Chapter 30
Spear Tackle: A spear tackle is a dangerous tackle in which a player is picked up by the tackler and turned so that they are upside down.
The tackler then drops or drives the player into the ground, often head-, neck-, or shoulder-first.
Translation: Hydrangea bushes hurt like a bitch.
Wolf
I managed to live on Fletcher Mountain for almost two months without ever stepping foot inside Wyatt and Trista’s home. I
would have probably made it the whole summer dodging their host family invites had it not been for the fact that I’m sleeping
with their niece.
Now, after becoming so close to Everly, refusing their invitation feels wrong. Disrespectful, even. Granted, they don’t know
we’re sleeping together, but avoiding them is a weak move.
And I am not weak.
Which is how I find myself seated at a round kitchen table in Wyatt’s cabin with all the Fletcher brothers shooting daggers at me for the past two hours.
Everly’s dad is the scariest of them. He’s dressed in business casual, even though it’s a Saturday night, and he looks at me like he knows what I’m doing with his daughter—when I know he doesn’t.
Wyatt, Calder, and Luke are in their signature flannels, eyeing me like a puzzle they’ve yet to piece together.
Although in fairness, Luke’s eyes are half-closed most of the night.
I expect that newborn baby up the road is keeping him up at night these days.
And then there’s me, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt as four sets of wary lumberjack eyes bore into me from across the table
as I sit here and try not to think about how I fucked Everly against her hallway wall just hours ago.
“Call or fold?” Wyatt rumbles, his thick forearms flexing as he taps his cards on the table.
“All in,” Stevie says confidently as she returns from the kitchen with her third bowl of popcorn. I growl at her as she attempts
to climb back onto my lap. The little shit has been attached to my hip, refusing to go up to Calder and Dakota’s cabin with
her mother as soon as I arrived.
I told Trista I didn’t mind. ’Cause I don’t. If anything, Stevie is a nice buffer between me and these grumpy mountain men.
I lean in to whisper in Stevie’s ear, and she sighs heavily like she disagrees with me but then says, “We call.”
I throw in the correct amount of chips, and Calder narrows his eyes. “You feel good letting a three-year-old run your game?
I thought you’d have the luck of the Irish on your side.”
“I’m almost four,” Stevie says perfectly clearly.
“Her luck is better than mine, I expect,” I say, shifting this kid’s bony ass on my knee.
The cards are laid out on the table, and as the pot builds, I cringe when my pocket sevens are no match for Wyatt’s pocket
aces.
“Ugh, we lost?” Stevie groans like she bet her whole toy collection on it.
“Yeah, we did. Thanks for nothing.”
Calder hides his snicker as Stevie glares at me.
“I’m going to go watch my tablet,” she announces and then takes off down the hall after running me clean out of money.
“So, how’s your rugby camp going?” Max asks, his eyes fixed on me as he sips his whiskey from a rocks glass and Calder shuffles the deck.
“It’s going alright,” I reply with a shrug.
“That doesn’t sound very confident.” Calder directs a look at me.
“I like the team well enough,” I say with a swallow. “Just have to wait and see if they like me back.”
“Do you have a tryout or something?” Wyatt asks, his eyes on me.
“Not exactly. But in a few weeks, there’s a friendly match with another team that’s on the schedule, and my coach made it
clear that he’ll make his decision on whether he’s offering me a spot on the team or not after that.”
“Can we come?” Luke asks, his eyes thoughtful.
I jerk my head back. “To the friendly?”
“Yeah. I’d love to see you play. Addison would too, I’m sure.” Luke says the words like they’re the most simple ones in the
world.
But they’re not simple.
Not to me.
“I’m in too,” Calder adds. Max and Wyatt both nod, making it clear it’s not just Luke asking to go.
It’s all of them.
My chest tightens. “Um . . . yeah, I think they allow fans.”
“Only if you don’t mind,” Luke adds, taking a sip of his beer. “If it’s too much pressure—”
“It’s not too much pressure,” I cut him off, my heart pounding weirdly in my chest. “It’d be class if you guys came. I can
text you the date and time.”
“Class?” Luke asks,
“Ye know, deadly. Excellent,” I explain. They nod.
“Right. Class,” Calder says.
Max smiles and nods like it’s a plan.
“I’m coming, Nana,” Stevie yells from where she’s seated in the hallway with her tablet, clearly not getting too far away from the group.
I laugh and glance over at her. “Couldn’t do it without you, Steve.”
