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| ONE | (Oliver The Footballer)

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Thank you to Alisson Becker for being hot and thank you to Bish for sending me his way.


Felicity typed the last words before she paused and let the cursor sit there blinking at her for a few moments before she placed the final full stop and pulled her fingers away from the keyboard.

She looked at the screen once again as her hand crept to the tail of her back, now aching from sitting at a desk too long – that was something she would have to get used to. A moment later, she pushed send.

It was done.

The interview that everyone from sports journalists to gossip columnists wanted and she, a virtually nameless hobby photographer who worked in the IT department at a magazine where people genuinely passed her in the halls and asked her if she was new (she’d been there three years) – she got it.

Not that she minded being somewhat invisible, honestly she’d spent a great deal of her youth wanting to be just that. A child prodigy and a certified genius didn’t exactly mesh well with High School and so Felicity, two years younger than her peers, developed this ability to blend.

She had friends, great ones, and she had ‘liked’ her job in the IT department of Verdant magazine, at least until she squired away enough money to start up her own company and then she’d poach her fellow ‘IT-basement-dweller’ Cisco and they would set about taking the world by storm.

At least that had been the plan up until about six months ago.

Now, Felicity wasn’t entirely sure.

| Eight Months Ago |

It was early July and the afternoon sun was high in the cloudless sky as Felicity sat cross-legged on cherry-wood bench in a bustling park half a block from her concrete 9-5 confinement, just watching the people in suits natter away on their cell phones while Cisco prattled off about his annoyance at a comic he was reading.

She took another bite of her pastrami sandwich and chomped silently as her eyes moved across the road from the park to a bistro playing a World Cup match to a crowd of rowdy sports fans toting mugs of beer.

She decided that someone must have scored a goal because the cheering was almost deafening as it echoed through the crisp, summery day.

“They’re probably all cheering for Starling’s prodigal son, hoping he’ll return,” Cisco muttered as he looked over the edge of his graphic novel, “Honestly, why would he?”
Felicity pushed her glasses slowly back up the bridge of her nose while she looked down at her friend with a quizzical expression on her face, because she really had no idea what he was talking about.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?” he laughed as he sat up and playfully slapped the rolled up comic against her knee.
“He’s talking about Oliver Queen,” Iris interrupted as the curvaceous beauty slid alongside Felicity and plucked an uneaten apple from her lunch cooler – not that Felicity minded, after all the pretty brunette reporter with perfect skin and a million dollar smile was one of the few people she actually counted as a friend.

“Oh the recluse footballer that plays for Brazil?” Felicity flippantly asked, hoping she had heard enough of the talk around the water cooler to be somewhat accurate.

“Did you hear the latest?” Iris jabbered to a crowd of two that really weren't keeping up with the sport of the hour.
Felicity shook her head as she finished her mouthful, "nope," she answered with a pop of her candy pink lips.

“After they won their semi-final, he came out yesterday and said that if they win the Cup he'll grant one reporter an interview.”

Felicity snorted out a laugh both at the seriousness with which Iris espoused that information and the way her chocolate brown eyes grew wide with excitement.

“You don't cover sports,” Felicity quipped before she took a decidedly long drink from her thermos of iced coffee; saving for a business didn't allow splurges like that and she had become rather adept at making her own half decent one.

Iris rolled her eyes before she teasingly tugged on Felicity's sleek ponytail, “I know that but Oliver Queen hasn't given any interviews,” she proclaimed obtusely.
Felicity licked coffee remnants from her lips and asked, somewhat idly, “In how many years?”
“No, ever,” Cisco piped in.
Felicity looked at him with threads of betrayal. Her future business partner knew about sports?

“Even Flash Gordon here knows,” Iris laughed as she nodded to the lightning bolt emblem on Cisco's shirt.
“Actually this is THE Flash, not Flash Gordon that's something entirely different,” he argued before Iris hushed him with a side eye.
“The point is,” she continued, “whoever lands this interview will go down in history.”

“They have to win first,” Felicity remarked nonchalantly.
Iris looked almost insulted at the inference that they might not, “On home soil?” she flicked her silky tresses over her shoulder, “Oh they'll win.”
“Unless you just jinxed them,” Felicity casually quipped as she shook her half eaten sandwich at her pouting friend.
“Felicity I don't think you understand the gravity of what landing this interview would mean for me.”

