"You're not nobody, Princesse. You're ours."
"For now."
The words stung, but I pushed past them.
"The people in that box won't care where you're from. They'll care that you're with me. And if anyone says anything, I'll deal with it."
She laughed, but it was shaky. "You can't fight everyone."
"Watch me."
That got a real smile out of her.
I spent the rest of the drive teaching her the basics of rugby. She listened intently, asking questions that made me realize she was smarter than she gave herself credit for.
"So the scrum is when everyone piles on top of each other?"
"Essentially."
"And the try is like a goal?"
"Close enough."
"And you play—what position?"
"Flanker. I tackle people and try to steal the ball."
"So you hit people for a living."
"Occasionally."
She shook her head, but she was smiling now. "This sport is barbaric."
"It's strategic."
"It's violent."
"That too."
We pulled into the stadium car park, and the noise hit us immediately. Thousands of fans streaming toward the entrance, chanting, singing, and waving flags.
Presley's hand tightened on mine.
"Just watch me," I said, turning to face her. "When I score, I'll look for you."
"What if you don't score?"
I grinned. "I always score, Princesse."
The VIP box was everything I'd expected. Champagne, canapés, comfortable seating with a perfect view of the pitch. The other players' partners were already there, clustered in small groups, laughing and chatting.
Presley walked in behind me, her shoulders tense.
A few heads turned. Some assessed, eyes calculating every step. She stayed close to me.
One of the women, a tall brunette married to our lock, approached with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You must be new," she said.
