7
By Friday afternoon, the facility had slowed down.
The last of the players had filed out with excitement for an evening off.
They have left behind the faint smell of liniment and the echo of laughter down the corridor.
Claire was in her office, finishing up some notes when Jack leaned against the doorway, still drenched in sweat and mud, a little blood, with an easy and disarming grin.
“Big weekend plans, Doc?” he asked, his tone casual but eyes too intent for it to be small talk.
She didn’t look up right away. “Catching up on some sleep sounds dangerously exciting,” she said, typing away. She looked up.
“Whose blood is that?” Claire asked urgently. She got up to inspect the blood and the patient standing before her.
In the hallway behind Jack, Claire spotted Kelsey walking towards the locker room with a wad of tissues shoved up his bloody nose.
Claire had taken an immediate liking to Kelsey.
She learned that he is the first openly gay rugby player in Crusaders history and has the roaring support of the team.
He is what she has learned is called a “bear”, at 6 foot 5 inches, he has auburn blonde hair that covers his whole body.
Kelsey was very proud to say it is from his dad’s Irish heritage.
He also made the point to tell Claire that he will like her, even if she is British.
“That’s very nice of you, Kelsey” Claire said, “an honor,” she chuckled with him.
Claire had trouble getting him to take a minute and slow down. She explained how Kelsey needs to recover on a daily basis, and recommended he start yoga, as someone of his size and position, will benefit from flexibility.
Now that same guy was walking with a bloody nose and a bruised cheek.
Jack looked down as if nonchalant about another person's blood being on his shirt and arms. “Could be anybody's" he said, stepping closer, trying to shift the subject back to the weekend. “That’s tragic. You survive your first week with this lot – barely – and you’re going to celebrate by napping?”
“I’ll try not to overdo it,” she replied quickly and dryly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She couldn’t focus on Jack. “Sorry, uh, Kelsey!” she yelled after him over Jack’s shoulder.
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Do you want me to look at that?”
“No, Doc, I’m good. Just going to go to the shed to get it sorted.”
“Okay. Pinch the bridge and lean forward! Find me if you need me, please,” Claire demanded. Kelsey sent her a friendly wave over his back.
“Nothing a beer can’t fix, Doc!,” yelled Miko, helping Kelsey into the locker room, handing him a can of a beer Claire didn’t recognize.
Jack leaned a shoulder against the wall, now blocking her view from any other man, studying her with that mix of charm and perversity that he seemed to carry everywhere.
“Well, if you decide to live a little, a few of us are heading to the Harbour Bar. Good food, terrible music, questionable decisions.”
“Sounds like a very professional environment,” she teased.
“Oh, the best kind”, he said, flashing her a grin. “You should come. You know, for… observation purposes. Player health and safety stuff.”
Claire looked up at him, arching a brow. “You’re asking me to evaluate your hydration levels over beer?”
“Exactly,” he said, grin widening to a full, flirty smile. “Purely medical.”
She laughed. “I’ll think about it, Jack.”
“Good,” Jack said, pushing off the wall. “Just don’t think too long. 8pm.” He started toward the exit, glancing back over his shoulder once, his smile still lingering, unshowered, blood from the battle on his muscular, strong arms.
Harbour Bar was a low-ceilinged warren of noise and neon tucked down a side street. The kind of place where the floor vibrated faintly with bass and spilled beer. Claire noticed how every surface seemed to somehow be sticky and also wet at the same time.
A cracked disco ball turned lazily overhead, throwing soft shards of light across the small crowd.
Pink and blue sparkles bounced off scuffed wood, mirrored tiles, and walls layered with posters from decades of forgotten gigs.
The team took over some mismatched booths near the stage, already too loud, already singing off-key, their laughter colliding and overlapping in a rhythm that felt natural and intimate.
Every once in a while, there was a pause in the comradery, and Claire watched the guys chug their beers in unison.
Claire stayed just at the edge of it all, sitting at a bar stool, nursing the last sips of her own beer, watching the way they ribbed each other mercilessly. How one lyrical mistake became a running joke, how an arm slung around a shoulder meant comfort as much as teasing.
After seeing the way these men can put back beers, it is probably a good thing that she is here. Just in case.
“Doctor.” Jack’s voice was warm and amused. He bent at the waist to meet her seated body at eye level. “I hope there are no medical emergencies tonight.” His smile was genuine, and Claire couldn’t help but admire the handsome face only mere inches from hers.
“Me too, actually. So far so good, Jack.” Claire chucked softly, but with that chuckle came a hint of wonder and curiosity.
Jack held her gaze a moment longer. “Thank you for coming,” he said to her. Before Claire even got a word out, in response, a teammate yelled over to him.
“Skid!”
A large hand came up behind him, physically pulling him away from Claire sitting at the bar. “You have to see this!” Toby said.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Duty calls.” With a wink, he left her at the bar top.
However, Claire noticed that Jack was flushed and grinning and kept flicking glances her way between choruses.
She traced the rim of her glass, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest, wondering if the music was the only thing making her pulse quicken.
Claire spotted Noah, walking towards her to take a seat on the adjacent stool.
He had traded in his training kit for civilian clothes.
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled twice, exposing forearms lined with faint scars and dark tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric.
Claire admired how, even when he wasn’t trying, he still stood out.
Noah was unmistakably sober, had a beer in hand, eyes constantly moving, counting heads, scanning exits, steady as a lighthouse in chaos.
He didn’t need to intervene yet; the team was safe, no issues, no one making mistakes, everyone enjoying themselves, everyone following the rules.
