The ground is slick beneath my boots, and the air smells like wet grass and blood.
Perfect rugby weather. This sport is my way in with Livy. I just need to bide my time, and unfortunately I have a short fuse and a one-track mind.
I brace low in the scrum, shoulders tight, thighs burning as eight guys on the other side try to drive us backward. The pressure hits like a freight train, bodies grinding together while the pack strains for leverage.
“Hold!” Jeremy barks from behind us. He’s a shitshow everywhere else, except on this field. He’s the king around here, and it’s because he’s the golden boy of this team.
Number nine. Scrum-half. Loud mouth and tactical genius. Outside of rugby? I wouldn’t trust him to take care of my worst enemy’s goldfish.
I dig the studs on my boots deeper into the mud and drive forward through my legs.
The entire formation surges just like I intended it to.
The moment the ball rolls free, Jeremy snatches it cleanly and whips it out to Kalen like it’s nothing more than a casual pass across a backyard.
Number ten.
Fly-half.
He’s a little icy in all aspects of his life aside from his bratty stepsister who seems to live to annoy him. But he’s got a boot that can split the uprights from halfway across the field.
Kalen pivots instantly, scanning the defensive line while the crowd roars around us. St. Killian rugby draws over half the damn campus, and tonight the cobblestone lot is packed shoulder to shoulder with students who know exactly what kind of brutality they’re about to witness.
“Bash!” Kalen shouts.
I’m already moving.
I’m number eight, and to be honest I don’t give a fuck what Caiden had to do to or offer the guy who wore this number before me to get me this spot. I sit at the back of the scrum and carry when things get ugly, which they usually do. My job is pretty simple, just run straight through whoever thinks they can stop me.
Jeremy snaps the ball into my hands.
A defender lunges toward me.
I lower my shoulder and drive.
The collision cracks through my ribs, but I’ll take anything that gets me closer to having Livy in my grasp. His arms wrap around my waist, but I keep my legs pumping, dragging him three more yards before another player joins the tackle and they finally drag me down into the mud.
Bodies pile in.
The ruck forms instantly.
“Release!” someone shouts.
Jeremy snatches the ball, and we do it all over again. This team is fast and violent, and relentless, just the way I like it.
The rhythm settles into my bones like I’ve been doing this all my life.
Hit.
Drive.
Reset.
I barely hear the crowd anymore until something shifts. It almost feels like instinct, something I can’t put my finger on. There’s a strange prickle at the back of my neck that tells me my girl is near.
I glance up as the ball is in play again, and then I catch a glimpse of wavy blonde hair. The world doesn’t completely stop right then, but it might as well.
Livingston stands near the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind two girls I’ve studied enough to know they’re safe for her to live with. Her long blonde hair falls over her shoulders, catching the glow from the floodlights above the field.