Felicity sighed with apologetic eyes, even if she couldn’t understand it herself, Iris being excited about it was enough for her to enthuse with her friend.
“You’re right, sorry,” Felicity smiled softly and genuinely, “I hope Damian gives it to you.”

Iris’ lips tightened into a smile-less scowl, “That sexist son of a bitch denied my request to go down there. He said, and I quote,” she started, puffing up her chest and deepening her voice, “‘He sent his best guys because Oliver Queen isn't going to want to talk to a pair of heels’.”

Felicity cringed at their boss’ antiquated ideas. It was like he was a left over from another era before women could even vote and was the epitome of a man seeping in privilege.

“I'm sorry,” Felicity said quietly, one day when she handed in her notice it would come with a middle finger to the dick-in-a-suit.
“Well, fuck him,” Iris gibed.
Cisco raised his soda can and added his own resounding “Fuck him.”
“Fuck him,” Felicity rounded off with her own drink raised.

The trio took a silent moment to appreciate that beneath the joviality of the statement there was a fundamental truth – their boss was an asshole.

“Do you have a passport?” Iris asked of Felicity as she turned towards her friend.
“Ah yeah” Felicity shrugged, “I think it's still valid.”
She probably should have cottoned on to what her tenacious friend was going to ask her next, but she didn’t, rather she kept chomping away on her sandwich and enjoying the warm, but temperate, sun on her face.

At least until Iris spoke again, “Good, I need you to come to Brazil.”
Felicity choked on the mouthful of pastrami before she managed to swallow the delicious lunchmeat down with a splutter, “Wait what? Didn't Damien say no?”

Iris cocked her head to one side and arched her brow towards her hairline, “He did,” she commented, before her shoulders lifted into a shrug, “But I said I was going anyway.”

Felicity’s mouth gaped, but it was Cisco who managed to speak, “Iris, did you…?”
“I quit,” the beauty announced with excited eyes, “I'm freelancing it.”
Finally, Felicity found her voice, “I mean... that',” but not the ability to string a sentence together.

“I know it’s stupid and foolish and might very well have set my career back a few years,” Iris lamented, after all she had already considered all of that on the walk over, “but I have a really good feeling about this,” and more than that, she had her gut instinct which for a reporter was like a tuning fork, “It’s his first interview, ever, a guy like that doesn't want to bro around with some old commentator about scores and seasons bests. He wants to tell his story and I want to listen.”

Oliver Queen was by all accounts a recluse, albeit a famous one; Iris was almost certain his decision to come out from behind that curtain was because he now finally wanted to. That wasn’t just about sports and she was prepared to risk her career and her savings on that hunch.

“So why does Felicity need a passport?” Cisco inquired, a question that had escaped Felicity’s mind until that moment.
“Because…” Iris drew up her lips into a smile and widened her eyes as beseechingly as she could, “I need a photographer.”
“I work in IT, I'm not a photographer,” Felicity countered.
“I've seen the pictures you take Felicity and they're really good.”

That wasn’t just flattery, Iris genuinely meant it and when Cisco nodded, Felicity felt a wave of embarrassment. She had dabbled in the art form and taken a few night classes to learn the basics, but it was simply a hobby to do something that was tangible, solitary and relaxing. She had never entertained taking it beyond that.

“They’re of flowers and buildings and clouds,” Felicity responded as a warm blush pinked her cheeks, “Things that don't move or if they do then it's really, really slowly.”
Iris blew out a despondent sigh, “I don't have any money to hire someone Felicity, please?”
Her deep mocha eyes searched Felicity’s sapphire blue ones, hoping that ‘friend to friend’ she might just say yet.

Felicity, for her part, knew she really only had one answer to give.
“Okay,” she nodded along with her answer, symbolically convincing herself it was the right one, “I have some holiday leave owing. When do we fly out?”
“Saturday,” Iris quipped.
Three days away.

Felicity rolled her eyes jestingly but she’d find some way to make it work.
There was however a weird sensation of trepidation in Felicity's gut and she wasn't sure what to make of it before she swallowed it down. After all, even if the best scenario happened and Iris did by some million to one odds land this interview, they would only be gone a couple of days, a week a most.

That was the plan.


