Zaf surged forward, but the kids swerved him like some kind of athletic hivemind. It was Jamal who finally managed to grab the phone. But once he saw the screen, he started laughing, too.

“What?” Zaf growled. “Give it to me before I knock your block off.”

“Go steady,” Lucas tutted. “Don’t think your missus would approve. Since she’s a doctor and all.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Mate.” Jamal shook his head, his laughter fading as he held out the phone. “Just—don’t lose it, okay? And don’t kill Fatima.”

Zaf accepted the phone with a frown . . . and stared down at a video of himself carrying Danika Brown out of Echo like she was a fairy-tale princess and he was a devoted knight. Holy shit. Holy shit. Embarrassment flared to life like a forest fire, burning hotter with every second the video played. Dani smiled at the camera like a vixen, and Zaf stared dreamily down at her like she was the source of all sunshine. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who the hell looked at their friends like that? If she saw this video—

If she saw this video, she’d probably think he was obsessed with her, or in love with her, or one of those douchebag “nice guys” who only befriended women because he secretly wanted to sleep with them. They’d have to have a painfully awkward conversation where she explained that she wasn’t interested, that the coffee and the occasionally flirtatious jokes were just friendship and lighthearted banter, and shit, she’d thought he knew. And it would be especially galling because he did fucking know. Of course he did.

So why are you looking at her like that?

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jamal said, sounding unusually cheerful—practically fucking gleeful, actually. “But I’m assuming that’s the woman you’re always mooning over, the one who brings you coffee. Yeah?”

“Coffee!” the lads crowed, as if Jamal had said, The one who blows you every morning. Zaf would have told them all to fuck off, but they were just excited kids, and also, he was too busy trying not to die of embarrassment.

“I don’t moon over her,” he muttered darkly. What the hell did that even mean? And how did you delete a video someone else had posted to Instagram? While he tried to figure that out, his gaze drifted to the number of views and comments—and his heart plummeted through his body like a lead weight. Which didn’t feel too healthy.

How many views? And there was a hashtag—a bloody ridiculous one—and his name. What rugby-obsessed weirdo had recognized him, bearded and seven years older, on some random internet video? He didn’t know, but the fact it had happened at all made his heart pound. And, since his heart was currently rolling around in his stomach, the sensation was even more uncomfortable than usual.

Claws of ancient anxiety sank into his skin, but he closed his eyes for a second and pulled them out, one by one. It’s just Instagram. Yes, that’s a lot of views, but Instagram isn’t real life, and it definitely isn’t the press, and even if it was, you can handle it. You have the tools to handle it.

Right. Yeah. He did. By the time Zaf opened his eyes, he was already feeling better. Then something occurred to him. “Wait—Fatima tagged me in this?”

Jamal held up both hands as if calming a bull. “I’m sure she had a good reason. She’s a smart girl.”

But Zaf’s only Instagram account was actually Tackle It’s account. And according to his notification page, Tackle It now had more likes and comments than the app could keep track of. Setting his jaw, he went back to the video and found Fatima within seconds.

“Zaf,” Jamal said. “Don’t—”

“Can’t stay. Have to go and flush my niece’s phone down the toilet.”

“Did you have a good day at work, puttar?”

“No,” Zaf snapped, kicking off his shoes and striding into the living room. “Where’s Fatima?”

His mum and sister-in-law were perched on the old, squishy sofa they’d had since Zaf was a kid, Mum’s tiny, round frame swallowed up by the swathes of fabric she was working on. Her focus was split between stitching a hem by muscle memory alone and watching an episode of Come Dine with Me, so she didn’t seem to notice Zaf’s tone. “Fatima?” she murmured. “Around, I think. There are samosas in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want samosas.” Zaf frowned, then got ahold of himself. “In a second. I want samosas in a second. Thanks, Ami. But—”

Mum’s laughter interrupted him. She nodded gleefully at the TV, where a white woman with feathers in her hair stirred a pot of vomit-colored dopiaza. “Dear me, that looks awful. The other guests will cause such a fuss.”