The brothers all smile and get thoughtful looks on their faces before Luke says, “Steve was our father’s name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just what I’ve taken to calling her. I’ll stick with Stevie.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Max says, his jaw tight. “It’s good to hear his name again.”
Wyatt clears his throat loudly. “So do you think you have a real shot at making the team?”
“I hope so.” I shrug and grip the back of my neck. “I’d hate to have to go back to Ireland after all of this.”
“I think she’d hate it too,” Wyatt says, gesturing back to his daughter.
I swallow the knot in my throat at the idea of saying goodbye to Stevie.
Or Everly.
Or the wee buggers at the rugby youth program. It’s been amazing watching their attitudes and skill level change. Growing
that bond with them. Some have even seemed to lower their guards and find mates to chat about life to. As much as young lads
do.
It’s fulfilling. As is working here. I can picture living in Colorado more than I ever thought I could. It’s not home, as
I’ll always be an Irish lad at heart, but it’s not as foreign anymore.
It’s strange. I’m not sure when exactly the goal stopped being getting back to Ireland, but somewhere along the way during
my time up here on Fletcher Mountain, my dreams have changed.
And I think it has little to do with the team I’m trying to find a place on and more to do with this family.
“Is rugby lucrative enough to not need a secondary income source?” Max asks, giving me that corporate look like I’m in the middle of a job interview.
“Not always,” I state honestly. “In Ireland, professional players at the elite level do well, but it’s nowhere near football
salaries. And in America, it’s even less. You mostly just get a stipend or part-time wage. It’s why my parents were so insistent
my sister and I prioritize our education. They wanted us to work in law eventually.”
“What do you want to do?” Calder asks, staring thoughtfully at me. “I’m guessing Mount Millie isn’t your dream job.”
“No, definitely not,” I reply with a laugh, chewing the inside of my cheek. “But the youth program that I’m a volunteer coach
for is in the process of hiring for full-time coaches, and I put in an application.” I pause as I feel their judgment in my
bones. “I like coaching. It’s not my long-term professional goal, but if I could do something that allows me to be a part
of an outreach program, that would be my dream, I think. I like helping kids find ways to be more . . . themselves.”
That answer earns me four identical grunts of approval. Which is a touch better of a reaction than I got with my mam on the
phone last week. Truthfully, I’m not opposed to working in law someday, but right now, I’m not ready to let go of rugby. Nor
the chance to help more young, troubled lads . . . just like Coach Flannigan helped me when I started at Trinity.
We get back to poker, and I exhale heavily, wondering if I shared too much or not enough. I haven’t mentioned any of this
to Everly, mostly because I’m terrified it will freak her out. Last I spoke to her about my goals, I was adamant about getting
back to Dublin. But now, things are changing.
All I know is I owe it to myself to make that life choice on my own.
Everly
I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life. Like standing outside a surrogacy clinic to try to hock potential surrogates to
have my uncle’s baby. Like hacking into my other uncle’s dating profiles to sabotage his quest for random hookups. Or like
becoming an expert on lumberjack competitions just to help my third uncle catch the attention of the woman he was madly in
love with.
But spying on my uncles’ poker night while they’re sitting across from the man I’m currently having insanely amazing sex with?
This might be the crown jewel of crazy.
I’m pressed flat against the side of Uncle Wyatt’s house, crouched like I’m preparing for a covert military op . . . except
I’m wearing a sundress and wedges from my dinner out with Grandma earlier tonight. If I knew there would be climbing involved
in my creeping, I would have changed my shoes.
But somehow, I’ve shimmied myself up the side of his deck and am perched a solid five feet off the ground on the railing,
doing my best to see if there’s any bloodshed inside.
I told Wolf I didn’t want him to go tonight. I told him to make up an excuse. He told me he’d already refused multiple meals
with Wyatt and Trista and that he couldn’t say no again. And that he wasn’t scared.
I’m scared.
Big scared.
My breath fogs up the window as I peer inside to see Wolf holding playing cards like he has nothing to lose. Which is a lie,
because if my uncles catch even a whiff that I’ve been spending my nights with this hot, brooding rugby player, he’s going
to lose a lot more than a poker hand.
But from what I can tell . . . everything seems okay. Stevie is perched on Wolf’s lap. My dad just handed Wolf a beer. And Uncle Calder seems to be behaving himself for quite possibly the first time in his entire life. Even grumpy Uncle Wyatt is cracking a grin every once in a while.
