Try for Love (The Love Playbook #6)

Chapter 1

Logan

Well this is going to be…different. As I take in the hodgepodge of men spread across the pitch below, I do my best not to wrinkle my nose. I’m no stranger to being the new guy on a team, but I can’t say I’ve ever joined a rugby team with quite this level of…

“Chaos,” I murmur. I’m rethinking all my decisions.

Behind me, the team’s owner, Cole Evanson, laughs as if I’ve told some great joke. His focus is on his computer, but I’m sure he’s aware of what’s happening on the pitch. “It’s the first day of a new season. Give them a bit to settle in.”

I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that the blokes below haven’t been practicing for the last several months.

I expected rugby in the States to be more casual than back home in Australia, but this feels downright negligent.

It’s no wonder the US never wins the Cup.

If this is how seriously they take the game—unseriously, in this case—it’s a miracle they win matches at all.

I lean closer to the glass of Evanson’s office window, watching as a player lifts his teammate in the air in what I can only assume is an attempted lineout lift, but as the bloke he’s lifting is twice his size, the two of them end up in a heap on the turf while several around them laugh.

I don’t see what’s so entertaining. One of them is going to get hurt before the season even starts.

“Sorry about that,” Evanson says, getting up and joining me at the window. “When I bought the Thunder, I didn’t realize how much paperwork there would be, and it keeps sneaking up on me.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the owner when I first arrived at the LA Thunder practice facilities a few minutes ago, more interested in studying my new teammates as they showed up.

But now that he has my attention, I’m surprised to see how young he is.

I’d wager he hasn’t hit thirty, and his build suggests he only recently stopped playing on the pitch.

I should have done more research before I signed the contract, but his likely experience is a positive sign.

“You played?” I ask to confirm my suspicion.

Evanson smiles. “Until right before the championship last year, yeah. My priorities have shifted, and most days I’m at home with my son so my wife can be here. She’s the team’s rehab specialist. But the Thunder will always be my team.”

At least I can say choosing this team in particular wasn’t a bad idea. If the owner was one of us, he’s not going to do the team dirty. “How’d you end up owning a team?” I ask next.

“Luck and solid investments. Why’d you choose to play here, of all places?

” He folds his arms, giving me a searching look that tells me he’s not a fool and expects honesty.

A good trait in an owner, I reckon, but more likely than not he won’t be around much.

I’m more concerned about the coach and his dynamic with the team.

Based on the mess down on the pitch, I worry the dynamic is as chaotic as this practice is starting out.

I shrug, turning my gaze back to the pitch. It’s not like I have anything to hide, but I don’t need anyone knowing my business. “Something new.”

“We’re a big step down from the Australian National Team. You sure you know what you signed up for?”

He’s really asking if I got sold down the river and booted, but no. I chose to leave. “Rugby is growing in the States,” I say, as if he doesn’t already know. “The Wallabies agreed to take me back after this season.” It’s the only reason I felt okay about the hiatus.

“And we can’t convince you to sign on for more than one season?” Evanson asks. I can practically feel his stare.

I shake my head. “Sorry, mate, but it’s one season or nothing. I can go find another—”

“We’d be glad to have you for however long we can,” he says, cutting me off before I can threaten to choose another team.

Good, because I don’t want to do that. Based on my information, Los Angeles is exactly where I want to be.

“I’m just making sure you weren’t expecting another couple of zeros on your paychecks.

” Again he gives me that searching look, but there’s something amused about it.

Enough to get me to crack a smile when I look at him.

“I’m well aware of what I’ll be paid,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I’d be a drongo to not know I’m taking a ninety percent pay cut to play here in the States. “Not expecting half a mil. I’m fine with my 20k.” For now, anyway. As soon as I can, I’ll be back to my real team and a solid paycheck.

Evanson’s jaw tightens. “Great. Well, I can take you down to meet the team, if you’re sure you don’t want to back out. I haven’t told anyone you signed, just in case.”

Smart. That would be quite the blow, to think they’d have someone of my caliber only to lose the chance.

My eyes catch on half a dozen men doing poses from The Karate Kid while the others break into actual warmups, and I frown.

One of the lads balancing on one foot pushes the bloke next to him, and all of them topple into each other.

I hold back a groan. At least the Thunder will need me. “You’re telling me this team won a Grand Final last year?”

“Championship.” Evanson smirks. “Yes. Like I said, give them a few days to settle in, and they’ll surprise you.”

With the way they’re behaving, we’ll be lucky if we win a single match.

I follow Evanson to the door, bracing myself for what are sure to be heaps of different reactions to finding out I’m playing with the Thunder this year, but he stops with his hand on the doorknob and looks back at me, his expression hard.

“I know what you’re used to, Logan,” he says, keeping each word calm and controlled.

“You’re coming from an incredible team and a lot of discipline.

But those guys down there, for all their antics, are a family.

I don’t expect you to treat them like your best friends, but I expect you to show them respect.

They work hard to be a part of this team. ”

The only reason I won’t show them respect is if they do something to lose it, but I don’t say that out loud. I’m not here to make friends. If I didn’t need a way to keep my skills honed while I’m away from my real team, I wouldn’t be here at all.

My phone sits heavy in my pocket with texts from my parents, making sure I’ve settled in and wishing me luck.

I need it, since I’m figuring this out as I go.

Dad’s heart attack last month, sudden as it was, spooked me.

Spooked all of us. My adoptive parents are getting older and won’t be around forever, and they’re the only family I’ve got.

Mum is convinced that I’m going to be miserable and lonely when they’re gone, and when we were sitting in the hospital after the attack, she and Dad made me promise to take some time to figure out where I came from. Which means finding my birth mum.

