2
The tour of the facilities had been a blur of firm handshakes and polite smiles between staff. The air thick with the scent of dried sweat and musk. By the time Claire stepped outside, the afternoon light was beginning to mellow, spreading gold across the training pitch.
“Most of the team’s already moved outdoors,” said Tania beside her. “You’ll get a better sense of things out here.”
She followed the sound of laughter and thudding cleats, eyes adjusting to the wide sweep of green.
Players were scattered across the field – all muscle and motion, their shouts carried on the wind.
Claire caught herself smiling. This was her element.
Tania was pointing out players and their positions and telling Claire a little bit about the game.
There was then a shout, snapping Claire out of the trance Tania put her in. A body hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
“Skiddie’s down!” someone called from the pitch.
“That’s Jack, he’s a–”, Tania was interrupted by Claire moving down the bleachers.
“No, doctor! It’s ok!” Tania yelled after her, “He’s fine!”, but the doctor was already too far away and almost on the field.
The players parted instinctively as she knelt beside the fallen man.
Jack Hayworth was enormous up close. Easily six foot two, maybe more, with a solid, immovable build that looked carved for collisions.
His skin-tight jersey with a number 11 on it, clung to broad shoulders and thick arms, slick with sweat and dirt.
His hair was a tangle of light curls, plastered to his forehead, and his breath came rough and shallow.
“Hey, hey,” Claire said, voice steady as she scanned his scraped knee, already swelling beneath the fabric of his compression shorts. “Don’t move just yet, all right?”
His eyes met hers. They were green, the clearest green Claire had ever seen, and for a second, the world seemed to still. His blonde hair was covered in dirt and sweat. A close-cropped rugged beard framed his jaw, softened his face and made him devastatingly attractive.
“You the new doc?” he rasped. His accent was soft, notably Australian, rolled in gravel.
“Yeah. Dr. Claire Ashford.” She gave a small smile. “Try not to make me work on my first day.”
That earned a weak grin. “No promises.”
She touched his knee and he winced with a breath in. The team now gathered chuckled at this response. Claire thought it was odd. She could feel their eyes on her, assessing, maybe impressed.
“Nothing’s torn,” she said finally, sitting back on her heels. “You’ll live.”
Jack exhaled, his laugh low and hoarse. “Good. Hate to miss the season before it starts.”
A shadow fell over them. Claire looked up to find the captain, Noah Wilson, standing there, his tattoo ridden arms crossed, face unreadable. He was all control, the kind of man who didn’t waste words. A big 7 was on his jersey and a “C” was on the sleeve of his shoulder.
“Get up, Skid,” Noah said. His tone wasn’t cold, exactly, just measured, steady. Some of the guys lingering, shuffled back to give way to their captain. His gaze flicked to her, looking almost annoyed as if Claire was getting in the way of the team’s momentum.
Claire glanced up and finally took him in properly.
He was a tall Pacific Islander, his arm covered in a long, complicated tribal tattoo, and a band around his other arm.
He was not as broad as some of the players but built with a compact strength that came from active discipline rather than brute force.
His brown hair was damp with sweat, pushed back carelessly, and a faint shadow of stubble traced his strong jaw.
But it was his light brown eyes that caught her – cool, steady, assessing.
He didn’t smile, didn’t soften. There was something in his restraint that spoke louder than any charm could. A captain’s composure.
Claire rose to her feet and said nothing but stared at him with calculated thoughts.
As Jack was helped up by some teammates, he glanced over his shoulder at her, that roguish cheeky grin tugging at his lips.
“Already showing off, Skid?” Claire heard someone say from the back of the gathered crowd.
Jack tested his weight on the leg, wincing once, then rolling his shoulders and jumping a little as if shaking it off. “I’m good,” he called over to Noah, already grabbing his mouthguard from the turf.
“Take it easy,” Claire said, but it was wasted air. The moment he straightened, he was jogging back toward his spot, teammates clapping him on the back, shouting half-teasing, half-concerned remarks.
“Guess we’ll be seeing more of each other,” he jokingly yelled over to the doctor.
His chuckle lingered in the air as he shook off that tumble, a deep, rumbling sound that somehow followed her long after she’d turned back to the rest of the field.
Tania leaned closer, voice low with a knowing tone. “Tough guys, the lot of them. Rugby players. They’re tough.”
“Do they normally jump back up like that?” Claire asked Tania, remembering what the border agent told her. “Hope you’re good at stitches.”
“Oh yeah,” Tania responded, “It will be rare that they will be pulled out of a game. My dad played rugby, and I remember being horrified when his ear almost got bit straight off in a match, but he just… kept on playing.”
Claire just stared at her dumbfounded at the resilience. She imagined rugby players would have Cauliflower Ear from the constant impact from the sport. “I guess I have my work cut out for me, if that is what rugby players are like!” Claire said to Tania.
“That is an understatement!”
She watched as Jack rejoined the drill, pushing off his leg like nothing had happened, making brief eye contact.
A minute later, he was back in the thick of it – taking a pass, spinning out of a tackle, and crashing into another player with bone-shaking force.
The sound of impact traveled through the field, sharp and visceral.
“They play like they’re made of steel,” Claire murmured, mostly to herself.
Tania gave a small laugh. “Steel, k-tape, and beer.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. One player was bleeding from a split lip, another limped on a strained ankle, and none of them slowed down.
The intensity was constant, collisions, shouts, a rhythm of aggression balanced by precision.
There was beauty in it, too, in the way the ball passed through hands like it belonged there, in the trust that existed between bodies moving toward the same goal.
