Chapter 21
Teddy
Connor O’Riley was the bane of my existence.
Not in the poetic, star-crossed lover, sigh-into-a-pillow way people romanticized. But in the real, teeth gritting, pulse spiking, furious sense.
I’d barely managed to get away from him when footsteps thundered after me. I didn’t need to turn to know he was following.
I wanted to throw myself into a scrum rather than talk.
At least a scrum made sense. At least a scrum came with rules I understood and outcomes I could predict and absolutely no risk of accidentally remembering how his breath felt against my throat, how earnest his big brown eyes were when he talked to me.
Reaching the sideline, I looked out across the pitch, watching everyone else partake in the drill we’d just demonstrated. It was chaos in motion. All arms, legs, laughter, and swearing.
And then there was Nate and Jake, as promised by Coach, coupled together.
Jake was clinging to Nate in complete misery while Nate crawled forward like he was hauling a stubborn, swearing toddler.
“I hate this,” Jake shouted.
“Hold your core, you floppy salmon.”
“I’m trying to not touch your dick! Tape that thing down next time, Jesus.”
Any other day, I would’ve laughed. Instead, I stood there trying to breathe normally while my entire body still remembered being wrapped around Connor.
God, he was strong and maddeningly contained, towering above me.
I had expected him to show a waver in his restraint, or misstep, but he didn’t.
He showed power and agility that went beyond control.
And now, I was walking around with the imprint of his body on mine.
I braced myself, swallowing my shredding pride. But before he reached me, Coach Em’s whistle cut across the pitch.
“Sloane! O’Riley! Swap in for the second rep!”
No.
No fucking way was I getting in another round with Connor.
But my body didn’t agree. Heat shot up my spine, settling at the base of my neck, creeping into my cheeks.
My muscles tensed, nerves alert and ready to move in either direction, the locker rooms or his arms again, two sensations battling inside my body.
Desire and fear. I hated that I couldn’t tell which impulse would win if I let go for a moment.
I jogged toward Coach with full intention of asking—no, begging—to swap partners. I even opened my mouth. The words were right there, balanced on my tongue. Then I realized exactly what that would look like. What I’d sound like.
If I made a fuss, I’d be giving him the one thing I refused to give… proof that he’d rattled me. I wasn’t rattled.
I shut my mouth, cleared my throat, and shoved my shoulders back, pretending I didn’t feel them stiffen right back into place.
“Everything alright, Sloane?” Micah asked as we passed.
“Perfect.” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Ready for round two.”
I faced the pitch again, ignoring every nerve ending howling at me that this was a terrible idea. That doing this again with him, under forty pairs of eyes, was asking for it.
But I didn’t back down from anything, not the double standards when it came to women in sports, the underestimation of ability because of my gender.
Not even the years of uncomfortably wearing men’s shorts because they didn’t actually make women’s rugby shorts.
No. If that couldn’t keep me down, then nothing would stop me from doing another round with him. I wasn’t going to show weakness today.
Even if he was currently the hottest, most inconvenient problem I’d ever created for myself.
“Captains,” Coach Knox called, motioning us forward. “Positions.”
Connor murmured, “Ready for round two, sunshine?”
I didn’t look at him this time. I just kneeled down, knowing that hefting a six-foot-five man, even with my five-nine height, across the pitch, would be a challenge.
Adrenaline ran through my body like lava.
I was going to drag his ass across the pitch and let that be a reminder that I wasn’t fragile, weak, or in need of him.
A kiss could just be a kiss, and he would learn that it won’t happen again.
“Do your worst,” I whispered darkly.
He sat in front of me, then slowly laid back onto the grass. Power went to my head for a beat as I climbed over the top of him. Then his arms wrapped around my neck, his torso lifting just enough to take his weight without collapsing my balance.
Being this close to him again was torture.
I held my breath, and he took that as his cue to wrap his legs around me.
He was a solid heat against me. My arms wavered, but I would not let him win.
“On your call,” he murmured in my ear.
I drew in a quick breath and suppressed the shiver threatening to break free.
Digging my toes into the turf, I pushed from my hips, letting the movement bloom outward.
My thighs, glutes, hell, everywhere, burned immediately, but that feeling wasn’t foreign to me; it was how I’d learned to carry weight without giving up.
It motivated me. The same way my body had learned to take up the space I deserved.
I’d show that to everyone around me until I could no longer move. And that would not be today.
The first pull would always ask the most. My spine held steady like a cable as all my weight transferred forward, but I was built for endurance.
It wasn’t pretty or fast as I grunted and groaned my way up the pitch, my shoulders feeling like they might snap.
His arms tightened around my neck when I hit a softer patch of turf, his chest brushing mine as I slowed, his breath catching against my ear as I dragged him another inch.
“Good,” he murmured, barely audible. “Keep that pace.”
“Shut up,” I rasped, hauling him forward again.
My quads fired. My core shook. My shoulders cried. But I refused—absolutely refused—to let gravity, fatigue, or Connor O’Riley see me falter.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, a light thread of amusement there lacing his Irish-American accent.
Then, as if I’d closed my eyes, every inch I pulled him felt like wrestling with the memory of his hands on my hips. Because every exhale he let out skimmed the back of my neck like a reminder I didn’t want but couldn’t shake.
Halfway down the pitch, sweat dripped into my eyebrow, and I blew it away with a violent huff. Connor adjusted slightly, lifting more of his torso to reduce pressure on my arms.
Thoughtful. Infuriating. I hated him for it.
“No helping,” I snapped without looking down.
He chuckled. “You’d rather suffer?”
“Absolutely.”
Inch by inch, I moved him.
And when the cone finally came into view, relief punched through me so sharply I nearly quit right there.
Three more pulls.
Two.
One—
He dropped from me with a thud, and I sat back on my heels, head tipped back to the sky, my lungs greedily sucking in air as sweat dripped down my back and temples. Grunts and groans echoed around me, coming back into focus as I turned to see the rest of my girls hauling men across the pitch.
Pride swelled in my chest as I watched these women. My team.
The Valkyries proved again that no one outworked us.
That was exactly what I needed to remember. We were winners. I dragged the back of my wrist across my forehead, breaths beginning to settle, the ache in my muscles grounding me in all the ways my thoughts refused to.
This grit, this fire, this team, was what mattered.
Not the six-foot-five headache currently getting to his feet. I resisted the urge to lean into the warmth I knew he provided, not wanting to show the weakness of need and comfort. We were just captains who share a stadium. I needed to remember that.
I pushed up off my heels, straightened my spine, and let the noise of the session wash over me—the laughter, the swearing, the thuds of bodies hitting turf. It gave me perspective far better than any deep breath ever could.
Whatever had happened on Friday… It didn’t own me.
This did. My work. My women. My game.
Even if part of me was still fighting myself to look back.