Page 76 of Broken Rivalry

I want to tell him that it’s kidnapping, but I don’t think he would even care. My phone beeps with a text from my father.

I didn’t lie. And there’s a video file attached.

“I have to go, Cole… Let me know if she’s okay?”

“Ah, now you’re okay with me keeping tabs on Eva?”

“‘Interested,’ that’s how I’ll put it,” I tell him sarcastically, but I’m way too eager for info to tell him off again.

I hang up and open the video file, and my breath catches in my throat. Poppy is there, standing in my father’s office, asking him to keep me away from her.

I bury my face in my hands, feeling the weight of our unspoken words and unresolved feelings. The knock jolts me back to reality. Alright, Poppy, you win. I’ll give you this space. But in a week, I’m coming back for you.

The week stretches on, seemingly endless. Each morning, I’m determined to keep up my professional facade. Yet, as the hours pass, my true emotions threaten to surface. Each presentation, every handshake, every nod of approval from dignitaries, feels like I’m on stage, performing a role that’s becoming increasingly difficult to play.

By the third day, my connection to Poppy—my lifeline, albeit through Cole—frays and then snaps. Eva’s abrupt departure, likely a desperate bid to escape Cole’s relentless shadow, has him hot on her heels. And just like that, my indirect link to Poppy is severed, leaving me feeling more isolated than ever.

Two days later, my fingers tremble as I dial her number, my heart racing with each ring. I break my promise, dialing her number repeatedly. Four calls. No answer. Then, a text notification. But it’s not her. It’s from Liam, the last person I expected to intervene.

Poppy’s okay. Nessa says back off. You’re not helping.

I stare at the message, disbelief clouding my thoughts. Since when does Liam play mediator? And what’s his connection to Nessa?

Is she okay? I type back.

She’s breathing, comes his terse reply.

My jaw tightens, the muscles working as I try to contain my frustration. Not helpful, Ashford.

Not trying to be. Focus on your goal.

Thanks, Dad, I shoot back, sarcasm dripping from each word.

You’re welcome, he retorts.

“I’ll make you pay for that, asshole,” I murmur, already plotting a suitable revenge for Liam’s unwelcome interference. But my plotting is cut short. The door to the conference room swings open, signaling the commencement of my final meeting. Arsenal. A meeting with the club owned by Cole’s father. This should be a slam dunk, but given the roller coaster of this week, I’m taking nothing for granted.

The final meeting at the FIFA headquarters is a blur of handshakes, nods, and polite smiles.

Stepping out of the stately building, the aftermath of the past week’s negotiations settles on my shoulders. The cityscape of Zurich offers a brief distraction as I make my way back to the hotel.

Restlessness grips me the next morning. With the FIFA decision hours away, my real anticipation is for the flight home and confronting my turmoil, my mistakes, and my Poppy.

And when the call finally comes, the voice on the other end delivering a resounding “yes,” a wave of elation washes over me. But it’s short-lived.

A cold, sinking feeling settles in my stomach, the room suddenly feeling too big, too empty. This victory, this monumental step in what I hope will be a diversification of my future business, feels hollow. Because there’s no one to share it with. No Cole to crack a joke, no Liam to offer a sarcastic comment and, most importantly, no Poppy to share in my joy and see the pride in her big brown eyes.

I sink into the plush armchair, grabbing the program’s brochure I’d left on the coffee table. The glossy pages showcase what is to be the pinnacle of soccer training in the US. The Elite Intensive Soccer Program—a four-week summer camp where the crème de la crème, the top twenty-two players from across the nation, train with the world’s best. It’s more than a training camp; it’s a crucible, a place where legends are forged and a place where sponsors will flood, and I will be able to diversify the company my grandmother left me and finally branch out in soccer and sports in general.

I recall my father’s mocking gaze and snicker when I first unveiled my plans after inheriting my grandfather’s empire. He told me I’d put the whole thing in the ground before I was twenty-five, and I’m now in perfect shape to show him how wrong he is, not only about my business sense but about life in general.

This sports division is my dream. My vision. And this program is basically setting me up for gold. But in this moment of triumph, the absence of Poppy’s comforting presence is a stark reminder of the game I tried to play against my father to protect her.

Bracing myself, I dial my father’s number. It rings twice before he picks up.

“Ethan,” he says with that familiar condescending tone.

“I’ve secured the deal with FIFA,” I say bluntly.

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