Chapter 5
Try: A bold move pays off—crossing the line in more ways than one.
Translation: Wheels up, Conri the Convict.
Wolf
I frown as the flight attendant directs me toward the front of the plane, up by those lay-flat pods that I’ve only ever seen
on TV shows. Surely, this area can’t be for me. There must be some mistake. Or maybe there’s some cheap seats in the front
I don’t know about. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had to ride at the bottom of the plane with the dogs. I’m a bleedin’
fish out of water, and every person in the cabin of this plane can probably tell I’ve never even left Ireland.
I don’t have the travel bug in me that Cliona does. I spend my summers working at my parents’ shop and volunteering at these
youth rugby camps in my neighborhood. The only reason I even have my passport was in case I was recruited to a European team.
I bollixed that up good and proper, didn’t I? Now I’m on my way to America to train with someone I’ve never even feckin’ heard
of.
As I draw closer to my seat number, my gut sinks when I see a familiar blonde in the window seat right beside mine. She’s
got sparkly silver headphones on, a fluffy blanket draped over her body, and a silk eye mask already propped up on her forehead.
Jesus ever-loving Christ.
“Oh, there you are!” Everly peals excitedly, waving at me like a maniac. “We wondered when you’d get here. Glad you made it to the gate okay. Didn’t you see my texts? I was trying to find you in the airport.”
I wince and look across the center row to spot Everly’s family several rows up. Her dad gives me a tight smile that I know
he doesn’t mean.
I knew I’d be on the same flight with all of them. I just didn’t know I’d be seated right beside the one girl I can’t seem
to ever get away from.
“What’s wrong?” she asks when I make no move to sit down.
I clear my throat. “There’s been a mistake with my ticket.”
“What do you mean?” She rises out of her chair and makes her way over to grab the stub out of my hand. I can’t help but eye
the velvet rainbow-print pillow around her neck.
She’s a lot, this one. She’s like one of those glitter bombs that goes off and you find yourself picking glitter off your
body for the rest of your life.
But her scent hits me all at once, and my eyes close as I drink it in. I could pick Everly Fletcher out of a crowd blindfolded
because of that smell. It’s this warm mix of vanilla and something soft and floral, like jasmine. It clings to her clothes,
her hair, the room she shared with my sister. It’s frustratingly appealing.
“This is right,” she says, handing me my ticket back.
“You sure I didn’t get swapped with your brother?” I glance through the doorway that leads to the standard-class seats. That’s
where I was mentally prepared to be. I was ready for my knees to be jammed against the seat in front of me or spread out so
wide I’d get dirty looks from the person next to me for encroaching on their space. That’s what a guy like me deserves. It’s
what I’m used to.
Everly buzzes her lips. “Wolf, my dad was trying to book a private plane to Dublin because of a sixty-minute flight delay. He wouldn’t fly anyone in economy.”
I clench my jaw and frown. I knew Everly Fletcher was loaded. You can tell by the way she dresses with her fancy headphones
and trainers. But booking a business-class flight for a perfect stranger who’s meant to be the hired hand this summer on a
farm is an obnoxious display of wealth. I’ll just go ahead and add it to the list of things that irritate me about Everly
Fletcher.
My teeth crack as I toss my carry-on into the overhead and begrudgingly lower myself into the posh seat. When I spread my
legs out straight, I can’t help but sigh with appreciation. It’s decent, to be sure, but I wonder how much it cost. I would
have rather had a cheap seat and the money in my pocket if anyone was asking . . . but of course, they didn’t.
I’m not sure anyone has asked me anything in the past several weeks. One second, I’m getting screamed at by Coach Flannigan.
The next second, my parents are telling me that I’m done with rugby and it’s time to prepare for my law test. Then my sister
is begging me to accept this pathetic Colorado team offer so she can play for her team, and Everly is blowing up my mobile
with forms I need to fill out for a J-1 visa work program.
Bloody hell, I buggered up my life properly, didn’t I?
Now I’m set to go to a training camp for a Major League Rugby team in Colorado that no one has heard of called the Denver
Grizzlies or some shite. Cliona thinks it’s destiny that the one team that invited me is the one team she has a friend living
nearby that I could stay with.
I think it’s the universe having a go at me.