As the plane began its decent into Rio de Janeiro, Felicity could almost feel the buzz radiating from the City below. In fact, after Brazil made it into the final, the entire world was watching and waiting, like Charlie trying to find his golden ticket, as to whether or not the reclusive billionaire would talk.

Felicity, on the other hand, had used the 15 hour flight time between the two Cities to give herself a crash course in Portuguese and pour over whatever information she could find on the illusive Oliver Queen.

It read like the opening to a superhero origin’s comic, though Felicity decided that could have been Cisco’s influence rubbing off on her. The firstborn and only son of Robert and Moira Queen, Oliver was born May 1985. By all accounts, despite being born into privilege and wealth, he lived a somewhat normal childhood. In 1995 his parents welcomed a daughter, Thea. Three years later, November 2000, Robert and Moira Queen were killed when their luxury yacht was caught in a storm while on a voyage in the North China Sea. No bodies were recovered but seven years later, after an exhaustive search, they were pronounced dead.

At the tender age of 13, Oliver and his sister became orphans. They were put under the guardianship of the family's housekeeper and nanny. During this time Felicity had discovered a litany of photographs of Oliver, a tall, willowy youth with a mop of blonde hair and a broken smile.

Between the accident in 2000 and 2002, Felicity had encountered more photographs of the family than she’d come across all the years prior and since. The media was transfixed with the tale and it seemed to get more intrusive with each passing month. There were aerial shots of the funeral that showed a blonde boy dressed in black cradling his much younger sister as they stood in front of two, empty, coffins. Photos of him on his way to school, in his yard, there were documentaries and news casts and even a made-for TV movie that, from the synopsis, seemed to suggest foul play and a child delinquent – though that theory was ruled out long ago.

After 2002, Oliver and Thea Queen virtually vanished. The articles dried up and there were no photos that Felicity could find, until almost a decade later, when the world rediscovered Oliver Queen, now sporting a closely cropped hair and beard and bursting into the Football scene an overnight success at the age of 25.

But there was nothing else, no endorsements, no interviews, nothing.

As for the company that still bore his last name, Queen Consolidated, it was run by an acting CFO and a dedicated Board who hadn’t spoken publicly about the headline-making majority shareholder.

“He’s fascinating right?” Iris said while she read Felicity's research over her shoulder as the plane touched down on the tarmac with a rumble.
“What do you suppose he did from the age of 15 to 25?” Felicity wondered as she thumbed the pages of her folder.
She might have only been there to photograph the guy, but if Iris got the chance, there was no way Felicity was going to blow it by putting her foot in her mouth and getting something wrong.
That was Felicity circa-two years ago.

Iris shrugged as she tilted her head of the small porthole window, “Learned how to play soccer I suppose.”
Felicity cast her eye over the latest photos, they were all of him on the field, either during open practices or matches. Beyond the slight, sun-kissed face and piercing blue eyes, Felicity saw a certain kind of sadness in his eyes, and, even though it was over a decade after the photo was taken of him at his parents’ funeral, he still had that same broken smile.


It was a few exhaustive hours later, which involved clearing customs and navigating the bustling streets to their hotel, before the two friends found themselves in the plush lobby of a fancy hotel staring at a black roped off door and one decidedly angry looking doorman standing in front of a black-box-lettered sign that read “PRESS ONLY”.

“So, where are our passes?” Felicity asked as she watched the doorman carefully study his electronic list against a badge of a reporter before letting him through the heavy door.

Iris stepped to the side to let another news team float passed them, “I don’t have any,” she grimaced.
Felicity replied in a whispered growl, “Then how are we getting in?”
“I have friends.”
Felicity looked around the lobby looking for one of these friends, but she saw nothing.
“Okay where are they? What’s the plan?”

Iris plastered a smile across her lips, “Okay maybe a friend,” she corrected as she pointed at Felicity, “Tada.”
The blonde traveller blinked furiously as words stumbled from her mouth, “Wait, you, want, me...”
“I know you can.”
“What exactly can I do?” Felicity gaped, turning her back towards the doorman in the very rare case he could read her guilty expression from a great distance.
“I know you can hack that guest list and put me on it,” Iris suggested with a broad smile.
“But he still needs to check the passes, and we don’t have them,” Felicity argued.

