4
By mid-morning, the Med Box was humming with quiet activity.
Claire had her papers in hand, charts lined up, and the first batch of players called in one by one.
The sterile smell of disinfectant mixed with the earthy scent of grass clinging to their bodies, and the air buzzed with an energy she could almost feel radiating off the squad.
One by one, players came through. They were stretching, joking, and occasionally grumbling, all while Claire methodically checked vitals, joints, and past injuries.
Each assessment was a chance to observe, to note tendencies, and to learn names.
The routines were familiar, almost comforting, but the stakes felt different here: these were a new kind of elite athletes, athletes that couldn’t admit they were injured, each muscle honed, each personality a factor to understand.
Liam O’Connor, (a.k.a Luck) the red-headed scrumhalf, was quieter, more measured, always scanning the pitch as if calculating angles before moving.
He reminded her of a chess player anticipating every possible outcome, which would make him tricky to manage medically – and predictably difficult to convince to rest. They bonded over their life in Europe.
Liam told Claire that his parents split time between County Mayo and London where the grandbabies are, trying to soak up as much time with them as possible.
And then there was Toby Ngatai, a lock with a booming laugh and a friendly shoulder slap for anyone passing too slowly. The team just calls him Toby because apparently Toby is already a good name. He is rough around the edges, but clearly loyal to the team.
Claire scribbled their names in her notebook, along with first impressions and questions to ask the coaching staff. This was a puzzle, and she intended to solve it – piece by piece, day by day.
She straightened, feeling a flicker of excitement. It wasn’t just about surviving the first week; it was about making it count. Every player she helped, every system she learned, every boundary she reinforced. She loved every minute and it was all part of staking her claim.
Her next patient was Jack Hayworth. “Skiddie” as his teammates had lovingly referred to him.
She would have to find out why they call him Skiddie.
Jack’s file is thinner than others, newer, and deceptively clean.
On paper, he looked like the ideal athlete.
Claire knew better. Beneath the perfect stats were the signs of someone still learning how to respect his body.
A Grade 2 hamstring strain from overtraining, a fractured metacarpal from a reckless tackle that hadn't been his play to make. Repeated minor sprains, stitches, concussions. He healed quickly, almost too quickly, and eager to prove himself indispensable. It was almost as if he had a drive that was dangerous, in a way it seems he doesn’t want to be replaced.
Claire paused at her computer screen, when the low mumbles of voices drifted from the hall.
She glanced toward the ajar door just in time to catch the tail end of a bickering exchange.
Noah’s voice was measured, short, unmistakably captain-like: “You’re not warming up properly, Skid.
You’re doing it on purpose. Don’t make me call you out in front of the team.
I can’t have you going to medical, all the time. ”
Jack’s retort was quick, teasing, full of mischief: “Relax, Captain. I’ve got this.
You worry too much for a man of your age.
You should be careful, you’ll get more wrinkles, maybe some grays.
Besides, I like the view in there.” There was a lightness under the edge.
Claire straightened, curious, as the two continued their back-and-forth.
Any day now, one of them would inevitably push the other’s buttons too far.
Jack Hayworth gave the door a light knock before his towering body took up the space in the frame, and entered into the small medical room – tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of winger whose presence filled the room before he even spoke – and flashed her a grin that was half charm, half mischief.
His blonde hair fell carelessly over his forehead, and the faint smell of sweat and sunscreen lingered as he exhaled, brushing the air around them.
“Afternoon, Doctor,” he said, voice low and teasing, “ready to make sure I survive another brutal season?”
Claire raised an eyebrow, his file folder poised. “I’ll do my best,” she joked. “Today we are establishing patient care, so please sit on the table.”
He laughed, a warm, effortless sound that made her pulse skip without her permission. “Sounds good.”
He took his shirt off swiftly, then his pants, until he was in his tight boxer briefs, and enthusiastically jumped up onto the exam table.
“Oh, that’s unnecessary…” Claire said. He is fit. Maybe 10% - 12% body fat. Toned muscles, broad shoulders, massive biceps.