And since I owe everything to the people who raised me, how could I refuse?

Getting answers will give them peace of mind, which hardly covers what I owe them for the life they’ve given me. That means I can’t go back home until I’ve done everything I can to learn about my background, and I’m more than happy to keep my head down and play a good game while I do.

Whether the rest of the team can keep up with me remains to be seen.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell Evanson and follow him out. “I’m here to play.”

When we get down to the pitch, the lads have finally been wrangled into a somewhat respectable stretch routine, led by a blonde woman who barely looks old enough to be out of uni.

Evanson heads straight for her, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek.

Must be the wife. He says something to her, making her blush, then whistles to catch the attention of the team as he releases his wife and stands at her side.

All eyes turn to him, but a few dart over to me after a second or two. I’ve kept my distance, standing just within hearing distance, and I’ll join the boys on the pitch once they’ve gotten the excitement or nerves out of the way, whichever they may feel.

“Listen up, Thunder,” Evanson says, nodding at the coach, who must know the news because he nods back from where he stands with the rest of the coaching staff. “We have a last-minute addition to our roster.”

More pairs of eyes turn my way, some with interest, others with confusion or suspicion.

I reckon I should be glad they signed me so close to the start of the season, but they’d be mad to turn me down.

I doubt they’ve had a player with anything close to my skills on their team in the few years they’ve existed, and they’ll get a lot closer to winning the “Championship” again with me among the backs.

“This is Logan Callahan. He’ll be with us for the season, so be nice while he’s here.”

“Only one season?” someone asks. “Visa problem?”

A different man stands, his eyes narrowed as he takes me in and slowly approaches.

I address the man who spoke, keeping a wary gaze on my approaching teammate. “No problems here. Dual citizen. Yank and Aussie, all in one.”

“Aussie?” someone else says, elbowing the bloke next to him. “Hear that Gary? You finally have a fellow kangaroo!”

Gary nods at me, a gesture I return only out of courtesy.

I was hoping the team would be free of other Australians if only to make it easier to avoid anyone trying to become my friend.

As long as he’s from any state but New South Wales, I’ll have reasons to keep a distance, but with my luck he’ll have grown up in Sydney, like me.

“How’s things?” he asks, almost nervously.

The player who stood reaches me, saving me the trouble of responding. He holds out his hand and offers a wary smile. He’s likely somewhere in his mid-twenties, same as me. “Malcolm Auxier,” he says. “But you can call me Moxie.”

“Captain,” Evanson says, nodding at Moxie.

I take the captain’s hand. He looks friendly, but I have no idea if he can lead a team, particularly one as chaotic as this one. But I’ll withhold judgment and see what he can do. “Logan.”

“What position?”

With two and a half dozen eyes on me, I try to gauge where the team might be lacking based on size alone. I contracted for a specific position, but I’ve played them all and am not afraid to lobby for somewhere I’ll be more valued. “Wing,” I say eventually, sticking with my usual position.

A man on the ground scoffs, and I can easily guess he’s a fellow wing. He’s too slender to play any other spot, built for speed instead of power. “Seriously? But you’re huge.”

“Still faster than you,” I mutter.

Moxie’s eyes immediately drop back to slits. “Take the ego down a notch, Callahan,” he says, keeping his voice low.

My eyebrows jump up. After his friendly greeting, his warning catches me by surprise.

He has backbone, I’ll give him that. “Cap,” I say with a nod.

I don’t need to make friends, but neither do I need to make enemies.

My angelic mum would skin my hide if she caught me belittling my teammates just because I have more experience than they do.

“Can he even play?” the little wing asks the teammate next to him.

Fixing my gaze on him, I fold my arms and study his small build. Speed is one thing, but if he can’t push through a block, what good is he? The man needs to put on several kilos of muscle if he wants to excel in his position.

“Easy, mate,” Gary says, throwing his teammate a sharp look. “That’s Logan Callahan.”

“So?”

“He scored the match-winning try at the World Cup quarter finals three years ago, and I’m pretty sure he was on the Australian Olympic team when they won silver in Madrid.”

As whispers filter through the team, I resist the urge to smirk. Nice to know my reputation has preceded me when I’ve put in the work to get to where I am. But when the wing rolls his eyes, like my stats mean nothing, I can’t hold back a sharp, “What have you done, String Bean?”

The team erupts into laughter and cheers, while the player closest to the wing says something about how I have him pegged and even got his name right.

Moxie is less amused, his jaw clenched as he stalks over to Evanson. “You didn’t tell me he was top shelf,” he says in an undertone, but not so quiet that I can’t hear the conversation over the team’s chatter.

Evanson shrugs. “I would have if you were ever around. I told you I didn’t know if he would pan out, so I figured I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Grumbling something about being busy, Moxie comes back over to me and pastes on a smile. “We can’t compare to the Wallabies, but we’re glad to have you.” I doubt he believes his own words, with the way they seem to cause him pain.

He’ll change his tune once he sees me play.

With pleasantries out of the way, Moxie heads to the coaching staff and starts talking to a woman who frowns back at him as she puts her hand on his arm. It’s a comforting gesture, I’d reckon, which makes me think Evanson wasn’t speaking nonsense when he said this team is a family.

Considering I’m here because of family, I’m not sure I love that concept. I generally don’t bother with putting down roots, but I get the sense things’ll be awkward if I stick to the outskirts the way I plan. At least I can still play the game regardless of my relationships. Or lack thereof.

“Let’s get to work, Thunder!” Evanson shouts, and everyone hops to their feet, giving me a wide berth and plenty of sideways glances.

Not excitement, then. Looks like we’re starting strong with awkwardness and unease. Brilliant.