55
The hotel was all stone and history with beautiful, intricate scaffolding, arched ceilings and dark wood.
It smelled old. Like the faint scent of polish and rain carried in from outside.
By the time the Crusaders’ bus hissed to a stop at the curb, Claire was already inside, sleeves rolled, coat folded over her arm, nerves neatly packed away where no one could see them.
This was her job.
This was her arena.
Two people waited for her near the lobby. They were both in navy jackets marked with the red dragon of Welsh Rugby. The woman had iron-gray hair pulled into a low knot and eyes that missed nothing. The man beside her carried a clipboard like it was an extension of his arm.
“Dr. Ashford?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” she said, stepping forward. “Claire. Nice to meet you.”
“Rhian Morgan. This is Gareth Hughes. We’ll be coordinating medical operations for Wales.”
They shook hands.
“You’ve brought quite a squad,” Gareth said as the front doors swung open and the noise arrived first, boots on stone, laughter, the low hum of bodies too big for quiet entrances.
“They tend to do that,” Claire replied.
She spotted the team and it hit her in a soft, private way with relief and warmth that they had come so far. Noah was tired, hair still damp from the rain, jacket half-zipped. His eyes found Claire's instantly.
Claire stayed where she was.
Professional first. Always.
“Do you always travel with them?” the Welsh doctor asked.
“Yes,” she said to Rhian. “I’ll be traveling with them throughout the rest of the tour.”
“Brave woman,” she replied, glancing toward the players with something between awe and sympathy.
“They break,” she said lightly. “I put them back together.”
“I get that,” she said with companionable agreement. Her mouth curved. “You’ll have access to all our facilities. The recovery rooms, imaging, physio suites. Anything you need.”
“Thank you so much,” Claire said. “Hopefully we won’t need to use anything.”
“Principality Stadium,” Gareth added. “Has a closed roof and with a full crowd, it gets loud.”
A murmur rippled through the team behind the group of doctors. Spectators were already recognizing the athletes waiting in the lobby for check in. It seems that the Crusaders, representing New Zealand, had fans everywhere, and Wales was no exception.
Her eyes locked with the captain’s for a moment and it seemed that everything else fell quiet. The lobby. The rain. The tension. He smiled at her in that way that felt like a promise.
They had crossed the world.
And now the team stood on the edge of something enormous.
Claire stayed where she always did, on the outskirts, just inside the doorway, arms loosely folded. A quiet constant on the edge of the storm. From here, she could see everything without being seen too much herself. The way men prepared for battle. The way nerves hid beneath bravado.
The room pulsed with energy. Boots thudded against the tile. Tape tore in sharp, familiar sounds. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else swore under their breath.
Tania stood near the far bench with her cell phone and coffee in one hand and her tablet pressed to her chest, fielding last-minute questions with practiced calm. She caught Claire’s eye and offered a small, grounding smile.
“You good?” Tania mouthed.
Claire nodded. “You?” she mouthed back.
Tania shrugged in agreement but really wanted to say “Yeah, but I am quietly freaking out because I love this game so much and I love these guys so much and they deserve the win and can I have a Valium please?
Liam sat hunched over, re-lacing his boots for the third time, face in full focus.
Kelsey paced like a caged animal, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his hands.
Miko leaned against the lockers, eyes closed, headphones on, lips moving in silent rhythm.
Toby, now out of both splints, was already in full kit, enjoying his range of motion.
“Doc, look what I can do,” he said to Claire, enthusiastically touching his two elbows together in front of his face.
Clarie amusingly answered with a “Well done, Toby.”
Toby was all excited to be able to play in this game, his thighs taped with tampons, grinning like this was exactly where he had always meant to be.
Jack stood near the center of the room, quiet gravity in human form. He was ready for the battle ahead.
And Noah –
Noah was coiled lightning. Shirtless beneath the harsh lights, shoulders gleaming, his mouth drawn into a hard line, eyes burning with something bigger than adrenaline.
When his gaze flicked toward the doorway and found her there, something in him eased.
Just a fraction. Enough for her to feel it in her chest.
Coach Reynolds stepped forward.
“Settle down, boys,” he said calmly.
The room obeyed him without question.
Assistant Coach Tama stood beside him, arms folded, gaze sharp as a blade.
“This is Wales,” Reynolds said. “Not a friendly. Not a tune-up. A nation that breathes rugby. A stadium that will try to swallow you whole. Remember how loud it will be. Let it fuel you.”
Silence held.
