ASHLEY
Ugh.
It’s so freaking hot in here.
Why are there so many people outside?
I tiptoe and almost curse when someone almost push me aside.
"s**t, sorry man."
Man?
I blink up—way up—at a guy in a Wolves jersey. Wolves.
He’s tall, annoyingly clear-skinned, and definitely smirking like he’s above whatever sweaty peasant tier I’m currently in.
“You good?” he asks, tilting his head like I’m a lost dog. “You trying to get inside?”
“Trying,” I mutter, tugging my hoodie down so hard the drawstring snaps me in the eye. I fake-cough and pivot like I’m about to walk away.
He doesn’t move.
Why isn’t he moving?
“Game’s starting now,” he says, squinting past me toward the arena. “Unless you’re one of those late-arrival VIP fans, I don’t think you’ll still get inside.”
LANG-LEY. LANG-LE