Iris puffed her hair, wet her lips and shuffled her skirt a little higher up her waist, “Leave that to me.”
“That’s really why I’m here isn’t it?” Felicity surmised when getting her tablet from her messenger bag found her fingers grazing the lens cap of her camera.
“Both,” Iris admitted with an apologetic smile.
“I really hate you.”
But her blue, albeit tempestuous eyes, were still smiling.
“I’ll return the favour.”
Felicity set about her task before she mumbled, “Somehow I doubt that.”


It hasn’t been that hard at all, quite easy actually, and the hack in conjunction with Iris’ way with words and an old press ID to prove her identity found the two of them filing into the packed banquet room a few minutes into the press conference.

Felicity found a gap in the sea of people between the shoulders of two men in front of her and when she lifted onto her toes she was afforded a view of the expat who spoke with a warm and smoky accent that had been years in the making.

He paused after each question was asked, reflectively considering it before he answered. Every answer was concise but not short. His photos had not done him justice and without the glisten of sweat on his brow or ruddy cheeks from running laps of the field, he was startlingly handsome with a chiselled jaw, full lips that looked like rose-hued pillows and a broad shoulders at the tops of cascading arm muscles burgeoning from behind the tightly woven yellow team shirt.

Occasionally his hand drifted up to his groomed scruff when a question about the sport was asked. And a smile flirted with his lips when someone asked him what Brazil's chances were before he laughed a "very good I hope."

But when the questions soon skewed to what everyone wanted to know, ‘The Interview’, she saw flashes of that boy with the broken smile, wrestling with his emotions.

“What will this interview entail?”
She watched as he took a breath inward through his nose, held it, and breathed it out slowly through his mouth, he never answered on impulse.
He leaned in a little closer to the desk mic and answered with a delightfully husky tone, “I’ll open my home to this person and answer any questions they have.”
A question from the crowd. “How long?”

His pinkish lips rolled under the weight of his tongue before he spoke. “That will be for us to decide I suppose,” he answered, his tone lifting a little to a silvery warmth.
“Do you have any idea who that will be yet?”

She lifted her camera silently up towards her eyes and lined the shot up only briefly before she looked over the top of it, watching with her natural eyes the moment he looked up from his clasped hands and she took the shot, not truly knowing just how stunning it would be.

Oliver studied the way his fingers intertwined with each other as he counted slowly to five in his head. One he took a slow intake of air through his nose to try and still the stampeded beneath his chest. Two he could feel the heat of the lenses on him, each one tracking and capturing his every expression. Three he tried to picture a field of grass swaying and a chilly wind brushing his cheeks as he walked slowly through the tall grass, dancing his fingers over the tips. Four he saw the grass disappear and a haze black and white hurtling towards him, he could feel the stretch of his arm and his feet lift off the ground as he stood in its way; and Five he looked up.

Hers were the eyes he saw, she held a camera against her lips but she was looking at him.

“I don’t,” he breathed, unable and unwilling to blink away from her intrepid blue eyes.
He didn’t hear the next question, enraptured in the way she blinked, until it was asked a second time.
“Why are you doing it this way?”
She looked away, caught by something the woman next to her had said, and Oliver found himself thrown in the midst of flashes and faces starring right through him. He was on display again. He needed to leave.

He leaned over to his manager, Tommy, on his right, “I need out,” he whispered, his voice panicked and thin.
Tommy lay a grounding hand on Oliver’s shoulder and his eyes warmly nodded.
“That’s all the time we have folks, thanks for coming out, Vai Brasil,” he chanted as he flashed a debonair smile and skilfully took everyone’s attention away from Oliver.

Well, almost everyone’s.

Felicity watched as Oliver moved rigidly towards the door, his manager was busy making the excitable crowd even more so, passing out replicas of Oliver’s jersey with his name and number 1 emblazoned on the back while he made quips about the other team in the final, but she saw only him – his palm pressed to his forehead and his lips pursed tightly – and then he was through the door and gone.


The score was 2-2 and they had already played out the 30 minute extra time. The atmosphere in the bar that Felicity and Iris had secluded themselves in the corner of, was electric and Felicity could only imagine how palpable the tension must have felt in the stadium.

Supporters for both teams crowded every inch of the quaint tavern with mismatched tables and a deep smell of tequila permeating the wood.

