Chapter 1-Daniela
I can’t believe this.
The season has been over for months, but does Major League Rugby take a break?
No. Of fucking course not.
Apparently, rugby players don’t hibernate.
Not when there are “indoor tournaments,” “international friendlies,” and “engagement campaigns” designed to lure in more American fans who still think rugby is just football with an identity crisis.
Which is where I come in.
Hi, I'm Daniela McNally.
PR assistant for the Carolina Rovers.
Or, more accurately, professional chaos-wrangler, part-time damage control specialist, and the girl who makes sure our players aren’t accidentally offending sponsors, swearing on live mic, or flashing too much thigh on TikTok.
I technically report to Finley Adamo, who’s the Rovers' head of public relations.
She reports to Mitchell Knight—the billionaire owner of the team and Luca Warden’s old college mentor.
And yeah, I kind of fell into this job by accident.
But then my best friend, Annabeth Martinez, went and married Luca—our star forward, our team golden boy, the man the fans call Captain Heartbreaker—and just like that, I was no longer the invisible intern hovering behind the social media camera.
I became part of the family.
Teammate-adjacent, if you will.
Which is great. Mostly.
Except now I’ve got a front-row seat to all the sweaty, shirtless, stupidly attractive rugby drama—and all the testosterone-fueled bro-banter that comes with it.
And let me tell you something.
These guys are terrifying.
I mean, have you ever seen professional rugby players up close?
They’re massive.
Like if Dwayne Johnson and a grizzly bear had a baby, and that baby was raised on protein powder and full-contact drills.
That’s the vibe.
They’ve got thick necks, broader-than-broad shoulders, thighs the size of tree trunks, and this insane ability to look hot while bleeding.
Which—honestly—should be illegal.
I was intimidated as hell the first few months on the job. Still am, sometimes.
But here’s the thing.
Most of the guys are actually sweet.
Dumb as rocks occasionally, sure.
But sweet. Loyal. Big-hearted.
All except one.
Hudson Tank Jackson.
Our team's hulking, silent enforcer. The bruiser. The back row forward whose entire job is to smash into other grown men at full speed and take the hits no one else can.
Quick rugby explainer for the uninitiated: the back row—Tank's position—is like being the final boss of a video game.
You’re big, mean, and the last person standing between the other team and the goal line.
You hit hard, you clear out rucks, you protect the ball, and you sacrifice your body every single match.
And Tank? He lives up to his nickname.
He doesn’t talk much.
Doesn’t party like the other guys.
Doesn’t pose for the cameras or charm the fangirls.
But on the pitch, he’s terrifying.
A silent storm in cleats and eye black.
And off the pitch?
Yeah, well, that’s where things get complicated.
Because I slept with him.
Like a fucking rookie.
I did the one thing you are never supposed to do when you work for a professional sports team.
I got horizontal with a player. And not just any player.
The most dangerous one.
Hudson Jackson. Tank.
The guy who looks like he could deadlift a car and quote Shakespeare—and not even break a sweat while doing it.
It was just one night.
One stupid, hot, amazing night.
And okay, maybe I got a little carried away.
Maybe I let myself believe he was more than just a big, bruising slab of sex on legs.
Maybe I thought I saw something real behind those stormy eyes.
And then? He opened his mouth.
Said something dumb.
I still don’t even know what it was exactly other than I’ve always been sensitive about my weight, and he basically called me a dog treat.
Said I was one of the best snacks he ever had—one of many, I assume.
And well, all that just popped the bubble.
You know the one.
That magical, breathless, post-sex moment where I was floating and glowing and full of all kinds of feelings I didn’t want to name. And then—pop. Gone.
So I ran.
I ghosted him.
Blocked his number.
Avoided the locker room like it had been cursed.
And when I saw him around the paddock, I perfected my eye-roll-and-pivot combo like a damn professional.
He hasn’t tried to talk to me since.
Fine by me.
Yeah, right.
Shut up, stupid inner voice, I am so fine!
Anyway, now I’m screwed.
Because Finley—goddess of PR schemes and harebrained ideas that sound adorable on paper but are absolute nightmares to execute—has decided we need a new holiday campaign.
Something heartfelt.
Something viral.
Something that makes American fans fall in Sweetheart with rugby.
Her solution?
Rugby Thanksgiving in the Mountains.
Yeah. That’s the official title.
One player.
One cabin.
A bunch of GoPros and drone footage.
Cooking.
Chopping wood.
Playing fetch with an adopted rescue dog.
Maybe shirtless snow angels if we get lucky with the weather.
Wholesome, heartwarming, thirst-trappy content.
And guess who the featured player is?
Hudson Tank Jackson.
And guess who has to drive to the North Carolina mountains and film the whole damn thing?
That’s right.
Me.
Daniela.
The girl who once rode Tank Jackson like a mechanical bull and then ghosted him harder than a Tinder date with halitosis.
Kill me now.
Please.
Seriously, I’d rather get tackled by the entire front row than spend three days in a romantic cabin in the woods with the man I’ve been avoiding like the plague.
But this is PR.
And the content calendar doesn’t care about my personal drama.
So I’m going.
I’m filming him chop firewood and stuff a turkey and pretend like we didn’t once almost break a headboard with how hard we—nope.
Not thinking about it.
I just have to survive this weekend.
And not fall into bed with him all over again.
Easy, right?
Right?
Say right, dammit!