My Football Star Ex Begs Me Back

Chloe's POV

"C, I'm the adopted daughter in my family. Lately I've noticed my brother treats me especially well. He gives me limited-edition necklaces before they're even on sale. When I came down with a mild flu, he cancelled every important commitment he had just to look after me. And the way he looks at me has changed, too. Do you think he's in love with me? What am I supposed to do?"

The voice on the other end carried a note of coy, helpless confusion.

I looked up at her screen image — a scrambled avatar with the camera switched off — but I recognised the account. She'd been following me since my very first livestream. This was the first time she'd ever asked to come on the line.

Out of affection for an old fan, and out of pure instinct as an emotional counsellor, I smiled gently and pulled the mic closer to my lips. My voice came out warm and steady.

"Sweetheart, I understand your hesitation and your unease completely. But I can tell you with absolute certainty — what your brother feels for you is not ordinary brotherly affection. He breaks his own rules for you. He gives you a kind of favour nobody else gets. That means you hold a special place in his heart. And I can feel it too — that you're hoping for something beyond family."

I paused, and gave her the most sincere encouragement I had in me.

"If the feeling is real, then you can be brave, just this once."

"Really, C?" A very soft laugh came down the line. The fragile, helpless tone dropped away in an instant, and something strange and elated took its place. "Well then — since even you say so. I'll be brave. Thank you, C. You're the one who gave me the courage to decide."

"You're welcome. Sleep well tonight."

I ended the call, turned back to the camera, and wore my flawless professional smile. "Alright, my darlings, that's all for today. I hope every one of you finds the most comfortable way to be in love. Same time tomorrow."

The screen went dark with my goodbye. It was as though every ounce of strength had been drained out of me at once. I collapsed back into the soft couch and rubbed my aching temples.

What a joke.

To the tens of thousands of viewers in that stream, I was the sharp, clear-eyed C — the relationship blogger with a hundred thousand followers. I could dissect a toxic dynamic with pinpoint accuracy. I could calmly hand solutions to people who were floundering, and countless women worshipped me as their saviour when it came to love.

Only I knew the truth. I was just another person stuck in the same mess.

My phone chimed, bright and clear. I knew it was him again.

It really was strange. For half a month now, every time I finished a stream, a message would arrive on my phone, right on time, from an anonymous number.

That stranger was like a ghost lurking in the dark, watching my every move. The messages were always bizarre — sometimes a warning I couldn't make sense of, sometimes a photo taken from an odd angle.

At first I assumed it was some anti-fan or a bored obsessive pulling a prank, and I blocked the number without a second thought. But the next time I finished streaming, a brand-new burner number would appear and deliver the message to my phone just as precisely as before.

After a few failed attempts, I gave up fighting it and let it be, treating the whole thing as nonsense.

I shut my eyes, drew a long breath, and reached for the phone on the table. But the second my gaze landed on the screen, I froze solid.

This time it was a photo.

A clamouring bar, packed with men and women drinking and shouting. And in a corner of the crowd, a man and a woman were wrapped around each other without a care in the world, kissing with obvious passion. The man — the hard cut of his jaw, the clean line of his profile — even half his face was enough. I would never mistake him.

It was my husband. Rhys.

The most in-demand striker in all of America. A football superstar worshipped by millions. And my husband.

Right under the photo, a new message slid into view, with the address of a bar attached:

If you want the whole truth, go to this place.

My hand was trembling, faintly and beyond my control.

Some rational voice in my head was screaming: this is a prank! Some paparazzo or some enemy photoshopped it to smear Rhys. But the details in the photo were too real. Real enough to send a chill through me, real enough to make me wonder whether Rhys had betrayed me.

I decided I should go and see for myself.

If this was a trap, I would tear the anonymous stranger's lie apart with my own hands. But what if — I didn't let myself finish the thought. I grabbed my coat off the couch and stumbled out of the house.

Half an hour later I stood at the entrance of the bar.

I took a deep breath and went in. Following the layout I remembered, I pushed through the crowd and headed straight for that booth. The decor matched exactly, and the suspicion in my chest swelled. But when I reached the booth around the corner, my feet stopped.

The large, half-open private room was full of familiar faces — every starting player from Rhys's club.

And Rhys was sitting on the couch in a black shirt, his collar unbuttoned a little, a glass of expensive whiskey in his hand, giving off a kind of careless, untamed energy. More importantly, there was no hot, curvy woman kissing him at his side. Only an empty glass next to him, his teammates shouting and clowning around him.

At the sight, the heart lodged in my throat finally dropped back into place.

I let out a long breath, and every nerve stretched to breaking went slack at once.

I knew it. It was the stranger's prank. Rhys was busy and we often went days without seeing each other, but how could he possibly betray me?

Looking at that man glittering under the lights, guilt rose up in me. How could I doubt a husband I'd been with all this time, over one anonymous message?

I smoothed down my wrinkled shirt and started over to say hello, and to take him home.

But the instant I lifted my first foot — Milo, sitting beside Rhys, clapped him on the shoulder and said loudly:

"Hey, Rhys! Tonight's the night we took the top spot, man — the big celebration! How come you didn't bring your wife out with you? Everyone's dying to meet her."

I stopped where I was, in the shadows, and lowered my head a little, shyly, waiting for his answer.

I figured he'd say what he always said to the press — something offhand about how she didn't care for crowds.

Instead, Rhys set down his glass and said flatly, "She's too busy with work. She couldn't make it. Besides, didn't I bring a family member tonight, just like we agreed?"

As he spoke, his gaze drifted — almost imperceptibly — toward the booth beside him. The room went quiet for a beat, and then Felix laughed.

"A family member —?" He drew the words out. "Your sister, is she?"

A few others chimed in.

"Just your sister?"

"She doesn't look like any ordinary sister."

"Come on, Rhys. Don't lie to us."

My fingers curled tighter and tighter. Rhys only frowned and cut them off, his tone flat.

"She's my sister. Don't read anything into it."

He said it plainly, without a single word of explanation. And it was exactly that deliberate, distancing tone that made everyone around him smile knowingly.

"Got it, got it." Milo raised his glass, grinning. "Just your sister. We're not thinking anything."

That was what he said. But everyone's eyes had gone sly, and I stood frozen in the shadows, my ears ringing, all the colour drained from my face.