Chapter 22
Counter-Ruck: Resisting the opposition’s ruck, pushing them back off the ball.
Translation: Saying no to Everly Fletcher isn’t for the faint of heart.
Wolf
Watching Everly Fletcher command a room full of sweaty, testosterone-soaked rugby players like some kind of tall, blonde drill
sergeant was an out-of-body experience.
She had her laptop balanced on a chair as she projected images of all the animals on Mount Millie one by one onto the white
cement block wall. In between were graphics about budgets, vet costs, and adoption rates, and she was throwing in stats and
rugby jokes like a pro.
My teammates laughed at all her jokes, which is insane because they’re usually bored out of their minds during our team meetings,
but Everly had them eating out of the palms of her hands. She even has my coach (who, until today, I swore needed his own
anger management counseling) absolutely fucking obsessed with her. At one point, he raised his hand and said he’d like to
offer four season tickets up for a raffle.
Everly thanked him in that warm, sunshiny way she has about her as she ended her presentation with a clear, confident voice.
“Mount Millie Rescue Center isn’t just a bunch of cute farm animals looking for a home.
It’s a place where every scruffy nose and muddy hoof gets a happily ever after.
Or, at the very least, a chaotic, manure-scented tax write-off. ”
Everyone erupted in laughter and swarmed her, instantly signing up for whatever she needed them for. It was madness. Pure,
ridiculous madness.
And me? I’m trying not to care. I’m trying not to put her on a pedestal. But I can’t help the swell of pride over how great
she was up there. The way she can enrapture a room full of grown men who normally only care about tackles and pints and picking
up women at pubs and inspire them to genuinely care about alpacas . . . Christ, she is something else.
Rejecting her is likely the worst idea I’ve ever had.
But deep down, I know not being with her is for the best. Not smelling her is for the best. Not kissing her is for the best. Not tasting her is for
the best.
Because as I’m sitting here, bathed in her jasmine scent from our hour-long, silent commute to Denver this morning, I’m trying
to remind myself of all the reasons that avoiding Everly Fletcher is for the best.
For starters, Everly just gave a presentation about happily ever afters. She deserves someone who can give her that. Certainly
not someone like me who has coach-ordered, biweekly counseling sessions with the Trinity sports psychologist for anger management
issues.
Too bad my therapy didn’t cover the fact that I fucking followed her for four years and she still has no idea. If she ever
found out about that . . . I don’t know how she’d react. I’m guessing not well.
I know I did it to look out for her. I couldn’t help myself. But I did it without her consent. That’s the dark, forbidden part. That’s why I don’t deserve someone as pure and good-natured as Everly Fletcher. Even if it would be only for a short time until I eventually return to Ireland.
My eyes linger on her long legs on display in a white little tennis outfit. She struts around the locker room like she just
came out of a country club but still manages to look perfectly at ease as she talks shit with men who are twice her size.
She jots down everyone’s contact information, looking thrilled with positive feedback. And they all stare at her the way the
guys at Trinity would stare at her during her matchmaking clinics. Like they were only in it for the matchmaker herself.
Fuck.
“Problem, Wolf?” Fergie asks with a smirk as I toss my bag into my locker next to him.
I drop down on the bench in front of my cubby. “I have a six-foot-tall problem.”
“Oh, come on. Her auction event sounds brilliant. Lochlan even asked her if offering up sexual services could bring in more
money for the donkey.” He chuckles heartily.
My jaw tightens. Lochlan is a front-row player I had lunch with during Wednesday’s training. He seemed like a decent guy,
but I’m side-eying him after making a comment like that to my girl.
My girl.
Fuck.
She isn’t my girl. She’s no one’s girl.
Everly’s eyes find mine from across the locker room, so I quickly look away, preparing myself as she saunters over with a
warm smile that makes it painfully fucking obvious that I’ve seen her naked.
“This is going amazing,” she says, waggling her brows at me.
“How many signed up, lass?” Fergie asks, pushing his shaggy red hair back as he stands to peek over her shoulder at her furry notebook. He looks extra big and bulky next to her, his eyes dragging over her facial features as she counts the names in her notebook.
