hollow.