Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
The “field” was nothing more than a meadow carved out between the trees, lumpy and uneven, with patches of wildflowers still clinging to the edges.
Homemade goalposts of lashed branches stood at either end, and the sidelines were crowded with family—kids on shoulders, aunts calling out wagers, little Emma perched on a blanket with her stuffed animals lined up neatly at her feet, cheering like they were her team.
I sized up the chaos, already regretting my decision to go through with this.
I wasn’t athletic, wasn’t the least bit coordinated, and everyone on the field was stretching and warming up as though this was something they did on a regular basis.
On the far side of the lawn, Dean was clearly taking charge—his dark shirt already clinging to his chest, his voice steady as he directed his team of aunts, uncles, and cousins like he was captaining an actual professional squad.
Mason clapped his hands together, jogging backward as he rallied the rest of us into a huddle. “Okay, I think that’s everyone,” he said cheerfully, glancing between faces—mine, Blair’s, Thomas’s, and a couple of McHenry cousins I only half-recognized from the bonfire.
But before he could launch into strategy, Blair raised her hand. “I’m out. Not feeling up for it today.”
Mason groaned, dropping his head back. “Blair, no—don’t do this to me. You’re one of my strongest players. We need you.”
She shrugged, giving him a weak smile before cutting her gaze briefly toward me. “Too many pancakes this morning,” she said.
Mason frowned, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push it. He exhaled, then clapped his hands together. “Alright then, looks like we’re down a strong player. But lucky for us…” His eyes slid to me with an exaggerated grin. “We’ve got Viv. Welcome to the team, rookie!”
I laughed nervously. “I’m not sure you’ll be welcoming me once you realize I have two left feet.”
“Nonsense.” He slung an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. “Rugby is simple, and you’ll do fine, as long as you remember these three simple rules. One: stick close enough to hear me. Two: don’t let Dean distract you. Three: when I yell ‘left,’ you go left—even if left looks suicidal.”
“Sounds horrifying,” I muttered.
Mason patted me on the back cheerfully, then bent down to my ear and winked. “You’ll do great.”
I wasn’t nearly as confident, but before I could protest, he was already clapping his hands and motioning for everyone to spread out. The field was uneven beneath my feet, grass still damp from last night’s storm, and the air carried the sweet tang of pine needles.
Trisha crouched low on the opposite side, eyes locked on Mason like he was gearing up for war. Dean stood tall, dark shirt plastered against his chest, lips moving as he gave out instructions to his team that I couldn’t hear.
Mason leaned in close to my side, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Stay close. Don’t think––just move when I tell you.”
I nodded, nerves buzzing in my chest.
The whistle blew.
And the field exploded into motion.
Thomas charged forward like a cannonball, shoulders low, knees driving hard into the uneven grass. Trisha’s voice cracked across the meadow, sharp and relentless as she barked out plays to her side. Two bodies collided just ahead of me, the sound of it loud and jarring, and then—
“Pick it up!” Mason bellowed.
My head whipped around. The ball was on the ground three feet away, rolling lopsided through the dirt. My pulse spiked as I dove, fingers fumbling, somehow scooping it up before anyone else reached it.
For one glorious second, I clutched it tight against my chest, every muscle screaming with the urge to freeze.
“Run! Toward the post!” Mason’s voice split through the chaos.
So I ran. My legs pumped, arms tucked tight around the ball like holding onto it was the most important thing in the world.
Ahead of me, Dean broke away from the pack, his strides long and certain, cutting me off like a shadow crossing the grass.
Any other player would have gone straight through me.
Tackled me hard, taken me down without hesitation.
But Dean slowed at the last moment. He didn’t slam into me, didn’t drive me to the ground.
He just stepped into my path—broad and immovable, forcing me to squeal and toss the ball back toward Mason before stumbling past him.
Mason snatched it clean out of the air, darted downfield, and slammed it over the goal line. Cheers erupted from the sidelines as he whooped in triumph.
Before I could even catch my breath, Mason jogged straight back to me, grinning like a fool. He threw an arm around my shoulders and planted a loud kiss on my cheek.
“Good job, Rookie! I knew I liked you.”
Dean glanced over from where he stood, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Mason, stop flirting. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Mason only grinned wider. “If you’re feeling threatened, maybe you should step up your game.”
