38
The locker room was alive with laughter and singing. Players peeled off jerseys, slapping each other on the back, trading high-fives and grins that could light up the whole stadium.
Coach Reynolds leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a proud grin on his face. Tama stood beside him, nodding in satisfaction. “That was some rugby tonight, boys,” Reynolds said, voice booming over the chatter. “You all played spectacularly. You should be proud.”
Tama gestured toward Noah and Jack, still catching their breath near the benches. “Wilson, Hayworth – press pool. Now.”
Jack groaned theatrically, tossing his towel over a shoulder. “Already? Can’t I bask in my glory for five more minutes?”
“No,” Tama said firmly. “You’ve got fans waiting, cameras rolling, questions that won’t answer themselves. Get to it.” He gave Noah a small smile. “And Wilson, don’t give them the silent treatment. Be engaged.”
Noah nodded, towel around his neck, muscles still tense with adrenaline. “Understood, Coach.”
Claire tucked into the corner of the locker room with her med kit and was gathering any stragglers who needed minor treatment.
Jack, never one to miss a chance for drama, winked at her over his shoulder. “Don’t get too used to the subtlety, Doc. I’ll be more famous in about two minutes.”
Claire rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Just don’t do something stupid.”
“No promises,” he said with a wink.
Coach Reynolds clapped a hand on both their shoulders. “Go. Represent the Crusaders well. You two were amazing out there. Make us proud.”
Noah and Jack exchanged a brief glance – one cool, measured: the other fiery, impulsive – before heading to the press room just beyond the hallway.
The rest of the team continued celebrating, tossing jerseys and joking about plays, while Claire lingered just long enough to make sure everyone on her team was accounted for.
Her mind drifted to Noah a bit longer. He had been unyielding on the field tonight, commanding yet approachable, and she felt the familiar tightening in her chest.
She shook it off, stuffing unused bandages back into her med kit. Watching the interviews could wait. Right now, her job was keeping the team safe and healthy.
“Doctor?” a man’s Scottish brogue asked quietly from behind her shoulder.
She turned to see a short, wiry man in a Scotland tracksuit, stethoscope bouncing slightly with his movements. His accent was thick but clear, clipped and direct.
“Yes,” Claire replied, raising an eyebrow, then recognizing the visiting medic. “Dr. Fraiser, Hi.”
“We – well, they’ve had a few knocks and bruises, and frankly, we could use an extra set of hands. Would you be willing to assist?”
“Of course,” Claire said, smiling politely. “I can take a look. Nothing too serious, I hope?”
Fraser shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A few bumps, scrapes, some minor sprains. Nothing life-threatening. But with a tight travel schedule, we could really use the extra help.”
Claire shrugged, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got, then.”
As she followed Fraser down the hallway toward the visiting locker room, she felt that familiar surge of focus. Away from cameras, away from interviews, it was just her skill, her hands, and the players who needed her.
Professional.
Clinical.
Clear.
The med room was compact but efficiently organized, a mix of clinical functionality and sports practicality.
Against one wall, a small, wall-mounted TV flickered, currently tuned to the live stream of the post-game interviews.
Its muted glow cast light across the room, bouncing off stainless steel counters and white-tiled walls.
In the center of the room were two large industrial-sized rubbish bins, but not for trash – they were filled to the brim with ice, used for post-match recovery.
Towels hung nearby, ready to be draped over sore shoulders or aching knees.
The faint chill from the ice contrasted with the lingering warmth of the room, where players still came in, flushed from exertion and adrenaline.
Metal shelves lined one side of the room, stacked with neatly labeled bandages, antiseptic bottles, sports tape, and other medical supplies.
A small rolling cart held syringes, cold packs, and scissors for quick access.
The faint tang of disinfectant mixed with the sharp, clean scent of ice, giving the space that unmistakable smell of a professional sports medical bay.
Despite the chaos of players coming and going, the room had a calm, purposeful feel, like everything was in its place and everything was ready for the next injury or recovery.
On screen, four players were seated before a bank of cameras and microphones.
Two Scottish players, flushed and animated, were fielding routine questions about strategy, fitness, and the surprises of the game.
Beside them, Noah and Jack sat in sharp contrast: Noah calm, composed, methodical, giving measured answers with subtle authority; Jack, still flushed with adrenaline, exuded energy, his grin too wide, too bright to hide the tension under it.
The reporters’ questions started innocuous enough.
“Jack, incredible game tonight. Your breakaway in the second half was incredible – did you see that gap coming?” one asked.
Jack leaned back, shrugging casually, though his eyes flicked toward the camera like he was already anticipating the next question. “Luck and timing,” he said. “But the team makes it possible – wouldn’t have gotten there without them.”
Another reporter turned to Noah. “Wilson, your leadership in that final scrum really controlled the pace. Were you expecting Scotland to challenge you so aggressively?”
Noah’s reply was calm, deliberate. “Our Scottish brothers played a tough game. We prepared for every scenario. The guys executed perfectly. I just made sure the structure stayed intact.”
Back on Jack, the questions were growing more personal, a slow pivot from the technical to the human angle.
“Jack, you’ve been featured in a few pieces recently about the off-field dynamics of the Crusaders,” a reporter began, voice pointed but casual.
“There’s been speculation – can you comment on the woman you were interviewed about a couple months ago for Rugby Life Magazine? Is she here in New Zealand?”