What is in the air tonight?
I lean just an inch closer to the window to see if I can hear what they’re talking about, but my pulse is so loud in my ears
I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I catch Wolf’s voice, low and steady, when he says, “No, sir. My parents don’t really care for rugby.”
Oh, fantastic. They’re prying into his parental issues. I’m sure he loves that.
I shift again, trying to see Wolf’s face and if he’s doing okay or if he needs a rescue, and that’s when it happens.
The rom-com moment you see in movies, but it’s all com, no rom.
My foot slips out of my wedge and off the deck railing, and for a split second, all I see is the night sky.
I make a horrifyingly undignified noise as I topple backward and land squarely in a hydrangea bush. My back instantly aches
as branches stab my flesh, and my ankle throbs as my wedge hangs off it by the strap.
A thunder of chairs scrapes inside, and heavy footsteps come barreling toward me, but it’s Wolf’s voice I hear first.
“Fuck, Everly. Is that you?” His voice is sharp and severe, and I look up to see him vaulting over the edge in a natural,
athletic way.
I bet that’s exactly how I looked when I took my own tumble. Twinning!
He squats down beside me, immediately pulling my dress down to cover my exposed underwear that I didn’t even realize were
on full display. His hands rove over me, unsure where to touch first. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I groan, flailing like an upended turtle.
“No, you’re not,” he growls at me. Then he looks down at my swollen ankle, clearly raging pissed as he hauls me up out of
the bush like I weigh nothing. His hands are warm on my waist as he steadies me on my feet, his eyes flashing between panic
and anger. “What the fuck were you doing out here?”
“Nothing,” I state through clenched teeth, trying to smile like this is silly and easy-breezy. “I was just picking some flowers.
At night. With my face.” I touch the side of my temple and feel a wet sliver of something trickling down my face. Why do I
keep meeting this guy this way?
“Christ, love, you’re bleeding,” he murmurs, voice low enough to be intimate but not low enough to escape my uncles’ notice.
Because when I glance up, four large male silhouettes are standing on the deck staring down at us, arms crossed, eyes suspiciously
fixed on the scene before them.
“Why am I always patching you up?” Wolf asks, his tone frustrated and overly familiar. Which, to my uncles, probably sounds
less like concerned coworker and more like I’ve seen you naked.
“I’m fine,” I blurt, trying to shove Wolf’s hands off me. Except he doesn’t let go. He brushes a leaf from my hair and mutters,
“Could’ve broken your neck sneaking around out here. Is your ankle okay?”
He slides his hands down my legs, and I can’t even bring myself to look up at the men standing above us because I know what
this looks like.
Luke calls out, “Do I need to grab a first aid kit?”
“Yes,” Wolf growls at the same time I say, “No!”
Wyatt grunts, eyes flicking from me to Wolf like he’s connecting very obvious dots.
I’m beet-red, leaves in my hair, dirt on my knees, and very, very busted. Wolf slides an arm firmly around my back, steadying me, and says in that maddeningly calm voice, “I’m taking her home.”
I swallow the knot in my throat because he’s not asking permission. And weirdly, none of my uncles or my dad objects. What parallel universe am I in that none of them are objecting or yelling at Wolf to put me down? Or demanding to come with
me to see if I’m okay?
They’re just . . . letting us be whatever we are? Like adults? God, this is somehow worse than us just confessing. Because now all of them are exchanging looks that scream, We know you guys are a thing, and we know it’s not our business.
I don’t know how to behave in front of my family without them meddling in my business. That’s like . . . our whole friggin’
schtick!
I guess I’m grateful they’re giving us this space because I’d have to tell them all me and Wolf are not a thing. Not really.
We’re no labels. And explaining that to my overbearing uncles and father would be my worst nightmare.
Luckily, or unluckily, I don’t have a chance to overexplain because one second, I’m protesting that I can walk, and the next,
Wolf’s arm slides under my legs, and he one-arm carries me as he stomps across the gravel lane like carrying my six-foot-tall
body is the easiest thing in the world.
At least this time I’m awake to enjoy it.
I fight back my girlie squeal as I clutch Wolf’s broad shoulders and watch my uncles and father make their way back into the
house as Calder calls to Wolf’s back, “We’ll let Stevie finish your hand. She’ll probably do better than you anyways.”
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out high-pitched and unconvincing. Nobody buys it. Least of all me.