“I feel more comfortable like this”, he said, leaving his clothes to the side of the exam table. She felt as if he took his shirt and pants off on purpose, as to show her what he can offer. It took all of her strength to not take a sneaky peek at the figure looming before her.
As she guided him through stretches and assessed his joints, she was aware of the subtle tension in his shoulders, and she noticed the quick glances he made at the door where she just overheard him and the mysterious flanker arguing.
There was a butterfly tattoo on his back left trap. It seems unusual for a person as masculine as Jack Hayworth.
“What is the tattoo from?” she casually asks him, while writing notes.
“What tattoo?” Jack asks, genuinely confused.
“On your back?”
“There's a tattoo on my back?!” He yelled, trying to look back there. Claire was astonished that he wouldn’t have known that, seeing as it was an older tattoo.
“Nah, I’m kidding, I lost fantasy football when I was 18 in the United States,” he said, “I was out at UCLA for uni. My unfortunate ass lost, and my friends chose the tattoo, and here we are today, with this beaut on my back. It could have been worse.”
Claire was beaming at how charming Jack is. Handsome, fun, flirty, a dangerous combination.
“UCLA is a fantastic school. What a special experience for you. And now you’re here, in New Zealand, playing professional rugby. With a captain who doesn’t exactly… see eye to eye with you?” she asked casually, checking his knee flex.
Jack smirked, leaning back on his hands while on the exam table, his knee still being fondled by the doctor, who was putting bands around his legs.
“Let’s just say he’s more by-the-book than I am.
Keeps things tense sometimes. But hey, tension’s what makes a season exciting, right?
” He leaned slightly closer as she adjusted the resistance band around his legs.
“Not that I mind a little competition… even off the pitch.”
“Extend” she commanded. He straightened his knees, abs exposed.
Claire smirked back, though she kept her tone clipped. “I’ll hold you to professional limits, Hayworth. No competition in here.”
He tilted his head, with pretend seriousness. “Professional, right. Got it. Though I can’t promise I won’t make it… interesting.”
She packed that away in her head – charm as defense, positive energy as armor.
Jack had been with the Crusaders for two seasons, known for his aggressive scrummaging and uncanny ability to read opposing teams. He loved the game with a kind of reckless joy, which sometimes put him at odds with the more disciplined Noah.
Claire could see it already: sparks would fly, on the pitch and off. She will need to reign it in.
By the end of the assessment, his vitals were solid, muscles responsive, and his banter had left her both dangerously amused and slightly off-balance.
Every stretch and motion spoke of raw power tempered by athletic grace, a body built to dominate the sport.
She patched up the tensed knee with some KT tape.
Claire was inspecting Jack with care, as she did with the other players, her eyes maybe lingering a little too much. He seemed to enjoy the attention.
“Thanks, Doc, I’m glad you like the view” he said cheekily, his tone light, shirt still off, pants still off, legs exposed. The way his eyes paused on her a fraction longer than necessary made her pulse skip.
She was not expecting him to say that. She jumped as if being accused of staring too long.
“Sorry”, she said, “That’s not my intention, you’re all set.
I’ll recommend you to a nutritionist, and a physio.
” She cleared her throat. “You’re all set” she repeated, flustered.
She felt her face go red. He is very attractive, but she will never ever date a player ever again. That is a promise. No – a vow.
He got up off the exam table, still staring at her.
As he stepped toward the door, he paused, just close enough that their shoulders brushed.
The contact was brief, innocuous in any other context, but at that moment it felt electric.
Claire felt heat rise in her chest, a flush she tried to hide by staring straight ahead and not at the man at all.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, forcing her heart steady, though her hands shook slightly as she adjusted the papers.
“Used to what?” he asked, his voice low, teasing, as he pushed the door open and let it swing back lightly behind him. “I can’t possibly know what you mean. Professional, and all.”
Claire exhaled softly, realizing her heartbeat had gone rogue. Even as he disappeared down the hall, the faint trace of his cologne seemed to linger in the air, a reminder that some sparks didn’t extinguish so easily.