Chapter 17
THEO
“Where the fuck did you get to last night, Brennan?” Coach claps me across the shoulder as I towel my hair. The prick almost knocks me off my feet, catching me by surprise. I don’t even need to see his face to recognize his London accent and heavy thump of his hand.
Charlie Robinson is just as solidly built as in the days we played together. I swear the guy does it to fuck with the rookies’ heads. Purposely making it his mission in life to outlift them in the gym on any given day.
When I pull the towel away from my face, his dark eyes are narrowed on me. At his back, splashes and cheers from the guys in the pool echo around the atrium, along with the tang of chlorine filling my nostrils. It’s recovery day, and they’re playing dodgeball in the shallow end.
We don’t keep secrets from one another. We’ve been a team on the field in years gone by and now get to be as tight-knit off the field, running the Wolves.
Charlie’s was the only name I seriously considered when putting together the staff here after coming in as majority owner.
The previous coach had been on track to retire, and I knew in my heart I needed someone who had the same vision as me for the team.
Charlie cares about this place just as deeply as I do. This team is family to both of us, and we aren’t in it to take home fucking consolation prizes either. He’s got the same sort of drive to win as I do, while also knowing how to nurture players… getting the best out of them.
I’ve watched too many coaches steamroll young talent. I’ve seen the slow-motion collapses of players who turn up at the start of a season with their hopes and dreams looking bright, only to be shoved into a position and game plan that crushes their spirit.
What I do know is that Charlie would lay down his life for this team.
And that’s the kind of guy I’m always gonna back.
I know our players feel the same way. It’s part of what builds the Wolves’ winning culture.
We go to the line time and time again, digging deep into overtime, because the respect is there.
They know their coach will always support them, while pushing them to be the best they can be, and that is the kind of magic to foster champions.
Although, the way he’s looking at me, I could use a little less of his goddamn assessment skills right about now.
“Not like you to skip the season opening function. Thought you’d have a long line of schmoozing up to sponsors to get through.”
I toss the towel at his face, and he catches it. “I did. I do.” Clearing my throat, I rake my fingers through my damp hair. “Had to be chained to my desk while all of you were busy putting on your diamonds.”
That’s complete bullshit.
What I really did was skip the function, made sure my son didn’t even think about setting foot through the door, then sat in my truck in the parking lot, losing my goddamn mind.
But he doesn’t need to know that. From the way he keeps assessing me, it feels like he can see right through the shoddy foundations of that lie.
He’s a fantastic coach, but it would do me a favor if he’d turn down the dial of being a perceptive motherfucker about fifty fucking notches.
“The boys looked sharper in the second half.” Trying to steer us away from conversations about whether or not I’ve got an exceedingly fucking complicated scent match situation on my hands, I jerk my chin in the direction of the pool.
Half an Olympic length full of two-hundred-pound professional rugby players giggling and dunking each other like a bunch of toddlers.
It’s a much-needed opportunity for everyone to reset after the intensity of a game day buildup.
Stack a team with Alphas, and you gotta have plenty of tools in your arsenal to get all that aggression and competitive nature to simmer down so they can show up to training next week with their brains engaged.
Recovery day is a tradition we make sure everyone commits to.
Hit the pool, followed by a cheat meal. The trainers can work on any running repairs or check on injuries while they’re here, and at the same time, they get to goof around and let off some steam.
“Took ’em a minute to get those combinations to click.” Coach folds his big arms and surveys the bodies, sending great splashes of water as they flop around. “Plenty to work on at training this week, that’s for sure.”
“Renfro’s alright after taking that knock to the head?
I saw the ref pull him for an Impact Assessment.
” Our Scottish fullback is sporting a purple shiner today, just below his eye.
Collateral damage after the hit he took setting up our first try.
Not from any foul play, or a high tackle, but it’s the reality of a full-speed collision, and often it’s just shitty luck.
He’s tough as nails, but any blow above the neck is taken seriously by match officials.
Concussion in this sport is no joke, and a brutal part of the game we all love.
