26
Stade de France rolled with noise as the teams ran out, blue flooding the stands, the French crowd already convinced this match was theirs. The ground felt heavy underfoot, churned and damp from rain, perfect for a brutal contest.
Claire stood under the medical tent, observing the men stretching on the field, hoping no one would slip from the mud. She checked her phone for a message from Jack, who had been weirdly quiet and distant since their office tryst. Nothing. Not a peep coming from him.
She resolved to take her mind off stupid boys. Besides, she was adult enough to act nonchalant.
“Focus, Claire,” she whispered to herself. Then she audibly let out an exhale.
From the opening kickoff, it was obvious this game wouldn’t be easy.
France came out fast. Ruthless carries up the middle, crisp passes, offloads that landed exactly where they should be every time. The home crowd surged with every meter gained. The Crusaders held the line, but only just, bodies folding and reforming as tackles piled up.
Jack felt off from the start.
His timing was half a beat slow, his passes a fraction too hard or too soft.
When a gap opened, he hesitated instead of trusting it.
Once, he kicked when he should have run.
Another time, he ran straight into contact when space waited outside.
He could feel it with every mistake stacking on the last, tightening his chest.
Noah noticed. Everyone did.
But Noah was fighting his own battle.
Every time Jack touched the ball, Noah’s eyes followed him, not to support, not to cover.
Noah just let him get tackled. Jealousy buzzed under his skin, sharp and distracting.
He missed a defensive read because he was watching Jack instead of the French winger cutting inside.
The collision came late and ugly, heads crashing together.
Both players went down. The crowd gasped.
And when they got back up, the warning hung in the air.
Claire thought that this was how people got hurt.
Noah glanced at Claire’s worried look from the medical tent.
France struck first – an overload on the right, a missed tackle, and a powerful dive over the line in the corner.
Try.
The stadium exploded. The conversion sailed through, and suddenly they were chasing the game.
The team answered with grit rather than brilliance. Long phases. Tight carries. Grinding meters one body at a time. When they finally earned a line out, Toby shot up into the air, being held by his tampon straps, and capturing the ball. The team was still behind. Still tense.
The second half was a war of attrition.
Rain slicked the ball, hands numbed, jerseys clung heavy with mud.
France pinned them deep with smart territorial tackling.
Jack hesitated under pressure and was nearly turned over at the breakdown, only saved by a desperate clear-out.
Noah flew in late to a tackle, dangerously close to a high shot, and the referee warned him sharply.
Another moment like that and someone was getting carded – or worse – hurt.
Tempers flared. Noah barked orders. Jack ignored one. Kelsey, as dominating as he could be, stepped between them at the next stoppage, eyes hard.
“Sort it out. Now!”
Time drained away. France led by a try, defending fiercely. Every carry was painful. Every ruck burned the lungs. One mistake could end it.
With under five minutes left, they earned a penalty just inside the French half. Jack kicked to the corner.
This time, the lineout was clean.
The maul set, bodies locked tight, boots digging into the turf. France tried to sack it, but it kept moving. When it finally collapsed, Jack was already there, whipping the ball out to the short side. The defense overfolded. Jack held it a heartbeat, then slipped a flat pass.
Noah hit the gap at pace.
A French flanker smashed into him low, another wrapped him up high. Noah drove, twisted, and stretched an arm through the bodies, grounding the ball inches over the line.
Try.
The referee checked, then pointed to the spot. The scoreboard flipped. They were ahead – by a single try. Nothing more.
The final minutes were pure survival.
France hammered the line, phase after phase, trying to crack them. Jack made a last-ditch tackle near the posts. Noah cleared out a ruck so hard he could barely get back to his feet. When France knocked on in the dying seconds, the whistle finally came.
Silence. Then disbelief.
They had won. Barely. By the slimmest margin imaginable.
The crowd faded into a low murmur as the team stood there, exhausted, soaked from the rain, and shaking – not from cold, but from how close it had been. It wasn’t their best rugby.
But it was enough for the win.
Claire stood with Tania in the doorway to a private medical room. She was ready to treat all the guys who needed it.
The locker room was quiet in the aftermath.
Not the good kind of quiet – no laughter, no music – just the sound of heavy breathing and water dripping from jerseys onto the tile. Mud streaked the floor. The win still hadn’t fully sunk in.
Coach Reynolds stood near the doorway, arms crossed, letting the room settle.
He didn’t smile.
When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the haze. “That wasn’t our best rugby.”
A few heads dropped.
“But,” he continued, “it was hard. It was disciplined when it mattered. And it was earned, and a win – is a win, lads.”
He paused, eyes moving from one player to the next, lingering briefly on Jack, then on Noah.
“You’ve been on the road a long time. You’ve taken hits. Tonight could’ve gone either way.”
He exhaled slowly. “So, here’s what we’re going to do.”
The room waited.
“You’ve got the night off.”
A ripple moved through the team – surprise first, then relief.
“Be smart,” Reynolds added immediately. “We’re still representing the jersey. Curfew’s late, not gone. Hydrate. Eat. Sleep. I don’t want to hear about anyone testing their luck in a foreign city.”
A couple of tired grins appeared.
Reynolds nodded once. “You earned a breath. Take it.”
As he turned to leave, the weight in the room finally shifted. Players slumped back onto benches, laughter breaking out in low bursts, someone clapping hands together and saying, “Paris, boys.”
Jack sat still for a moment longer, staring at the floor, replaying every mistake and every moment he’d nearly cost them the match.
Across the room, Noah caught his eye.
For the first time that night, there was no edge in the look – just exhaustion, and something unspoken waiting for later.
The night was theirs.