Chapter 22
Kai
The bus rolled into Murfreesboro just after sunrise, the sky bathed in a pink-gold light, reminding me of home. It felt surreal to be so far away yet experience the same thing on a different continent.
Here I was in a new country, playing a new sport … and taking new chances to make a bloody idiot of myself.
I pressed my forehead to the window as the bus pulled toward the stadium. Big blue banners flapped in the breeze, and groups of students wearing game-day shirts milled around the imposing structure.
There was even a tent shaped like a cowboy boot. I had no idea if that was normal, but based on what I’d seen so far, it kind of tracked.
Rugby tournaments didn’t look like this. For one thing, there were fewer footwear-shaped objects.
“Yo, Australia,” Marcus called from the seat behind me. “You taking pictures for your scrapbook?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, not turning around. “Want me to get your good side?”
“Dude, all my sides are good.”
I rolled my eyes. The bloke annoyed the hell out of me, but I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get rattled today. I wanted to play well today, not just survive the playbook.
I shifted in my seat and cracked my neck.
Playing dual positions as linebacker and tight end wasn’t as easy as it looked. They demanded two different sets of instincts and skills, and neither of them was rugby.
But I was getting there … I hoped so, at least.
Once we traipsed our merry little asses out of the bus and into the locker room, it was business as usual.
We filed out onto the field for early drills, helmets tucked under our arms and the sound of our cleats clacking on the ground filling the air. As soon as my foot hit the turf, Marcus knocked into my shoulder from behind.
“Fucking nepo baby,” he grumbled.
A bunch of his mates snorted but I grinned like I didn’t care. “Mate, if I was actually playing the nepotism card, I'd be on a beach right now.”
But it still stung. It always did.
They didn’t know I woke up at 5 A.M. every day watching tape, familiarizing myself with the rules. They didn’t know I stayed late to relearn the footwork those guys had learned as kids.
Warmups started smoothly enough with some shuffle steps, angle reads and contact bag hits.
I liked those. The bag didn’t care I was new. It didn’t call me Sunshine or Australia.
Coach blew the whistle. “Run it again! Whitaker, you’re tight on that drop. Too tight. Think bigger picture.”
“Bigger picture.” I huffed. “Right.”
Fuck if I knew what that was supposed to mean.
I backed up to position, adjusting my stance and squaring my shoulders, doing my best to keep my feet light. Try not to lunge like a rugby tackle. Redirect, don't collide.
I repeated it in my head like Tori had drilled it into me.
Redirect. Reroute. Hips, not brute force.
Another shrill whistle cut through the air. I moved, quick and fluid and finally — mercifully — at the correct angle.
When I chanced a quick glance his way, Coach let out something like a grunt of approval.
Holy shit. Maybe I wasn’t hopeless after all.
The game started quickly, much faster than it had appeared from the sidelines. But this time, the speed didn't overwhelm me.
Rugby had taught me field awareness.
MMA drills with Tori had taught me weight control.
Football was starting to fall into place.
I got into position, digging my cleats into the soft ground, and the muscles in my legs twitched nervously.
On my first defensive snap, the play bounced wide right. Usually, I would have been inclined to tackle the runner. But now, a new voice in my head — curiously enough, sounding just like Tori — told me to move, react and not overcommit.
I held my angle, tracking my opponent's hips, and stepped into the lane. The runner tried to cut, but my cut was sharper. My shoulder hit him just under the pads — a clean, perfect wrap — and we both fell to the ground.
In the background, I could faintly hear the roar of the crowd, and then my teammates swarmed around me, pulling me up and slapping my pads and helmet.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Big man!”
“Nice one, Whitaker!”
My lungs burned and my heart hammered so hard it almost hurt but … that felt good.
Like rugby-good.
Like home-good.
I jogged toward the sideline, chewing on my mouthguard. For a moment, I wished Tori could have seen it.
She would probably have thrown a snarky comment my way and pretended she wasn’t impressed, but her eyes would have told me everything I needed to know.
God help me, but I wanted to earn that look again.
In between plays, I sat on the bench wiping sweat off my face when my mind wandered, pulling my focus away from the game.
I imagined Tori watching from the stands, her arms crossed and those green eyes sharply scrutinizing my performance. Pretending she didn’t care, but leaning forward every time I got near the ball.