Especially because the few phone calls I’ve had with the coach don’t seem all that optimistic. He basically told me that if I can get my ass to Denver and show him I’m not a waste of God-given talent, I can have a spot on the team in autumn. So, nothing is even guaranteed at this point.
And not only do I have to train with their team all summer, but I’m also supposed to log community service hours like I’m
some sort of delinquent. I have to prove that I can play the poster boy for the league’s big push to grow their rugby fan
base in Colorado. And if bad press is good press, they’re already smashing that with the addition of me to the squad. My sister
sent me a social media post with my name on it this morning from some local sports news station:
Denver’s Bold Bet: New Rugby Franchise Banks on Ireland’s Most Controversial Rising or Falling Star. Conri “Wolf” Reilly May
Soon Become a Denver Grizzly Despite His Questionable Altercation with an Official
This is why I don’t do social media. It’s brutal for the mental health. It’s all just a shite show of anxiety, depression,
and cyberbullies tearing people to shreds for the craic. Suicide rates have only gotten worse with the growth of online living . . .
and there’s a reason for that.
Regardless of the latest headlines dragging me through the mud, here I am, flying to America and hoping I can fit in with
this team well enough to earn me that elusive spot by summer’s end. That kind of pressure isn’t exactly good for the mental
health either.
If it were up to me, I would have called it quits after Trinity. I’d have come home, worked for the shop, taken my law exam
like my ma and da wanted, found a contract training program with a corporate firm in Dublin, and been done with it all.
But I’d be sabotaging my sister’s mental health in the process, and I won’t do anything to make her life harder than it’s been.
She’s been through a lot the past couple of years with her breakup and is just starting to behave like herself again.
She’s feckin’ brilliant at rugby, and women already have a tough enough time getting the recognition they deserve.
So, if I have to keep playing to give my sister the confidence to go for it, then so be it.
Not to mention, if I give up on rugby now, then all the shite that I sacrificed when I was younger would be for nothing. I
lost deep, meaningful friendships because of rugby. My mate Finn still doesn’t speak to me for leaving him behind to join
the team. This sport, frustrating as it might be, has still given me a lot. It gave me a sense of purpose when I had nothing.
I can’t just give up now when things get a tiny bit hard.
Which means I’m spending the summer biting my tongue, playing nice, and trying like hell not to come undone over the girl
beside me, her scent all summer and sin and the sort of temptation I’ve spent years denying.
Should be grand.
“This flight is painfully long, but at least it’s direct,” Everly says with a bright, cheery smile as she sprays some sort
of mist on her face and then offers it to me like it’s fucking normal to spray shite on my face for no apparent reason. “Are
you excited to see America for the first time? Are you leaving some girl back in Dublin brokenhearted? What even is your current
relationship status, Wolf? Cliona never said.”
I stare at the bubbly lass that I’ve not been able to escape in my four years at Trinity. My eyes do a cursory sweep of her
hair. It’s taking some getting used to since she chopped it all off.
Admittedly, I often admired Everly’s blonde hair when it was long and wavy. It’s this light, glossy platinum shade that complements
her fair complexion. I saw the back of her locks more times than I will ever admit.
But now it’s all different.
It’s short and bouncy and full of attitude. Like it doesn’t know how to behave, which bloody well suits her. She’s constantly
flipping it over from one side to the other, clearly still not used to it herself. And when a pale, nearly white strand falls
around her face and clings to her full peach-colored lips? I have to look away, it’s so disarming.
Frankly, it’s frustrating how beautiful Everly Fletcher is. Not only does she come from what appears to be gobs of money,
but she looks like it too. She’s the kind of lass who would fit right in at a posh dinner party. That angelic look of hers
was intended for the Victorian era with corset dresses and proper table manners. Not flopping around next to a filthy rugby
player. It’s why I’ve avoided her for all these years. I’m not into the princess do-gooder types, and she’d only distract
me from my goal in life, which is to find myself a damn rugby team.
Her face falls when she realizes I’m not going to answer her question about my dating life. It’s really none of her bleedin’
business. With a roll of her eyes, she murmurs under her breath, “Excuse me for trying to make small talk.”
I shake my head and look forward. I’m not doing this. I’m not getting more personal with Everly Fletcher. I’ve done a good
job not speaking to her for the past four years, and I can keep that up now. I have a job to do in America, and I need to
focus on that.