58
Morning crept in softly through the tall windows, pale spring light spilling across marble counters and polished floors.
The grand kitchen came alive in waves. First the clink of China, then the low murmur of voices, then the unmistakable thunder of hungry rugby players descending like a friendly invasion.
Arthur slipped out early, quiet as a shadow, coat already on his arm, leaving behind nothing but a half-finished cup of tea and a knowing smile for Suzanne.
Kelsey, however, made no effort to hide anything. He moved through the room with the radiant ease of a man who had slept well and been thoroughly ravished. The boys noticed immediately.
“Good God, mate,” Toby muttered around a mouthful of toast. “You look… moisturized.”
Kelsey only grinned, stealing bacon from Noah’s plate and earning a half-hearted shove in return.
“You do too, actually,” he finally looking at Noah, whose skin was actually the clearest it has ever been.
Coffee flowed. Plates stacked high. Laughter echoed against vaulted ceilings. Coach Reynolds and Tama with the expertise of Tania, whose skin was also the clearest it has ever been, began herding players out to the waiting buses. Boots on, bags packed, timelines barked with military precision.
England awaited, and the energy in the room shifted from indulgent to electric. This wasn’t just another match. This was it for them. It was time for the Crusaders to show the world what they are made of.
Claire drifted out after them, scrubs on, her hair still damp. Noah caught her eye once, just once, and that was enough.
The stadium rose out of the London skyline like a living thing – steel and glass and history humming with anticipation.
Even before the bus slowed, the sound reached them.
A roar, and chanting. Not the kind reserved for kickoff, but the charged, breathless energy of thousands who knew something was about to happen.
Crowds pressed against the barriers, scarves in national colors lifted high, phones already raised. Photographers clustered like birds of prey; lenses trained on the tinted windows. When the bus finally rolled to a stop, a ripple went through the mass outside.
“Show time,” Miko murmured from the back, a grin tugging at his mouth.
Coach Reynolds stood first. Coach Tama followed. The doors hissed open, and the noise doubled.
They stepped down into it.
The cameras flashed as Noah emerged next all tall, composed, and captain-like in every line of his body.
The team followed in a steady stream, boots slung over shoulders, headphones in, faces set.
Some waved. Some didn’t. All of them felt how impactful this game will be.
It will make or break their careers and establish their future in rugby.
Claire was near the end.
She paused at the top step for half a second, taking it in.
London. Her city. Her past. Her present colliding.
It was almost comical. When she descended, she was unnoticed by most of the crowd.
They didn’t know her as Claire Ashford from the Ashford Family, and they didn’t recognize her as Jason Markey’s ex-fiancé.
For the first time, the photographers were not interested. A wave of relief crashed over her.
Within the tunnel, an England crest gleamed on polished walls. A woman in an NHS jacket stepped forward, extending her hand.
“Dr. Ashford?”
Claire blinked. “Yes.”
“Dr. Emma Clarke. Lead physician for England. I didn’t realize you were from London.”
Claire smiled softly. “Originally.”
“From the Ashford’s?” she asked.
“The very one,” Claire replied.
Well,” Emma said, glancing toward the pitch, “welcome home. Looks like you’ve brought quite a storm with you.”
“They are a rowdy bunch, but I’m hoping we are not needed today.” Claire always hoped that, but rugby was not a sport for those faint of heart.
Claire was too busy setting up to join the team in the shed for the last pep talk for the guys, but she imagined the coaches finishing their plays, giving words of encouragement.
She didn’t see the team until they were out on the field where the boys began their rituals.
Jogging the perimeter. Stretching in pairs.
Bands snapped. Calves burned. Shoulders rolled.
Water bottles passed hand to hand, caps flicked open, throats tilted back.
The air was cool, but their bodies were already warming, breath fogging, adrenaline sharpening every movement.
They were loose. Focused. Alive.
She met Noah’s eyes once across the grass. Then the whistle blew for warm-ups to end, and London held its breath for the battle cry of the haka.
They gathered at midfield in a tight wedge of black and gold, boots digging into English turf. The stadium dimmed around them, noise softening into a collective hush. Even the opposing side slowed, to line up. Watching. Waiting.
Noah stepped forward.
He rolled his shoulders once. Lifted his chin.
Then he struck his chest.
The sound cracked through the air like thunder.
The first stomp hit in unison – deep, deliberate. The ground answered. Their voices rose, low and ancient, pulled from the bones of islands and ancestors, from warriors who had crossed oceans with nothing but stars and faith.
They did not chant for victory.
They chanted for belonging.
