Chapter 3
oliver stone
“We’re missing Stone,” Will Norman, our head coach, shouted as I slipped into the large conference room.
“Not missing. Right here,” I mumbled, dropping into the seat next to Will.
It was my first year as the official assistant coach for the Hands, but Will had been leading the team for a couple of seasons. Last year, I’d been the backs coach—a role I’d busted my ass in—but after a killer season, I’d earned the promotion.
“Good.” Will nodded. “We were going over our approach for the season. Peter’s coming in soon to introduce us to the new hire.”
“The social media girl?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, trying to make myself as small as possible. These chairs weren’t built for rugby players—I could barely fit one of my thighs into the damn thing.
It didn’t help that I still had the build I’d carried through my playing days.
Broad shoulders, thick chest, and arms that strained the seams of most shirts I owned.
I’d spent years as a player, pushing my body to the edge until the shoulder injuries became too much.
A repeat dislocation, then another. Enough was enough.
I’d moved on before it could get worse, stepping into coaching as a backs coach first and, somehow, now as the assistant coach.
Still, I kept up with the guys in training. I ran drills, tackled when I could, and made sure to keep my muscle mass and stature intact. If I wasn’t going to be on the pitch, I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose the edge I’d worked so hard to build.
I ran a hand through my cropped brown hair, half listening to Will drone on about our defensive strategies for the season and how the boys needed to improve their “line speed.” Will had a way of turning rugby into poetry when he got going—something about creating space, breaking through defenses like a well-oiled machine, and the beauty of a perfectly-timed offload.
I almost zoned out completely until Peter’s voice cut through the room like a knife.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s cut to it.” Peter pushed open the door.
Peter was our PR guy, which was a nice way of saying he ran interference between us, the media, and the league. He managed what we could and couldn’t do, what we were allowed to say publicly, and how we were supposed to represent the team. A headache, most days.
“I know you’ve all heard about the new hire,” Peter continued, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer like he was getting ready for a press conference. “She’s here to overhaul our social media presence.”
I grunted under my breath, crossing my arms over my chest. I knew we had someone new coming in, but I hadn’t given it much thought. What the hell did “overhaul our social media” even mean? If it involved pulling my players away for staged nonsense on the internet, I wasn’t about it.
Peter glanced around the room like he was bracing for pushback. “We’re behind, guys. Other teams are eating us alive online—bigger fan bases, better engagement, you name it. If we want bums on the seats and attention on this team, we need someone to handle our image. And that someone is—”
The door creaked open again, and every head turned.
Her curly hair was piled loosely on top of her head, a few stray curls escaping to brush against her face.
She wore a pair of oversized linen pants that swayed with each step, paired with a short white linen shirt that stopped above her waist, exposing a sliver of smooth skin.
The tattoos on her arms caught my attention next—little designs scattered like stamps, each one deliberate, each one a quiet story she wore without apology.
And then there were the combat boots. Sturdy, scuffed, and completely out of place with the lightness of her outfit. It should’ve looked odd, but on her, it made sense—like everything about her had been carefully unplanned.
Her skin, the color of gold, seemed to glow in the fluorescent light of the room, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that didn’t hit you all at once, but slowly sucked the oxygen from you, like realizing too late you were in deep water.
The room was silent for a beat too long. She swept her gaze across us, landing on me for half a second before moving on, unaware she’d rattled something loose inside my chest.
Peter cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. “Gentlemen, this is Nova. She’s here to get us back on the map, so let’s show her some respect.”
She gave a small, confident smile, though there was nothing small about her presence. She folded her arms loosely, standing her ground in front of a room full of coaches who probably hadn’t touched social media since 2010.
“Nice to meet you all.” Her voice was clear and even. Not a trace of nerves. “I promise I won’t get in your way too much.”
An American. Of course. What the hell did an American know about rugby? The thought annoyed me more than it should have, irrational and petty, but there it was. Rugby wasn’t just a game—it was culture, history, ours. And some American was here to make us “look good” online?