“Yeah, he passed the HIA no sweat. Would take being hit by a semi-truck to keep that bastard down.”
“That’s the type of good news we wanna hear.” The Head Impact Assessment protocol is rigorous but leans toward standing players down for their own safety, even if they hate being told they can’t play because of a bump to the head.
I grab my gear, planning to get changed real quick and shower properly once I’m back at home.
I’ve had enough years of crowded locker rooms. If there’s one thing I’ll unapologetically enjoy after retiring from the sport, it’s having a stupidly big bathroom and the luxury of my own place. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“No days off when you’re the boss, huh?” Charlie gives me a look. “Need some company later on? Someone’s gotta make use of that fancy hundred-inch plasma you’ve got. It goes to waste only being switched on so you can watch porn on your own, you know.”
“Screw you.” Shaking my head, I snatch the towel back out of his hands. “Stay on my good side, I’ll have you over on Wednesday, and we can get the grill fired up.”
“You treat me so sweet, baby cakes.”
“Anything to keep my star coach happy.”
“Throw in a decent pint—and I mean something to put hairs on your chest, none of this weak American piss bullshit you all drink—then you’ve got yourself a date.”
“And this is why I keep you on a leash away from our sponsors. They don’t need you desecrating the sanctity of American beer.” Chuckling under my breath, I’ve hardly taken a step before the conversation veers onto a course I’d been desperate to avoid.
“Speaking of leashes… did you know about Finch Murphy’s little sister being at college now? An Omega, too. Here on a scholarship. Not to mention that, and I quote, ‘she’s a total smoke show,’ according to the lads’ gossip floating around.”
My hackles go up.
Swallowing hard, I keep my gaze fixed on the pool. As if I could laser into their brains and somehow deduce which motherfucker has been looking at her.
“Assuming Murphy knocked their teeth out?” The muscle in my jaw tightens.
Charlie whistles under his breath. “Damn nearly did. I’ve never seen our guy that fired up, unless there’s a championship at stake. Safe to say the team knows exactly where the line is.”
“Good.” It feels like a giant just reached down from the heavens and wrapped my chest inside its fist, starting to squeeze. “No one on this team needs any goddamn distractions.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Don’t I know it.” He rubs a hand over his hair. “Alright, mate. Catch you later.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, still squinting my eyes at the players in the water. There had better not be a single one of them who thinks she’s a girl they can chase after.
Yet, am I any better? Wren Murphy is my scent match, but that doesn’t give me any right to pursue her.
No matter how fixated I’ve been ever since we first collided last night.
No matter how many times I re-read her messages.
No matter how I couldn’t sleep a fucking wink trying to wrap my head around the fact that she’s mine, yet she dated my idiot of a son.
I goddamn hate that he met her first.
Don’t even get me started on how furious I was at the way he dismissed her and spoke down to her.
If we hadn’t been at a very public rugby match, I would’ve dragged him outside and taught him a thing or two about respect.
Evidently, his mother forgot that part of the parenting manual while keeping me in the dark about the fact that I had a kid I could have at least been involved with in some sort of fashion.
How the hell is this the situation we’ve found ourselves in?
Walking toward the changing room, my phone buzzes inside my bag. Immediately reminding me there are a hundred things on my calendar coming up for this week, with the first game now completed, and all the extra administration that comes with a brand-new season kicking off.
I really gotta find myself a competent assistant. The intern I ended up with in the offseason has been a bust. They keep forgetting to add shit to my diary, and that leaves me either double-booked or scrambling to not be late.
While everyone else gets to load up on carbs and have a day off, I’m gonna be answering emails until I can’t see straight.
Tossing my bag down on the bench, I dig out my phone while scratching at my stubble. Prepared for it to be someone in marketing, or accounts, or fuck my life if it’s from the GM, then I might just be going straight home and cracking open a whiskey.
Except it’s none of those things.
The name on my screen leaves my heart stuttering to a stop, and it’s what accompanies that name that leaves all my blood flowing south.
My Birdie girl:
Image attached.