Chapter 15
Penalty: Given to players for serious infringements like dangerous play, offside, and handling the ball on the ground in a ruck.
Translation: Tonguing my sister’s best friend is a definite penalty.
Wolf
I’m seated in the back seat of Wyatt’s truck early Monday morning. Luke is in the passenger seat, and Calder is right beside
me. They all have coffee mugs in hand, ready to start their day at their construction company, and I’m holding my protein
drink, mentally prepping for my first day of rugby training camp with a new team.
As the sun continues to rise, I shift nervously in the truck, worried that the daylight is going to somehow reveal to these
three uncles what I did to their niece on Saturday night.
What the fuck did I do?
Flirted with her, groped her, and snogged her senseless. Then I considered asking her to fuck when I dropped her back off
later that night—because I was horny as fuck after that kiss—except she hightailed her arse into her cabin like she was going
to catch a disease if she stayed in that car with me for a second longer.
I don’t even think the kiss was my worst offense of the night.
I think it was the flirting. I was supposed to keep Everly Fletcher at a distance this summer.
Maintain my hardened demeanor around her.
But she gave me that big speech about being friends, and I found myself softening to her like a fucking simp.
She’s funny. And sharp. And more generous than the world deserves. All things I expected about her, but now I have them confirmed
more up close and personal.
And I want to know more.
I want to know exactly what those fucking girls did to her. I want to know why she struggled to make friends or why she dated
a fuckhead guy who would let someone who hurt his ex-girlfriend darken his doorstep. I want to know what her belly, her neck,
her breasts . . . all of her . . . tastes like. I want too many fucking things.
I’ve lived my life in extremes for as long as I can remember. I become obsessed with things until I master them.
When I was young and mates with Finn . . . we obsessed over Dungeons and Dragons. It was our fantasy world we played in constantly.
When I hit puberty, I became obsessed with bulking up and growing muscle on my tall, slender frame. Then rugby came at me
via my sister, and I obsessed over that until I mastered that too. It’s why school was always easy for me. When I commit to
something, I’m all fucking in.
I’m sure it’s not proper of me to want to conquer a person, but if I could, I would conquer the fuck out of Everly Fletcher.
My cock twitches at just the fantasy of it.
Only she had not a single fucking word to say to me after we got back.
Sunday, I stewed over it for hours, worrying myself sick that what I did to her was assault because I didn’t get her consent
to kiss her. I texted her to check in, and she kept telling me all was well. She asked for pictures of Rugby like it was a
normal bloody Sunday.
But she kissed me back. I know I’m not making that bit up. So why the fuck is she making me feel like I’m some kind of deviant?
I half expected her uncles to show up on my doorstep this morning and walk me to the edge of their mountain to jump because
this was the end of my journey here on Fletcher Mountain.
All a bit dramatic, but I had a lot of time to stew over it. I even called Cliona to see if she’d spoken to Everly, and she
hadn’t, so I know nothing except that I’m now to ride three days a week with these uncles of hers, who can probably read all
my dirty, fucked-up thoughts.
Fuck me, I screwed things up good and proper.
“So, what is rugby training camp like, exactly?” Calder asks, breaking through my inner freak-out as we make our way through
the winding roads outside of Jamestown.
I wipe my sweaty palms off on my shorts, my fingers toying with the hem as I reply. “Um . . . I guess I’m not sure how this
team runs their summer camps, but Trinity and the club I played for in secondary school ran theirs pretty similarly. So usually
there’s stretching and warm-ups, then a gym session—like weight lifting. After that, we have to run. Sprinting drills and-or
explosive power exercises like sled pushes and plyos. Then they’ll likely split the forwards and backs to work on their own
things for a bit—passing drills, rucking, positional plays, and stuff. Then after lunch, there’s typically a meeting where
we’ll review footage or discuss formations.”
“Jesus, that’s all before lunch?” Luke asks, turning around to watch me curiously.
“Yeah, it’s a long day,” I reply with a shrug. “Afternoon is often scrimmages on the pitch to apply everything we learned
for the day. Then recovery. Ice baths, stretching, foam rolling. Any kind of physio treatments we might need.”
“You get your ass beat in rugby, don’t you?” Calder asks, pinning me with a knowing look.
I nod woodenly. “It’s physical.”