Claire’s hand tightened on the antiseptic bottle in her bag, trying not to look at the TV. Her pulse sped up, but she forced herself to stay professional, kneeling beside a Scottish player whose ankle she was examining.
Jack’s grin faltered slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face.
Then, with characteristic impulsiveness, he leaned forward, squaring his shoulders.
“Yeah. I’ve got something to say,” he began, voice loud enough to carry across the cameras.
“I didn’t want to say her name on TV, but I’ve loved Claire for longer than I realized, and I’ve been an idiot.
Publicly, privately – doesn’t matter. I just… need her to know.”
Noah looked dumbfounded, staring at Jack and the news he just broke publicly on television. Claire? Dr. Claire Ashford? His Claire? No. Surely it could be any Claire. Claire is a common name.
The camera zoomed in on Jack, capturing the flush in his cheeks, the sincerity in his eyes. Claire’s stomach dropped. She kept her focus on the player in front of her, cleaning and wrapping the ankle, but she couldn’t help the tension coiling in her chest.
On screen, Noah remained composed, eyes forward, but Claire could almost feel him in the room with her, sensing the weight of Jack’s confession, processing it, holding back judgment, and waiting.
The Scottish players shifted uncomfortably beside the broadcast, glancing at each other as the reporters scribbled notes and murmured into microphones.
Claire finished the wrap, standing slowly. Her gaze flicked again to Jack on the screen. The words had been spoken. Public. Open. And despite everything, she felt the familiar twist in her chest. It was a mix of dread, frustration, and history repeating itself.
She knew she would hear it from Coach Reynolds, from Miriam in HR, from Ben the Lawyer, from Tania, from the team, from Kelsey, who thinks she and Noah are in a relationship. And worse… from… Noah.
Somewhere in the hallway outside, she knew Noah was waiting. Patient, careful, aware. And when he stepped into this room next, the conversation she’d been putting off was going to begin.
Claire was taping the last of the Scottish player’s fingers when the soft knock came at the open entryway of the makeshift med bay.
She glanced up. Noah stood there, still in his muddied game day uniform, shoulders broad, expression carefully neutral. His eyes flicked once to the TV mounted on the wall, Jack’s interview still looping in clipped highlights, then back to her.
“Just a minute,” Claire said gently. “I’ll be right with you.”
Noah nodded. He didn’t step inside. Instead, he leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, waiting. Not pacing. Not hovering. Just… there. Giving her space. Giving himself time not to explode.
Claire finished, gave the Scotsman post-care instructions, and sent him on his way. When the curtain slid closed behind the player, the room fell quiet except for the low hum of refrigeration and the crackle of ice shifting in the recovery bins.
She turned to Noah.
He stepped inside and reached back to pull the curtain closed, muting the hallway noise. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, jaw tight, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.
“You saw it,” he said finally.
Claire didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a humorless breath. “Jack standing in front of the entire world saying he loves you.” His voice was calm, but it took effort. “Claire… I don’t understand.”
She stayed where she was, hands resting on the metal counter, not crossing the space between them yet. “Me either.”
His gaze dropped to the floor for a second before snapping back up. “I knew he had a dumb, flirty crush, but love? Love is very serious.” He paused. “Did you use me?” The words came out rougher than he intended. “Because right now it feels like I walked into something I didn’t know I was part of.”
Her breath caught. “Noah–”
“Do you love him?” he asked, cutting in.
She didn’t answer immediately, trying to explain.
He swallowed. “And I need to know. I deserve to know.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The TV murmured faintly behind her, Jack’s voice looping again, distant but impossible to ignore.
Claire shook her head slowly. “No.”
Noah’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Have you slept with him?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Not exactly.”
His jaw flexed. “What does that mean?”
“We had… a moment or two,” Claire confessed, “but I put an end to it, after Paris.”
“Paris…” Noah was recalling when he walked in on Jack apologizing to Claire. “What happened in Paris, Claire?”
“After we… had a moment, he decided to fuck two Parisian women,” she was casual about it, even though at the time her heart was going to implode.
It seemed kind of silly now, after everything she had been through.
“And I let him. I let him fuck those women. I was confused about my feelings, and we technically didn’t put a label on it, so what was I to do? ”
“Do you love him?” Noah asked again.
“No.”
“Then why does he feel entitled to say that about you? Why does it look like I’m the idiot standing in the hallway while another man tells the world that he loves you?”
Claire stepped forward then, closing the distance carefully, deliberately. “Because Jack is impulsive. And because he doesn’t know my past. And because he thinks love is something you announce to the world instead of something you privately prove.”
Noah let out a shaky breath, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I waited,” he said quietly. “I waited patiently for you. But hearing that–” He looked at her again, vulnerability cracking through. “It made me feel like I was being played.”
She reached for his hand, stopping short, letting him decide. He didn’t take her hand.
“I need time,” he said quietly. “To sort out what’s mine and what isn’t. Time to think.” He took a step back, breaking the moment. The space between them snapped open, sharp and final. “I won’t compete with anyone for you,” he added. “Especially my teammate.”
Then he turned and walked out of the medical tent.
The curtain swayed gently in his wake before settling back into place.
Claire stood there, her hand slowly dropping to her side. The TV was still murmuring highlights from the press conference she didn’t have the heart to watch.