14 #2
Still, as she checked the match prep one last time, she couldn’t help but feel the pulse of an undercurrent of nerves and anticipation. Ireland was tough. The boys would need everything they had. And she’d be ready, right there on the sideline, in her medical tent when they did.
The air was thick with the scent of pre-game jitters and anticipation.
Jack was pacing lightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes glinting with energy that didn’t quite belong to the orderly confines of the tunnel.
Claire watched him from the side of the opening, clipboard clutched, heart thumping against her ribs – not from exertion, but from the thrill that always seemed to follow him.
“Hey,” Jack said, sidling closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re awfully quiet over there. Nervous?”
Claire straightened, planting herself firmly between him and the open stretch of concrete leading to the field. “I’m focused,” she said, voice calm but deliberate. “And you need to focus too. No distractions.”
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint tang of Tiger Balm and something uniquely Jack. “Oh, I can focus,” he murmured. “I just… like my doctor watching me. Medical reasons. You know, I do worry about my health a lot.”
Claire drew herself up, holding his gaze. “That’s exactly why I need to remind you – boundaries. I’m your medic, not… whatever you’re implying.” Her tone was firm, but a twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.
Jack grinned, unabashed, reaching out just long enough to brush his hand against hers. “Boundaries, huh? Noted. But you know, a quick hello doesn’t break them…” His eyes sparkled with mischief, and she felt a flutter she tried to suppress.
“Hello…” Claire responded dryly, despite being entertained. She liked whatever flirtation they had, but the professional lines cannot be crossed, regardless of what the handbook said.
Later, she told herself. The professional lines cannot be crossed later. After this game… for sure.
Claire took in a huff of air, letting the sensation settle, then gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Five seconds of gawking. That’s all you get,” she said, pulling back just enough to let Jack admire her in her Black and Gold scrubs.
He nodded, mock-saluting. “Five seconds. Then I will personally go conquer Ireland for you. But you… you watch from here, yeah?”
“With both eyes,” Claire said, her voice softening just a fraction. “And don’t make me have to come running onto the field for anything more than a bandaid. Please!”
The announcer introduced the Irish team, and then the New Zealand team.
Claire watched as he ran out to the pitch with his arm lovingly around Toby, who had the tampons strapped to his thighs with white electrical tape.
Claire chuckled as both Jack and Toby rubbed Liam’s hair in passing for good luck.
Noah appeared in the tunnel and was ready to run out to the pitch.
He stared at Claire as if to remind her of the lines she set.
Jack’s focus sharpened immediately, but he threw one quick, lingering look over his shoulder at Claire, an unspoken promise and a tease, all at once, before stepping into the fire of the pre-game ritual.
Flags snapped in the wind, voices rising in a tide of sound that pressed against the stadium walls. The home crowd shouted in unison, stomping and waving, their energy almost physical, vibrating through the turf.
The Irish team travelled with bagpipers, apparently, because Claire noticed them on the field in their tartans to play the Irish national anthem.
After, they lined the field in unison, arm in arm, ready to receive the Haka.
Noah stood at the front, shoulders square and eyes blazing. His presence demanded attention.
“Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!” Noah bellowed, voice deep and resonant, echoing off the stadium walls.
The team answered as one, the sound a thunderous wave:
“Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora!”
Claire’s eyes swept over them. The team was in perfect formation, though she caught the quick glance Jack threw her way before turning his focus fully to Noah and the haka. His neck muscles protruding, hands flexing at his sides, every nerve tuned to the ritual.
The rhythm of the haka was mesmerizing. Feet stomped hard, sending vibrations through the ground.
Arms swung, hands clutched at the air with primitive intent, eyes wide, tongues protruding in fierce defiance.
Each shout, each movement, carried history, pride, and the fierce spirit of a nation onto the field.
Noah’s voice cut through the noise again:“Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru…”
The squad mirrored him perfectly, energy matching every syllable, every motion. Claire’s breath caught at the precision, the unity, the raw masculine power of it all. Her pulse thudded.
The haka built to its peak. Stomps became thunder, shouts reverberated through the stadium, and the players leaned forward in unison, faces fierce, veins taut, every muscle screaming dominance and pride.
Jack’s eyes, still bright and fiery, occasionally flicked to Claire – brief, charged moments that made her heart stutter – before snapping back to Noah’s command.
Finally, it ended. Silence hung for a second, broken instantly by the stadium erupting into cheers.
Players panted, chests heaving, sweat gleaming under the stadium lights.
Noah’s eyes scanned the squad, a proud, commanding glint in his gaze.
Jack exhaled, letting some tension go, his grin just barely breaking through before he turned toward Claire and gave her a teasing, triumphant nod.