Eight men on each side bunched their shoulders together, in what looked to be a huddle, positions at the ready. Coach Reynolds yelled “Crouch… bind… set!” and then blew his whistle.
Claire gasped. “What are they doing?”
“That’s called a scrum,” Tania replied, “They do that to kind of restart the play after a violation.”
Bodies slammed together with a thunderous crack, the sound more felt than heard.
The front rows locked, foreheads pressed close, grunting as they fought for dominance.
Muscles trembled, breath came in ragged bursts, and the scent of earth and exertion filled the air.
The ball was fed into the tunnel. A flash of white amid the tangle of limbs.
Claire held her breath when instantly the packs heaved, boots skidding, and kits stretching toward each other fighting for dominance.
Then inch by inch, one side began to drive the other back, the rhythm of the push syncing with shouted calls and gritted teeth. The ball spat free, scooped by a scrumhalf in one smooth motion, and just like that, the formation exploded apart, players spilling forward into open play.
Coach Reynolds blew his whistle again. “Good job, lads! Again!” he commanded. The team went back into formation.
She’d worked with athletes before, but this… this was different. Rugby was raw, unguarded. These men played as if pain was background noise, just another part of the job.
Jack caught her eye again after a clean pass, that grin flashing like mischief itself. It was quick, barely there, before he turned and barreled into another tackle.
Claire shook her head, hiding a smile. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. He wasn’t hurt at all.
“Welcome to the team, Doc,” Tania said, smirking as a whistle blew across the pitch.
Jack stood a few meters off the main pitch, tossing a ball lazily from hand to hand while waiting for the next drill. Sweat slicked his hair back; dirt was smeared along one cheek. He shifted his weight, rolling onto the balls of his feet as if he was never injured to begin with.
“Oi, Skid,” Liam called, jogging over. As a back, he was leaner and faster than most, with a number 9 stretched across his shoulders. “Playing pranks already? We gotta be nice to the new doc.”
Jack smirked and flicked the ball toward him. “Barely. She nearly made me retire right there on the spot. I swear I’m in love.”
Liam caught the ball cleanly, spinning it back with an easy wrist snap. “She that pretty?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack said, catching again. He shrugged, casual, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all, which was a lie. “I would quit right now, if she wanted to get married and start a family. Super hot.”
Liam barked a laugh. “Course you’d notice that first.”
“What?” Jack protested. “It’s not my fault I have eyes...”
They tossed the ball between them, short passes, warming their hands while the forwards reset nearby.
Jack glanced toward the sideline deliberately.
Claire stood with Tania, arms crossed, eyes locked on the field like she was studying a puzzle she intended to solve.
Focused. Sharp. She seemed impressed with the raw violence of the sport.
“Careful,” Liam said, reading the look. “She’s staff. Captain’ll have your head.”
Jack scoffed. “Please. I’m charming.”
A voice cut in from behind them, calm and flat.
“You’re a serial flirt.”
Both men turned. Noah Wilson stood a few steps back, hands on his hips, sweat darkening the collar of his jersey.
Jack grinned, unfazed. “Just appreciating the new hire, Cap.”
Noah’s gaze followed Jack’s, landing briefly on Claire before snapping back. Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
“She’s here to keep us idiots on the field,” Noah said. “Not to entertain you. Don’t fuck it up for us, Skid.”
“Even if she is so pretty,” Liam teased.
Jack spun the rugby ball on one finger. Well, tried to anyway. “What? You saying I shouldn’t be friendly?”
“I’m saying,” Noah replied evenly, stepping closer, “Don’t try anything. Not with her. Not now. Not ever. She’s staff.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “That a rule, or just your opinion?”
Noah held his stare, unblinking. “Yes,” he said amusingly.
For a second, Jack considered pushing it – throwing out another joke. Instead, he chuckled and lobbed the ball back toward the drill area.
“Relax, Cap,” he said lightly. “Was just saying she’s cute.”
Noah smiled in amusement. “You can say it quieter, when she’s not right there.”
Liam flicked the ball toward Jack, and he fumbled it for a moment before recovering. “Watch your head,” Noah warned before he turned and walked away. He went to call instructions to the forwards, his focus snapping back to the game like nothing had happened.
Jack watched him go, thoughtful now, grin faded just a touch.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “That’s interesting.”
And without realizing it, his eyes drifted back to the sideline where Claire stood, unaware she’d already become a problem neither of them was prepared for.
By the time Claire left the training grounds, the sun had dipped low, staining the sky in layers of peach and violet. The sounds of the day still rang in her ears: the scrape of studs on concrete, the echo of laughter in the tunnels.
The drive back to the hotel was quiet. Auckland – or at least this part of it – felt alive in a way she hadn’t expected. The coastal air was sharp with salt, the skyline was half-swallowed by mist, the world both foreign and familiar all at once.
Once in her hotel room, she dropped her bag by the door and sank onto the edge of the bed, replaying the day in her mind.
The introductions, the wide smiles, the way the players’ energy seemed to fill every corner of the field.
And Jack – the winger who’d gone down in the grass, who’d still managed to grin at her even with his scraped knee swelling beneath her hands.
She smirked to herself. The memory wasn’t romantic, exactly, but it stirred something she hadn’t felt in a long time: the rush of being needed, of stepping into a moment and knowing exactly who she was.
Claire leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion settling into her bones, but her chest light with something close to hope.
Tomorrow, she’d learn names. She’d learn the game.
She’d find her rhythm. She’d start building trust. For now, she let the sound of distant city traffic linger through the open window and closed her eyes, jetlag taking hold, imagining the emerald field again = boundless, alive, and waiting.
This was a new team, a new country, a new life. And no one here needed to know what – or who – she’d left behind.