Chapter 25-Tank
Southern Tour USA Rugby Winter Tournament: Carolina Rovers vs. Houston Longhorns
Score tied. Final fifteen minutes.
Everything is on the line.
The indoor stadium must have its AC running because I swear, I feel a blast of air whip across the pitch, cold as hell. But I barely acknowledge it.
My blood's hot.
Heart pounding.
Muscles coiled, ready to snap.
I’m in position—backer. One of the hardest hitters on the team.
My job? Protect the ball, destroy the opposition’s momentum, and create the kind of brutal space that makes magic possible.
No glory, no headlines.
Just pure, punishing impact.
The hitman behind every highlight reel.
But right now? My eyes keep drifting.
To the sidelines.
To her.
My Dani.
She’s bundled up in a big coat, snapping pictures for the socials, biting her lip, brows furrowed.
She’s worried. For me.
It lights something in me I didn’t even know I had.
Not fear.
Not distraction.
Purpose.
And then I feel it—eyes on me. Not hers. His.
Some smug bastard in Longhorn red, slinking close during the reset.
I know his type.
Big mouth, dirty hits, zero follow-through.
He follows my gaze, clocking Dani.
Smirks.
“Pretty little sidepiece you got there, Jackson,” he drawls under his breath. “Bet she’s mine after I kick your ass.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn my head.
“The fuck did you just say?”
His grin widens like this is a game.
And maybe it was.
But not anymore.
Now it’s personal.
Now, this tourney isn’t just about a trophy.
It’s about honor. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I grin. It’s sharp. Ferocious.
“Congratulations,” I tell him. “You just made the highlight reel, mate.”
He blinks. Too late.
Because when the whistle blows, I become everything he didn’t expect.
Explosive. Fast. Vicious.
He tries to push past our line—tries to take one of our wings down the sideline—but I’m there. I am the wall.
I smash him mid-sprint, chest to chest, shoulder to ribs, momentum wrecked, breath stolen.
He hits the turf so hard it echoes. Crowd goes nuts.
And I don’t stop.
Every scrum, I’m in his face.
Every ruck, I hit harder.
He tries to talk shit again, but I just smile as I drop him. Again. And again.
Because, other players? They get rattled. They let their tempers run wild.
But not me.
I channel it.
I become steel.
I become fury with rules.
I become a Rover.
When I finally drive the ball into the zone for the winning try—when the whistle blows and the announcer screams our victory—it’s not the roar of the crowd I’m listening for.
It’s the gasp I hear from the sidelines.
The camera snapping.
Her smile.
Dani’s already rushing toward the field.
And as I lift my mud-slicked arms in triumph, blood on my lip, pride in my chest, I know exactly where I’m going next.
To her.
Because this win?
It’s for the team.
But everything else?
It’s for her.