“What happens now?” Iris asked directly into Felicity’s ear even though the bar had become eerily still to the point that she could have whispered it and still been heard.
Felicity scrolled through Wikipedia, skimming each line until she found what she was looking for, “A penalty shootout,” Felicity read aloud, “each team will alternate five penalty kicks.”

The large wall-mounted TV flickered as the cameras zoomed in on the first kick from the penalty line for Brazil. The ball bounced off the top crossbar and disappeared into the crowd behind in an eruption of both cheers and boos.

Moments later the German kicker lined up his shot and took it; Oliver caught it dead centre to his chest in a move that winded Felicity just looking at it.

Iris bounded up off her chair and hysterically clapped along with the other Brazilian supporters in the room, startling Felicity so much that she jolted her knees into the underside of the table. Tending to the scuffed grazes on her knees, Felicity missed the next shot taken by the Brazilian kicker, but when Iris screamed loudly beside her, she assumed they had scored a point.

The German kicker missed his second shot, ricocheting it off the top left joint and making it fall to the wrong side of the net. The supporters became restless with their grumbled words, which Felicity just assumed were curse ones.

Oliver looked worn as he breathed with his mouth open and brushed sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. She could only imagine the pressure he must have felt, watched by millions of people, a crowd of tens of thousands chanting and stomping their feet, thunderously in sync, and it only got louder as the Brazilian ball was blocked by the German goal keep, and the German ball was blocked by Oliver, keeping the shootout score at 1-0 to Brazil with 2 more balls to play.

The cheering became deafening when Brazil scored their next shot and Felicity put her hands against her ears and focused her eyes onto the TV. She could hear her own heart thumping and she had virtually nothing riding on this, but when the German kicker took his shot she found herself giving a man she didn’t even know every second of her unwavering attention and a mouthed, good luck.

The kick was high and at the opposite side of the goal to where Oliver was but with reflexes like Felicity had never seen, nor imagined were possible, he managed to reach it, it was his and it wasn’t getting past him.


Oliver felt the moment his glove touched the ball and for a split second there was nothing else on his mind but the black panel brushing his fingers – not the pain echoing down from his hand and not the desperate urge to blink. All he could see was the ball.

It was his.

For a moment everything fell silent and in a haze Oliver momentarily wondered if he had been wrong, had the ball escaped him?

But not more than a second later the stadium crowd erupted. The final score would be 4-2 and with one more shot remaining there was no chance German could claw back the game.

The ball was his.
The Cup was theirs.

The vomit came up unexpectedly and Oliver bent in half as it fell from his mouth. After that, he saw black. Only black.


“OHMYGODISHEALRIGHT?” Felicity cried out when she watched Oliver collapse onto the field.
The bar was still rampart with cheering and chanting that no one even bothered to look at the TV let alone watch as Oliver was stretchered off the field.

“We have to go,” Iris called as she grabbed Felicity by the hand and sprinted her from the pulsating bar.
Felicity looked back towards the TV as Iris ran her across the road and through a throng of revellers, but it was nothing more than a blur.

“Will he be okay?” Felicity shouted over the noise of the partying crowd, but Iris couldn’t hear her and the two kept running until they reached the same hotel as before, exhausted and breathless, 20 minutes later.

“Do…you….think….the…same…trick…” Felicity puffed out a paraphrased sentence as the two women tried to regain some semblance of normal breathing.
What she was asking is whether Iris could sweet talk them into another press conference and honestly, Iris wasn't so sure, but she wasn’t going to tell Felicity that.

The brunette took a few calming breaths as she smoothed down her tresses and straightened the dark yellow sundress she was wearing before she turned her attention to Felicity and brushed back the blonde’s tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face. Felicity swatted her away and completed the task herself before she straightened her glasses and shifted the shoulders of her fuchsia dress.
“Okay. Let's go get you that interview,” Felicity resolutely nodded.

The two women walked with straight shoulders and raised chins towards the same doorman and Iris immediately launched into her charm offensive.

But unlike last time a second man in a black suit appeared. He wore an unreadable expression on his richly dark face but his eyes seemed kind and despite the fact he towered over Felicity in her sandals, she never felt intimidated.

“Iris West?,” he was reading her name from a pen scribble on his hand and he was definitely American.
She nodded reluctantly, “Who's asking?” A playful response.