For the boys who grew into men on muddy fields.For the brothers who bled beside them.For the villages that raised them.For the women who healed them.For the game that made them.
The last beat landed like a verdict.
Across the pitch, England stood frozen.
And somewhere near the tunnel, Claire felt it in her chest, in her throat, in the deep, irrevocable knowing that this was more than a match.
This was who they were.
This was who he was.
Noah held the final stare a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he turned.
And the war began.
The ball sailed high into the grey London sky, spinning end over end before dropping toward English territory.
The English pack drove forward, tight and disciplined, grinding out meters through phase after phase.
Their fly-half barked orders, snapping the ball wide, then back inside.
It was fast. Clinical. They meant to test the Crusaders’ edges early.
Noah read it before it happened.
He shot out of the line, timing perfect, shoulder driving into the ball carrier’s ribs. The runner folded. The ball spilled loose.
“Advantage, New Zealand!” the referee called.
Jack scooped and sent it wide. Liam streaked down the wing, boots chewing turf, drawing two defenders before popping it back inside to Kelsey, who crashed forward with a grin that bordered on feral.
Claire’s heart pounded as she tracked them from the sideline. Every collision landed in her bones.
The Crusaders built momentum, ruck after ruck, inching closer. Noah took a carry, then another, muscles straining, teeth clenching on his mouthguard. On the third phase, Miko faked a pass and slipped through a half-gap, forcing England to scramble.
The defense held.
A high tackle call whistled.
Penalty.
Coach Tama’s arm lifted from the sideline.
“Posts!”
The stadium held its breath as Jack lined up the kick. The ball sailed true.
3 New Zealand - 0 England.
England answered almost immediately.
From the restart, they executed a textbook counter – two crisp passes, a sidestep, and suddenly the Crusaders were backpedaling. Their winger broke free, forcing Noah to chase. He clipped the man’s heels just enough for Toby to finish the tackle.
The referee’s arm lifted again.
Lineout. England. Five meters from the Crusaders’ try line.
The English hooker threw clean. Their lock rose high, higher than Toby, fingertips brushing cloud. The maul formed, a heaving wall of bodies pushing toward the line.
“Hold!” Coach Reynolds shouted.
The Crusaders dug in and Noah wedged himself into the seam, roaring as he drove.
The maul collapsed.
Turnover.
A roar exploded from the black-clad fans.
Miko cleared the ball long. The ball arced downfield, buying space, and buying time.
The match settled into rhythm in a brutal but beautiful way. England’s backs cut like blades. The Crusaders answered with raw force and speed. Every tackle was a statement. Every ruck was a negotiation.
At twenty-two minutes, England struck.
A missed tackle on the edge. A burst of white and red. Their center split the line and offloaded before Jack could reach him.
Try.
The crowd erupted.
Conversion was good.
3 New Zealand - 7 England.
The Crusaders regrouped beneath the posts for a quick huddle.
“Breathe,” he said, voice low. “This is our game. Our pace. We got this, boys. Let's play Smashy Smash.”
The restart came fast.
This time, the Crusaders surged.
Liam fielded, sent it back to Jack, who spun it wide. The ball flowed through hands fast and precise. Kelsey smashed through contact. Miko chipped ahead. Noah chased like a predator.
The English fullback hesitated.
Noah didn’t.
He dove, boot nudging the ball forward before colliding hard. Both men skidded. The ball bounced loose.
Miko pounced and touched it into the endzone.
Try.
The Crusaders’ section detonated.
Jack’s kick leveled it.
10 New Zealand - 7 England.
The rest of the half burned.
The Crusaders drove England back a full meter, earning a penalty.
Lineout again – this time the Crusaders’. It was a clean throw. Toby was lifted higher than the British lock and it led to a quick maul.
On the breakaway, Liam nearly crossed the line, without the satisfaction of glory, he was tackled and the ball released.
England brought the ball down to their sides, but there was another penalty.
A British flanker went for posts.
10 - 10. Tied score.
As the clock bled toward halftime, England pushed hard, desperate to reclaim control. Their fly-half sent a high bomb. Miko, caught under pressure, hit instantly. The ball spilled.
England capitalized.
Three quick phases. A crash ball through the middle.
Try.
The conversion sailed wide, but the damage was done.
10 New Zealand - 15 England.
The halftime whistle sounded moments later.
Players bent at the waist, chests heaving, faces smeared with mud and resolve. At least there were no glaring injuries, besides for what seems to be a split eyebrow from Liam.
Noah glanced toward the sideline where Claire stood, hands clenched at her sides, eyes bright, and unflinching.
He nodded once.
They weren’t done.
Not even close.