Claire can tell he takes his responsibility very seriously.
“Do you want another?” Noah asked Claire.
“That’ll be great,” she smiled, “thank you.”
Noah gestured to the woman behind the bar, and she drafted another beer for Claire.
“Do you always look out for the team?” Claire asked him.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Do they know that you do that?”
“Probably.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to Claire more than once.
Noah caught the quiet gesture, noting the tension in the corner of his teammate’s mouth, the way he laughed a fraction too loudly at a joke that wasn’t that funny.
Jack was trying to show off. Noah glanced toward Claire, subtle but intent, gauging her reaction.
He caught the slight tilt of her head, the amused spark in her eyes.
Noah paused, his fingers idly tapping the bottle in his hand, as a thought flickered behind his steady gaze, one he wouldn’t dare put into words.
“Are you going to sing a song tonight?” she asked, trying to make any conversation.
“No.”
It was very difficult trying to get Noah to talk, but Claire was determined.
“Do you–” she started. Then she was interrupted by a figure that squeezed his way into the empty standing space between Noah and Claire’s bar stools, with his back to a stunned Noah.
He smelled of very pungent cologne, his shirt too tight across his chest, the top buttons undone just enough to suggest effort rather than ease.
His sleazy smile was practiced, eyes lingering a beat too long over Claire’s chest.
“Hi,” he said breathily. It was easy to determine this man was drunk. His breath smelled like liquor, his face was flushed, and he swayed, despite his right arm leaning on the bar.
Noah didn’t hesitate. He stood, took one big step and wedged his whole 6’2” frame in between Claire and the man.
Noah was considerably taller and the stranger seemed to notice. He looked up at Noah who was almost growling at him. The stranger froze, a flicker of surprise in his expression and for a minute, the music, the laughter, the neon frenzy around them seemed to condense into the space.
“I think she’s fine,” Noah said evenly, voice low and controlled, carrying a weight that left no room for argument. His stance was protective, unyielding, not threatening, just absolute. The stranger’s smile wavered, just slightly, before he shifted back and stumbled.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Noah Wilson?” the man slurred.
“I have gotten that once or twice,” Noah responded and he put an arm around the drunk guy’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, my friend.”
Noah started leading him away from Claire as she overheard the man say, “that woman is beautiful though, and I need to say hi.”
“You did say hi, she wasn’t interested,” Noah responded. “You can’t win ‘em all, mate.”
The stranger looked unphased by that retort from Noah as they walked out the door together.
After a minute or two, Noah came back in, assessing the room again, and paid for the man’s bar tab.
Claire’s heart skipped, caught between relief and the sudden awareness of Noah’s proximity.
She took a small breath, realizing just how much he was watching – not just the team, but her too, if only to make sure she was safe in this wild, chaotic night.
Noah settled back beside her, his usual calm restored. Claire met his light brown eyes with a soft smile, her voice quiet but sincere. “Thank you, Noah,” she said quietly.
He didn’t respond, just kept scanning the room for trouble and allowed himself one brief glance at the doctor’s soft smile.
Claire’s hotel room was quiet; the hum of the air conditioning was a soft counterpoint to the city beyond the window. She dropped her work bag and kicked off her boots, fingers hovering over the strap of her second bag before letting it all fall to the floor.
She looked at the dresser and to her open, disheveled suitcase that she had been living out of for the past week.
The hotel wasn’t much, but it did what it needed to.
Her microsuite had everything it needed: a compact kitchen with spotless counters she hadn’t really used, a small sofa facing a television she never really turned on, and a tidy desk that had been overtaken by a couple books, her laptop, and medical reports.
Her life for the week fit neatly into two suitcases, a carryon, and a satchel filled with personal items. Every night she told herself she didn’t mind the temporary transience; she’d lived like this before, bouncing between cities, teams, seasons.
But there was something different about this time - something she couldn’t quite name.
Maybe it was the silence when she closed the door behind her, or the way the noise of the refrigerator filled the living space of the room.
Claire exhaled slowly, giving her time to finally feel the weight of the night. The lines between work and something more are starting to blur, and she wondered if that would make the next week even more complicated.
She walked over to her little desk and found a small folder. There she saw it. The photo she had almost left behind. The one of her and Jace on that perfect day, him in his green-and-white Harrier’s jersey, smiling like the world belonged to him now rested in her palm.
She hesitated, thumb brushing the edge, before letting it slip into the trash. Where it belonged. Even discarded, though, the image lingered in her mind. Not painfully, just as a reminder. A reminder of how far she’d come, and how much she still had to focus on.
She’d gotten a casual and teasing follow-up text. The “thanks for coming out” from Jack. She stared at it longer than she meant to. Then she’d set her phone face down on the desk. Claire exhaled slowly, straightening in the soft lamplight.
Tomorrow would bring new faces, new routines, new challenges.
There would be scrimmages to oversee, medical checks to conduct, players to earn the trust of.
This was her domain now, and she had no intention of letting anything – old ghosts included – distract her.
She wasn’t here to make friends, she reminded herself.
Definitely not to flirt with handsome, muscular, charming players. One in particular.
Still, when the muffled sound of laughter drifted up from the street below later that night, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was among them - grinning, golden, careless - and why, despite everything she told herself, that thought felt heavier than it should.
She heard her phone ping one more time, probably from a certain green-eyed someone, before she drifted to sleep.
By the end of her first week, Claire had learned three things:
Rugby players were worse than toddlers when told to rest.
Jack Hayworth was an unforgiving flirt.
Noah Wilson notices everything.