Absurd.
I leaned back in my chair, jaw tight, frustration gnawing at me. What frustrated me even more was her—the way she looked so put together, so effortlessly confident, like she didn’t have a clue how out of place she was. And yet, she wasn’t out of place. Not really.
She was beautiful, and that pissed me off most of all. Because no one this stunning should’ve been standing in my meeting, messing with my head, and making me feel like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
“We’re excited to see what you can do for the team.” Will spoke up first, and a chorus of agreement echoed from the coaches.
“Thank you.” She smiled, but there was something behind it—something missing—and I hated how badly I wanted to know what it was.
Her hand drifted to her stomach briefly before she quickly straightened, forcing another weak smile.
“I can see you’re all deep into your own meeting, and I don’t want to step on any toes.
So instead of standing here and lecturing you about what I’d like to bring to the team, I’ll just email the PowerPoint.
” She chuckled lightly, though the sound was thin.
“But only if you promise to actually click on the link.”
Will gave a short laugh. “Deal. I’ll make sure the boys are all informed before Monday.”
“Thank you,” she said again, nodding at Peter before slipping out the door.
I watched her through the glass as she turned the corner, thinking she was out of sight. The moment she thought no one could see her, she broke into a full sprint down the hall.
What the hell?
Peter started talking again, something about marketing targets, but his voice faded into the background. I stared at the empty doorway, the image of her sprinting burned into my head.
Before I realized what I was doing, I pushed up from my chair. “I’ll be right back,” I muttered, not waiting for anyone’s response.
I stepped into the hall, my boots heavy on the tile as I moved quickly after her. She wasn’t far. I made it to the bathroom when I heard it—the faint sound of retching.
I paused, turning my head toward the door. My first thought was to keep walking. It wasn’t my business, after all. But then I heard it again—a rough, gut-wrenching sound—and my stomach tightened.
“Nova?” I knocked gently on the bathroom door.
She probably went out last night, and this was the result. I stepped back, waiting.
No response. Just more of the same—puking, followed by a sharp gasp for air.
I knocked again, a little louder this time. “Nova, you okay in there?” I called out, my concern growing. “You need anything?”
Still nothing.
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, stepping closer. “Come on, love. You don’t sound fine.”
There was a beat of silence before I heard her voice, weak and strained.
“Sorry,” she managed to say, her words barely audible. “Just . . . just a second.”
She heaved again, and for a moment, I froze—caught somewhere between giving her space and doing something about it. Five seconds of indecision stretched too long before I pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked, but if it had been, I probably could’ve broken it down in thirty seconds flat.
The bathroom was small, a single stall, and Nova was on the floor, the back of her head resting on the cold tile next to the toilet. Her face was pale, her curls clinging to her damp forehead, and a bit of dribble ran down the side of her mouth.
“I-I think I caught something,” she croaked.
She looked like hell.
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, ran it under the tap, and dropped to my haunches beside her.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice quieter.
She stared at me for a moment, like she wanted to argue, but then she gave a small, tired nod. I reached forward and dabbed the wet towel gently against her face, wiping the sweat and remnants of sickness from her skin.
Her shoulders sagged as she closed her eyes, like the smallest act of care was too much for her to fight against.
“You think you can get up enough to grab some water?” I asked and looked down at her.
She nodded.
I stood up and held out my hands. She reached for them and slowly stood up, dropping my hands as soon as she did.
I led her out of the bathroom, keeping my pace slow as she followed me down the hall to our small kitchen. She still looked pale, her steps unsteady, but she held herself together as best she could.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before handing it to her. She took it with a small nod and sipped carefully, like even that was a struggle.
“Thank you,” she murmured, holding the bottle up in acknowledgment. “I just—I think I got sick.”
“That’s alright.” I leaned back against the counter. “Happens to the best of us, especially after a heavy night out.”