Her crazy work schedule hadn’t allowed her to come to any of my home games yet. Yes, I’d asked, but I wasn’t going to be a dick about it and I accepted her work came first. Given that, there was zero chance she’d be able to come to an away game.
Still, I couldn’t help but hope she might be watching the broadcast before her shift or checking the score on her phone.
A bloke could dream, right?
I imagined texting her after.
See that tackle? All thanks to your drills, Love.
She’d scowl at me for calling her that, but she’d secretly love it.
Then deeper stuff crept in.
Stuff I shouldn't be thinking about.
What if we were together?
If she came home with me…
Hell, last night I actually caught myself wondering what it’d take to convince her to build a life with me at home. A house. Maybe a dog. Kids with her eyes and my height.
Idiotic, possessive thoughts. Dangerous thoughts of knocking her up to make her mine. If I got her pregnant, she’d surely come with me.
I blinked, stunned by my own thoughts. Wow, this was seriously fucked up. Where the hell did that come from?!
Then again, was it really so far off, considering what turns me on? I’d never come so hard as I’d done when I told her I was going to fill her up and shot my load deep inside her.
Breeding her up sounded like a delicious solution to my problem.
Jesus fucking Christ, I was fucked.
I shook my head hard, trying to get my head back in the game. There’d be time for those kinds of daydreams later. Somehow I doubted they’d leave me alone any time soon.
Coach tapped my helmet. “Offense. Heavy set.”
Right. Time to switch roles.
I jogged out and lined up at tight end. The turf radiated leftover heat through my cleats as the sun set behind the stadium in a wash of molten gold.
The roar of the crowd had blurred into a dull, rhythmic thunder. My breath fogged up once as the evening temperature dropped and the air tightened around us with that electric stillness before the snap.
I bounced on my toes, loosening my shoulders and scanning the defensive line the way Tori once told me she scanned an opponent in the cage — not for what they wanted to show, but for the slip they didn’t mean to give.
Coach was barking out plays from the sideline and the quarterback was calling the cadence. But it was the familiar thrum under my skin locking everything into place. That itch right before contact.
At the snap, I pivoted cleanly, slipped past the linebacker and planted myself for a short post route. The quarterback threw the ball straight at my chest, which I caught and tucked securely against my body.
Then I turned upfield and fucking sent it. I took a hit on the opponents' 20-yard line but managed to stay on my feet long enough to drag two defenders an extra five yards.
The shrill sound of the whistle, accompanied by cheers, hit me at the same time as the relief of having actually done something right for once.
Someone slammed my back. “You’re a tank, Aussie!”
I was breathing like I’d swallowed a lawn mower, but adrenaline sang through me.
God, I wished Tori had seen it too.
We jogged into the tunnel at half-time with a three-point lead. Marcus appeared beside me, sweat dripping down his smug face.
“You’re having a good game,” he admitted. “Didn’t think nepotism could hit like that.”
“Thanks.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Didn’t think a bloke with your IQ could talk and breathe at the same time.”
A couple guys choked on their drinks but Marcus smirked. “Doesn’t matter. You’re gone after this year.”
Hearing it out of his mouth hit harder than it should have.
I forced a shrug. “No shit, Sherlock. Always was gonna be that way.”
But as I walked past him into the locker room, my chest tightened.
We kicked off the third quarter and Coach wanted me on defense again. Our opponents ran a sweep play, and an overwhelming urge to sprint straight at the runner took hold of me.
But Tori’s voice cut through the noise once more, prompting me to slide sideways, read the block and wait for the cutback.
The runner hesitated for just a moment, but it was enough to allow me to slip cleanly under the block, sliding in at the perfect angle to collapse the lane. Another tackle under my belt!
Tāne yelled, “That’s it, Kai!”
I grinned widely through my mouthguard as I jogged up to him, and we jumped in the air and smashed our chests together.
By the fourth quarter, my legs were burning, my lungs felt scorched, and I was running on pure instinct. But even though I was exhausted, something in me felt … steady.
For once, I wasn’t failing to catch up. Maybe — just maybe — I actually belonged here.
We won by ten, and when the final whistle blew, I was sweaty, filthy and bruised. I tilted my head up to the sky and all I could think was:
Tori would’ve said I kept my hips too high on the last tackle.
And then,
I wish she were here to say it.
As we walked down the tunnel to the locker room after the match, my body throbbed pleasantly. Sweat was drying coolly on my skin and I just felt good … until an elbow jabbed into my side.
“Good game, Sunshine.”