“You win this match,” he continued, “and you don’t just earn respect. You earn your place in the Championships. You prove that you didn’t cross the world to participate. You lads, you came to compete.”
No one moved.
“You’ve fought for every inch to be here. Every bruise. Every setback. Every doubt anyone ever had about you.” His eyes swept the room. “This is where it pays off.”
He paused.
“You play for each other. You play for the jersey. And you play like men who refuse to be forgotten.”
Tama nodded once. “Aroha. Whānau. Mana. Carry it onto that pitch.”
The room exhaled in one collective breath, low, dangerous, alive.
Claire recognized the words from tattoos that she traced along Noah’s leg.
Aroha. Love, compassion, and empathy.
Whānau. Family. Family that goes beyond blood.
Mana. Honor and dignity.
He was telling the group to play with love for each other, to play as family and to play with honor.
She remained at the edge, heart hammering, watching the men she had stitched together, argued with, protected… and loved in ways she had never intended.
The silence didn’t last.
It cracked with movement, boots shifting, bodies rising, breath drawing deep. Kelsey was the first to cross the room, reaching out and planting a broad palm on Liam’s bowed head.
“For luck,” Kelsey said solemnly.
Liam groaned. “I hate all of you.”
That didn’t stop them.
Toby was next, ruffling Liam’s hair with both hands. “You love us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Miko followed, pressing his forehead briefly to Liam’s crown in something almost ceremonial. Jack added a single, steady touch. Every player on the Crusaders. Even Coach Reynolds and Tama reached out, brief and deliberate.
By the time Noah stepped in front of him, Liam’s hair stuck up in every direction.
Noah didn’t smile. He rested his hand there for a beat longer than the others.
“For the try you’re about to score,” he said.
Liam huffed. “If I die, I will haunt every one of you.”
Then Kelsey clapped his hands once, sharp and commanding. “Circle up.”
They moved instinctively, forming a tight ring at the center of the room – shoulders brushing, heads bowed inward. Claire stayed at the edge, pulse thundering, watching them become something singular.
Noah took the center.
His voice was low at first. “Who are we?”
The answer came like a growl. “CRUSADERS.”
“Why are we here?”
“To FIGHT!”
“For who?”
“For EACH OTHER.”
Noah lifted his fist.
The room followed.
“ONE TEAM!”
“ONE HEART!”
“ONE NAME!”
They slammed their fists together in the center.
“CRU-SA-DERS!”
The chant hit the walls, the ceiling, the bones of the building itself.
“CRU-SA-DERS!”
Again. Louder.
“CRU-SA-DERS!”
The door swung open.
They poured out toward the tunnel like thunder.
Claire remained where she was, hand pressed to her scrubs, breath caught in awe.
Wales waited.
And the Crusaders were ready.
The roof of Principality Stadium was closed, trapping sound and breath and history beneath steel and sky. Eighty thousand voices rolled in waves, green and red and black and gold flooding every tier. The Welsh team stood arm in arm across the pitch, a single unbroken line of defiance.
The Crusaders formed opposite them.
Claire stood just beyond the sideline, medical bag at her feet, heart lodged high in her throat.
Noah stepped forward.
The world narrowed.
His chest rose once. Then his voice cut through the stadium. It was raw, commanding, and ancient in its cadence. The haka unfurled from him like something primal and unstoppable. One by one, his teammates answered. Stomps struck the turf. Hands slapped chests. Eyes burned.
Claire felt it in her bones.
Wales did not flinch.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, arms locked, faces lifted into the warriors before them. Some smiled. Some stared back with fire. One of them mouthed the words along with the rhythm, as if honoring it by meeting it head-on.
When the final cry tore from Noah’s throat, the stadium exploded.
The whistle shrieked.
The match began.
From the first collision, it was war.
Wales hit like a tide. They were disciplined, relentless. Their forwards drove low and hard, winning meters by inches, punishing every tackle. The Crusaders answered in speed and ingenuity, Jack breaking the line once with a sidestep so clean it drew a gasp from the crowd.
But Wales adapted.
They shut lanes. They hunted in pairs. They forced errors.
A scrum collapsed. A ruck erupted. Toby came up with a bloody nose and a grin that was half feral, but seemingly happy to be playing again. Liam took a shoulder to the ribs and wheezed it off. Miko’s eyebrow split open under an elbow, red streaking down his cheek.
Claire was everywhere.
Tape. Plaster. Saline. Her hands moved on instinct – press, clean, seal, release. She caught eyes in passing. Anchored them. Sent them back. Back into the warzone.
Wales struck first with a penalty.