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It’s not exactly a usual situation, taking my fake boyfriend to meet a group of women who have known me since school, who don’t much seem to like me any more, so we can all socialise together. It’s not exactly a tale as old as time, is it?

The party is at Tina’s new house, which, judging by the photographs she has posted every day for the past two weeks, is a mega mansion. Honestly, she’s going to be insufferable, because she is at her absolute worst when she has the most to brag about.

The other reason I’m nervous is Eddy, because, I don’t know, since he kissed me, the butterflies in my stomach are even more confused. I know, I know, he only did it to piss Ron off, and probably Jamie too, by showing him that he wasn’t brooding over losing, but… still…

He seems brighter since his loss, which isn’t what I was expecting. Then again, everyone is still talking about Eddy’s try.

It has been almost a week since the final, but it is still appearing everywhere. Every time I open social media (although admittedly the rugby algorithm has taken over now), there he is, rising over Jamie, taking the ball and running the length of the pitch. The official league account has posted it from four different camera angles. Leeds have slowed it down, added dramatic music and shared it again and again. Oh, and the number of reels and TikToks, most of them celebrating Eddy and making fun of Jamie, is unreal.

Eddy’s hands rest loosely on the steering wheel as he drives us towards Tina’s house.

He’s looking smart, in dark jeans, a white shirt and a navy jacket, though he does look like he’s going to burst out of his sleeves when he turns a corner.

I’m wearing a green wrap dress that looked elegant in my hotel mirror but now feels worryingly low-cut in the passenger seat. The fabric shifts every time I move, forcing me to check that I haven’t popped one or both boobs out. I was feeling emboldened by something when I bought it. Whatever it was, it’s keeping its mouth shut now.

‘You know, everyone is still talking about that try,’ I tell him, making conversation, because he’s been so busy this past week, I haven’t seen much of him.

Eddy smiles, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘Yeah, it certainly takes the sting out of losing,’ he confesses. ‘It could have been a worse night.’

I settle back into the seat, watching the houses start to appear more expensive as we near Tina’s new place. It could have been a worse night for me too because it could have ended without Eddy’s lips on mine. If I want to see an action replay of anything, it’s that; I want romance pundits looking at it, decoding it, commenting on his technique. I want to remember it in more detail, where his hands were, if he seemed relaxed, if it was purely tactical or… something else.

If Eddy has thought about it since then he hasn’t let on. He messaged the following morning to ask whether I had managed to get back to Leeds safely, then spent the next few days dealing with interviews, end-of-season meetings and the relentless public discussion of his try.

If it was strictly business then it’s probably sensible that we haven’t discussed it – his lips touching mine, me melting into his arms, feeling like all eyes were on us and yet somehow like we were the only two people in the stadium.

‘It looks dangerous sometimes,’ I say, because talking about rugby feels safer than talking about everything else. ‘Watching it in a stadium is different from watching it on TV. Sometimes I actually hear the tackles, like a loud slap. Do people ever get seriously hurt?’

I think about Green, taking a knock to the head, and seeming fine, but failing his concussion test and having to stay off. He’s okay now, but it could have been a different story.

‘Yeah, we can get hurt,’ he replies. ‘It’s a contact sport, so there’s no pretending it’s completely safe. You get the usual injuries from running and changing direction, knees, ankles, hamstrings – and then you’ve got shoulders, ribs, broken noses, cuts. Fingers are always getting bent the wrong way, but those can be popped back into place at the side of the pitch. I don’t have attractive hands.’

I look at his hands as he holds the steering wheel. They are as enormous as ever, but now I’m looking I do notice a slight bend in one finger. Still, I wouldn’t say it was unsightly; if anything, I’m weirdly attracted to his hands. They seem so big, so safe, so capable.

‘Technically, I broke this one twice in one game, about twenty minutes apart,’ he tells me.

‘You kept playing with a broken finger?’ I reply in disbelief.

‘For a bit,’ he says casually.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I could still hold the ball,’ he tells me, like that’s a normal thing to say.

I stare at him.

He glances at my face and laughs.

‘We’ve got doctors and physios there,’ he explains. ‘You don’t make those decisions on your own. Head injuries are different. If the medical team see signs of concussion, or think there’s been a bad impact, you come off and get assessed. They can review footage at the side of the pitch now, so even if the doctor didn’t have a clear view live, they might spot something on the replay. You don’t get to say you feel fine and carry on because you don’t want to miss the rest of the match.’

‘But I bet you’d try,’ I joke.

He laughs, then his face turns more serious.

‘No, you know what, not even I would be that stupid,’ he insists.

‘Have you had concussions?’ I ask, trying to sound normal, even though the words make me feel scared for him suddenly.