“Addison played rugby some,” Luke offers over his shoulder as he takes a drink of his travel mug. “She’s tried to explain
the rules to me, but I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“It definitely takes some time to get it all sorted,” I reply with a wry grin. “My sister knows it all even better than I
do.”
“Oh, yeah, you have a twin, Everly said?” Luke turns around to give me his full attention now.
I nod. “Yeah, Cliona is in Dublin with Leinster, which is like . . . top-level rugby. Very competitive. Much bigger than what
I’m doing here. She’s brilliant. Ten times better than me at the sport.”
Wyatt nods knowingly from the driver’s seat, his eyes remaining on the road as he asks, “So what exactly did you do to get
exiled to America for rugby?”
I frown as I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.
His brows lift. “From what I can tell, this rugby program is new in Denver. And Trista said you needed a job at a nonprofit
to log community service hours for bad behavior. She has to report your hours to your coach. What happened back at Trinity
to create all of this?”
My jaw clenches as my hands turn to fists on my lap. I glance over at Calder, who looks a lot less friendly now than he did
five minutes ago. Even Luke seems pensive and cautious.
I suppose this is the interrogation I should have expected from overprotective uncles. I’m living on their mountain, eating
food Wyatt’s wife bought for me, hanging out with their niece, having his wee daughter follow me all over the rescue center.
It’s no shock they want to size me up. I’d do the same if Cliona were in this situation.
I clear my throat and decide to give them the honest truth of it all because lying clearly isn’t going to earn me any respect.
“I got in a fight with a bloke on the pitch who fucked over my sister. He was a player for the other team that my sister was in a relationship with for a year before he cheated on her. Toward the end of the game, when they were about to lose, he said some fucked-up shite that he knew would set me off.”
“What did he say?” Calder asks, his eyes tight.
My head twitches as I turn to look out the window, willing my temper to remain in check as I replay that day on the pitch.
I’ve had fights on the pitch before. I’ve gotten red cards plenty of times. But that day . . . that day, I wanted blood.
Trinity College
A Few Months Ago
The whistle trills, and we’re lining up for the extra two points. My jaw’s clenched so hard on my mouth guard it’s a wonder
I haven’t gnawed right through it.
I’m playing the game of my life. Everything is going my way. I’m seeing the pitch in ways I’ve never seen it before. Anticipating
movements. Seeing holes, finding space. Scoring fucking tries like it’s my job.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect. This is my moment to be discovered. This kind of comeback is how I prove myself to the
scouts here today. We just need this two-point conversion, and we’ve made it.
Then I hear him.
That bastard in the opposite jersey—the flanker that’s my sister’s fucking ex. “You moan when you score just like your sister
does with my cock in her mouth.”
A beat passes. Just one.
“What the fuck did you just say?” I spit, turning my head in his direction.
He grins around his mouth guard, his eyes beady and full of pure evil. “Ask my teammates. They’ve all seen the video of how
she . . .”
I don’t hear the rest. My vision goes white.
I launch, slamming into him with full force, my teeth bared. I drive him straight back. And when he recovers and walks toward me with a cocky smirk on his face, I swing, my fist exploding in pain as my knuckles connect with his jaw, creating a satisfying crunching sound.
The air splits with the shriek of the ref’s whistle, but it’s drowned out by my pulse rushing in my ears as arms try to drag
me away from him. Someone is screaming my name, but I’m gone.
Gone.
It takes four teammates to haul me backward, boots scraping against the turf, blood on my knuckles, breath ragged. My eyebrow
leaks blood, but I don’t even remember getting hit.
My chest heaves, and when I can finally see straight again, I see my sister’s ex grinning at me.
Grinning.
My teammates release me, so I lunge again. Right at that exact moment, the ref appears, and my hands barrel into his chest
instead of my sister’s ex. Unable to stop the momentum, I push him hard, sending him flying onto the ground like a heap.
A collective groan from the crowd breaks through my rage as more gloved hands grab me, trying to trap the fury eating me alive.
An assistant’s voice cries, “Number eight—off! Red card! You’re out of here.”
And I turn my face to the stands, eyes connecting with my sister and her knowing look that confirms the fact that I just fucked
my last chance.
“I’d have punched him the fuck out too,” Calder confirms, and I blink in shock, looking at three grave, bearded faces all
around me in the cab of the truck. There’s a heaviness in the air as they all process what I’ve just shared.