“Could you both come with me please?”
Iris raked a hand through her hair, “I'm sorry can this wait until after the press conference?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a demand, but Iris always had a charming way of phrasing her words that Felicity admired.

The man shook his head, “I’m afraid not.”
He stepped to the side and gestured to another door a few feet away.

“Can I ask why?” Iris tapped her roman sandals on the deep chestnut carpet while she kept her eyes focus on the man.
He blinked away from Iris’ stare and turned his attention to Felicity, “I assure you everything will be explained.”
He looked flustered, and like he was trying his very best to keep matters from garnering attention.
“Are you a cop?” Iris snipped.
He shook his head and Iris turned her attention back to the doorman, “Can you let us in now?”
“I'm sorry you won't be going in there.”


Felicity paced the length of the only furniture in the small room, a tinted glass table with eight leather chairs around it. An untouched tray of water and four glasses sat in the middle of that table. Iris was on the phone in the corner of the room trying to pull in any favours she could.

The man who had finally introduced himself as John and nothing else had left the room moments after he escorted them inside.

Iris muttered a string of curse words down at her phone as she reached yet another dead end.

“They know what we did, we are going to jail,” Felicity remarked without blinking as she stopped pacing and stared down at the water sitting completely still in the pitcher.
“No we won't,” Iris huffed, though the thought had crossed her mind a few times.
“I don't know enough Portuguese to go to jail,” Felicity lamented with almost no expression or vibrancy in her tone.
Felicity’s mind tore through a rapid succession of sudden issues they might face in prison, do they cut your hair? What colours do the wear in Brazilian prison? Cisco is going to be pissed.

Iris shook off Felicity's concern with a practiced laugh, “We're not going to jail Felicity.”
“Are you sure because from where I'm standing there is a high possibility we could,” Felicity snipped, she adored Iris, but frankly this was entirely her fault.

Iris didn't get a chance to retort when the door opened and John stepped into the room followed by a slightly shorter man but with an equally broad stature hidden beneath a hunter green hooded jersey.
“We are American citizens and I demand a lawyer,” Iris declared without taking a breath much to the amusement of the man behind John.

“What did you say to them?” the man whose face was still shrouded beneath his hood asked as he turned towards John.
The taller man shrugged helplessly, “Nothing, like you asked,” he rebutted.
“You could have told them something.” A laugh. Soft, jovial and instantly calming.

And then he pulled off his hood and Felicity saw his smile first, soft, charming but muted, controlled. It was unmistakable. That smile belonged to Oliver Queen.
“I'm sorry for the clandestine meeting. I'm not one for crowds,” he offered with apologetic eyes.

That seemed like an oxymoron given he had just come from playing in front of a massive one. But there didn't seem to be any sarcasm or irony in his tone.

He was looking at Felicity and noting how she looked even softer from only a few feet away. Her skin looked like fine porcelain dusted with glitter where a touch of perspiration glistened across the planes of it. Her eyes were wide behind her two-tone glasses And her blue irises almost completely swallowed up by her blown pupils. Her lips weren't smiling but he felt a warmth from them all the same.

“I would like to do the interview with you,” he said softly, each word a little hesitant until he got them all out and sighed with relief.
Felicity waited for Iris to holler, cheer...frankly just say anything, but she didn't, because Iris realised what was slowly beginning to dawn on Felicity, he wasn't talking to Iris.

“Oooohh,” she rolled her head slowly from shoulder to shoulder, “I'm not a... She is,” she pointed a wild hand back at Iris who, for the first time in their entire friendship, was speechless.
“I know,” Oliver breathed, “I'm sorry I don't know your name you were logged as Ms West's guest.”
“Felicity, Felicity Smoak,” she mumbled.
He breathed softly. Her name suited her. Happiness.

His exhaustion was beginning to show again and he figured he must have started swaying when John put his hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear, “You need to rest.”
“Miss Smoak, I hope you consider this. If you leave your details with Thomas Merlyn my manager, I'll make sure a car is sent for you in the morning.”
She expected some sort of playboy smile and an uncomfortable wink that usually came with the territory of Adonis male athletes, but Oliver only offered both her and Iris a reserved but genuine smile as he walked backwards to the door before he paused and added, “Tommy will be in shortly.”

And then he was gone, John with him and Felicity with only four words swarming her head; That wasn’t the plan.