“I got fifteen names!”
“That’s a lot of rugby players’ numbers,” Fergie says, eyeing me knowingly. “Good on you.”
“I only need five for the auction, but I’ll hold on to the other names for a rainy day.” She smiles brightly. “Conri didn’t
think anyone would be interested in helping. Guess he was wrong.”
“Oh, naughty Conriiii,” Fergie sings, waggling his brows and making it very clear he thinks it’s interesting that Everly uses
my legal name. She used it this morning when she passed me a fancy coffee she made from her fancy cabin with her fancy fucking
travel mugs. Her calling me Conri feels intimate and weird. And I hate how much I like the way it sounds with her American
accent. Simple and succinct. Like she’s always said it.
“Surely, our boy Wolf is going to be auctioned off for the cause, aye?” Fergie adds.
“I hope so.” Everly bites her lip and smiles down at me in a way that makes my cock twitch. “Although he hasn’t given me consent
yet.”
I swallow the knot in my throat at the heated look in her eyes. What the fuck is she doing?
With a laugh, she looks away and nudges Fergie. “But if I have you to bid on, then I’ll be good either way.”
“I like the sound of that.” Fergie chortles and tosses his arm around Everly in a matey way that irritates me. I level a look
at both of them, but they’re too distracted with each other to notice my brooding.
Everly looks down at me and licks her lips. “I’m all done here, so I’m going to head out, but I’m the one picking you up in
Boulder later tonight, so I’ll see you then, okay?”
I nod woodenly, a heaviness pressing down in my chest. No matter what I do, I can’t escape her. I was so close too. All I needed to do was finish uni and find an Irish rugby team to take me. Let her go back to America and me go play for whoever I was going to play for and forget she ever existed.
This was not a part of my plan.
“Have a good practice, boys,” she calls out as she waves goodbye to everyone before shooting me a quick wink. Something that
was meant just for me.
I can’t help but stare at her arse as she strides out of my locker room, my core heating with the memory of knowing what her
body felt like in my hands.
“You are so fucked, lad,” Fergie says, dropping down on the bench beside me and shoving me in the shoulder.
“What do you mean?” I grumble, pulling out my socks and boots to get ready for warm-ups. I need a hard workout today to get
that leggy blonde out of my head.
“I mean you’re fucking smitten over that girl. And she’s smitten over you. Tell me something is going on there.”
I shake my head, hating the way her scent lingers after she left. “Nothing is going on.”
“Well, there’s about to be.” He barks out a laugh. “The sexual tension between you two is next-level. What are you waiting
for?”
I work my jaw back and forth. “It’s a bad idea.”
“Why? Do you not fancy her?” he asks, rolling white athletic tape around his wrists.
“Of course I fancy her,” I bite out, my teeth grinding together. “I’m worried that I fancy her too much.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes,” I grind out through clenched teeth as my stomach twists with a flashback to the scared, skinny kid I was for a large part of my life.
The ghost of that kid makes it hard for me to feel confident enough to reach out and take what I want, especially when it’s someone as kind and generous as Everly.
I only found my confidence with rugby because I could prove myself without words. I could hit harder, run faster, bleed for
the team—and no one would laugh at that. But in relationships with real feelings involved? There’s no scoreboard, no try line,
no clear way to win. Vulnerability feels like stepping back into the schoolyard with those same arseholes who pestered me
and Finn. I don’t want to set myself up for that kind of failure.
“I’m not good enough for a girl like Everly,” I add, my voice resolute. “She is sunshine, and I’ve only ever known rain.”
“That’s dark, lad.” Fergie sits back against his cubby and shrugs. “And it looks like that sunshine disagrees with you.”
“She doesn’t know what’s best for her.”
Fergie’s blue eyes widen. “Aye, sure. Most modern girls love to be told what to do with their own consent, don’t they?”
I glare over at him, and he just laughs.
“You do what you must, pal, but just think long and hard about how often sunshine follows rain.”