“Is Fatima here or not?”

“All they do is fuss,” muttered Zaf’s sister-in-law, Kiran, who was frowning down at her own stitches and ignoring Zaf quite happily. Kiran was taller than Mum, paler and thinner than she used to be, her face lined before her time. But Zaf knew exactly what his brother would say if he saw his wife now.

There she is, the one who puts the moon to shame.

Was it weird to think sentimental thoughts about Zain and Kiran while plotting the murder of their only child? Maybe. Just to get everything out in the open, Zaf said, “I’m going to kill your daughter.”

Kiran barely glanced up. “Why? Has she been stealing your romance novels, too?”

“Romance novels?” Mum was finally paying attention, scowling at them both from behind her huge, cream-colored glasses. They were Gok Wan, apparently. Height of fashion, apparently. Zaf stayed out of it. “You are both a horrible influence. Romance novels, indeed.”

“It’s healthy for her, Ami,” Kiran said. “She needs to see—”

“This is not what I came to talk about,” Zaf growled. Then he raised his voice to bellow, “Fluff! Get your arse down here.”

Mum tutted disapprovingly and turned back to the TV, where a balding man with a grim expression was complaining about the dopiaza. “Absolutely awful. To be frank, I wouldn’t feed that to a dog. I’m sure she tried her hardest, but it’s a two out of ten from me.”

A few minutes later, the living-room door burst open and Fatima rushed in, a beaming smile on her face. “Chacha! Did you see it?”

Her happiness disarmed Zaf a little. Fatima was a smart kid—a really smart kid, just like her dad had been. So why didn’t she seem to realize that she had done a Very Bad Thing and was in serious trouble?

“The video? Yes, I saw it. What on earth were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” Fatima said patiently, “that views are money, and Tackle It needs money. Is this your regular grumpy face or your angry face? I can’t tell.”

“Angry face,” Kiran offered from the sofa. “When he looks extra constipated—”

“What the hell?” Zaf burst out.

“Language!” Mum snapped.

“—that means he’s angry. Zaf, sweetie, what’s crawled up your behind now?”

“I’ll tell you what. Your daughter,” Zaf said, because he officially washed his hands of Fatima as his niece, “used an embarrassing Instagram video to publicly identify me as the founder of Tackle It.”

“Good.” Kiran smiled sweetly, because she was an unnatural woman who enjoyed the suffering of others. “Now people will pay attention and you’ll finally get it off the ground. Only a child of mine could be so clever.”

Zaf’s jaw dropped. His righteous anger deflated. Why was no one furious on his behalf? What the fuck was wrong with these people? “This—she shouldn’t—you sound like Jamal!”

Was it Zaf’s imagination, or did his sister-in-law’s cheeks flush slightly pink? Before he could decide, she argued, “Fatima’s right: views are money and publicity is opportunity. You are, allegedly, a young man. You should know this.” Kiran herself was some kind of Instagram model, except she made all her own clothes. She even embroidered her own hijab. Her account brought a lot of business to the clothing store she ran with Mum, so Zaf supposed she knew what she was on about. And he’d been planning to add his name to Tackle It’s website anyway. Eventually. Once he’d turned the idea over in his mind long enough to wear away the film of anxiety.

But this video . . . “It’s too much,” he said, and his voice came out rough and croaky. “Too many people. Attention isn’t always a good thing, Kiran, you know that.” Back when Dad and Zain had died, there’d been . . . a news drought, or something. Zaf had already stood out more than he should, being one of few Muslim pros, non-practicing or otherwise. Journalists had been all over his “tragic” story like flies on shit, and his world had shattered under someone else’s microscope. So, no, attention wasn’t always a good thing. He’d learned that when the press had turned his family’s unhappy ending into a sports section headline.

Kiran looked up, a flash of sympathy in her eyes. The teasing satisfaction left her voice in an instant. “Things are different now, Zafir.”