A few people on the sidelines laughed, and my stomach flipped—because Dean didn’t rise to the bait.
Instead, he shot me a quick, shameless wink, the kind that shouldn’t have made my knees weak, but absolutely did.
The air still crackled with it, heat lingering on my skin long after Mason jogged back to reset the play.
The whistle shrilled again, and just like that, the field snapped back into motion.
Thomas streaked forward like a bullet, Trisha guarding his side, and before Mason could even set up the play, Dean was there, anticipating our every move. He slipped past one of our guys, intercepted a pass clean out of the air, and took off downfield with the ball tucked tight against his side.
“Cut him off!” Mason barked as he ran, but Dean was too fast. Too focused. His strides devoured the grass until he planted the ball over the line, dead center between the makeshift goalposts.
Cheers erupted from the sidelines. Kids squealed. Someone whistled long and low.
Dean turned, sweat glistening on his forehead, and shot a grin toward Mason that was equal parts victory and taunt.
“God, I hate him sometimes,” Mason muttered at my side, though the spark of amusement—and maybe even respect—undercut his words.
Dean only shrugged, tossing the ball lazily back toward the center. Then his eyes found mine, and his grin softened—just enough to feel private, like it was meant only for me. Not triumph, not showmanship. Just him checking to see if I was still with him, still watching.
I pressed my lips together, trying to hide the smile that broke through anyway.
Heat curled low in my belly, sharp with want, but threaded with something more dangerous.
Something that felt like recognition. As if under all the noise and chaos, he was reaching for me—and I couldn’t stop myself from reaching back.
The next round, Mason pulled us into a tight huddle, breathless, hands braced on his knees. “Alright,” he said, eyes sharp, flicking toward Dean across the field. “He’s watching Viv more than the ball.”
A ripple of agreement went through the team—grunts, nods—like everyone had already noticed but me. My face went hot, but Mason didn’t give me a chance to react.
“We’re going to use it,” he pressed on, eyes cutting back in my direction.
“Viv, I want you to stick to the right, pull him with you. Don’t fight it, don’t hesitate—just take the ball and make him chase you.
That’ll open the lane.” He jabbed a finger toward Thomas, who was still catching his breath.
“Thomas will travel straight through the middle. I’ll swing wide left.
When Dean closes in on Viv, she pops the ball, and we drive past him. Clean and easy.”
Then his gaze found mine again, sharp but not unkind. “This works only if you don’t freeze. You have to trust me. Trust the play.”
My pulse hammered in my ears, the weight of the entire team’s eyes pressing down on me. I swallowed hard, forcing a nod—even as my stomach was tangling itself into knots.
The next whistle tore through the air, sharper than before. The play became rougher, bodies colliding right from the start.
“To the right!” Mason yelled. “Don’t slow down, no matter what you do!”
I ran. Legs burning, lungs screaming.
One. Two. Three people followed me—
And then the hit came from the side. A body slammed into me, knocking me off balance. Another crashed against my shoulder, then another—suddenly I was swallowed by weight driving me into the dirt.
Pain shot through my knee, and all the air punched out of my lungs.
Then I heard Dean’s voice crack through the chaos like thunder.
He was there in an instant. One second, I was buried under a tangle of arms and legs—the next, people were being ripped off me as though they weighed nothing.
His hands found me fast, sweeping over my arms, my shoulders, the length of my legs—his eyes raked over me, hands trembling with restraint, like he was desperate to know I was whole.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and something about his tone made my chin start to wobble.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
But then his eyes landed on my knee, where the blood streaked down my shin. For a heartbeat he just stared, shoulders heaving, the muscle in his cheek jumping like he was barely holding himself together.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low and final. Not to me—to everyone else. And for the first time, I realized—he wasn’t just worried. He was scared.
“I’m fine,” I croaked, again, but then I tried to stand and staggered a little.
“No, you’re not.” His tone left no room for argument.
Before I could protest, he slid his arms beneath me, lifting me off the ground. Everyone around us froze, watching, but said nothing.
“Go on without us,” he ordered, striding toward the cabins.
Dean didn’t set me down until we were inside. He shouldered the door open then shut it behind us, his arms beneath me the whole time as he carried me straight to the bathroom.