Claire’s lips twitched into a small smile. Boundaries, yeah, she’ll get right on that – but damn, if that glance didn’t make her pulse skip.
The locker room was riddled with the smell of testosterone and the proud sensation of victory.
There was yelling, and whooping, and hollering and beers being opened.
The Crusaders had beaten the Irish side by a narrow margin, and the adrenaline of the win still crackled in the air.
The Irish players had come off the pitch battered, scraped, and bruised – and Claire’s small medical room was now a revolving door of ice packs, disinfectant, and stitches.
She moved quickly, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, her focus sharp. The Med Box was loud of laughter from the Irish lads who didn’t mind a few war wounds and visiting men dunking into the makeshift ice baths.
“Hold still, yeah?” Claire murmured as she guided a needle through the split skin above an Irish scrumhalf’s eyebrow. He winced but grinned.
“Can’t believe you’re makin’ me prettier, doc,” he teased in a noticeable Irish drawl.
She smiled without looking up. “That’s debatable. Hopefully you won’t scar.”
The door creaked open behind her, but she didn’t look away from her work.
“One minute,” she said in concentration. When no one answered, she looked over her shoulder to see Noah standing in the doorway.
“Doctor Ashford,” he said, voice still rough from shouting on the field, but professional.
“Not now,” she said evenly, knotting off the last suture. “I’m with a patient.”
“It will only take a minute.”
“Hey, get out, I don’t want her stitchin’ me crooked!” the player proclaimed to Noah.
“You’re already ugly, McConnell!” Noah yelled back, “I need to talk to the doctor”.
“I’ll be right with you, Noah. Please wait until I am done with patients.”
He hesitated, but she didn’t turn around.
“The Crusader’s captain isn’t the queuing type,” the player joked lightly. “You can go first, mate. I don’t mind a few more minutes in her care,” he teased to Noah.
Noah’s teeth clenched, but he didn’t move. “She said she’s with a patient,” he said forcefully now to Noah from over Claire’s shoulder.
“Hold still, please”, Claire commanded the player. “Tilt your head just a little more,” she instructed the Irish player. “Good. That’s it.”
After she was done, the Irish man thanked her and pressed a hand over the bandage.
“Keep it dry for twenty-four hours. No picking.”
“Even if it itches?”
“Especially if it itches.”
By the time she looked up again, Noah had moved – not far, just outside the med bay, sitting on the bench in the corridor, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
“Go stay handsome for the press photos,” Claire said to the departing Irishman.
Time passed. One hour, then two. She stitched, cleaned, taped, and reassured. Every time she stepped into the hallway for a breather, Noah was still there – quiet and patient. His eyes focused on the floor or the opposite wall.
When the last player left and the buzz of voices died down, she finally pulled off her gloves and leaned against the doorframe. “You’re still here,” she said softly.
“I didn’t feel right leaving,” Noah replied.
He stood, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. His kit was sweat-damp, tanned and tattooed forearms streaked with mud and blood. His hair was a mess and his eyes were focused.
“Doctor Ashford,” he said, voice low.
“You’re bleeding?” she asked, eyes flicking around his body, checking for open wounds.
She took the time to look at him. There was blood seeping through his shirt on the collarbone.
His knuckles were scuffed, his cheek smudged with blood that probably wasn’t his.
He looked exhausted. And yet, something in his eyes, wild and unguarded, made her chest tighten.
“I’m fine,” he said.
There was silence. He didn’t look fine. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her as if gathering the courage.
“Did you have something you wanted to say?” she asked him curiously.
He hesitated – words caught between his throat and his pride.
“Did you like the game?” he blurted out.
Her lips curved slightly. “You waited three hours to ask me that?”
He didn’t answer.
She studied him – the earnestness, the exhaustion, the bruises already blooming across his cheekbones – and something inside softened.
“I had five concussions, three stitches, two sprains, and a broken finger.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You make it sound worse than it was.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, crossing her arms. “From my view, you were one bad tackle away from adding yourself to my list.”
He looked at her. And for a moment, she thought he might say something real, something that would break the careful line he forced her to draw between them. But instead, he shifted his weight, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up.
Silence.
Claire gave a tiny, tired smile. “You should go celebrate. I’m sure the team’s waiting.”
He nodded but didn’t move. His eyes lingered on her, just long enough that she felt it. He took one small step forward. Then he said quietly, “Goodnight, Doctor.”
“Goodnight, Captain.”
When he finally turned to leave, she watched him disappear down the corridor. Strong, battered, but victorious, and she let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She went back into the exam room, the echo of his voice still soft in her ears.
And though she’d told herself it was just another game, just another night. Something about the way he waited made her wonder if it wasn’t.