“Oh yeah.He’s the team’s hooker.”
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly.“He’s the team’s…what?”
My eyebrows climb so high they’re practically in my hairline.
The woman bursts out laughing.
“Sorry!Ilovedoing that to newbies.”
She holds out her hand again.
“My name’s Finley.I’m basically in charge of all the Rovers’ social media accounts.Also, occasional chaos.”
“Ah,” I say, still trying to process the other thing she said.“Okay.”
“So,” Finley continues cheerfully, “every rugby team has a hooker.In rugby terms, that means he anchors the front row of the scrum.One of the toughest, most physical positions on the field.He throws the ball in during lineouts, takes brutal hits, and generally behaves like a man who’s fought a bar brawl before breakfast.”
“Oh!”
I feel like an idiot, but at least the terminology makes more sense now.
“Yeah,” Finley says with a grin.“Don’t worry.Everyone reacts like that the first time.”
She gestures toward the field.
“And the big guy over there?That’s Koa.He’s our number eight.Also, my boyfriend.”
Number eight?Another rugby reference I don’t get, for sure.
And as she starts rattling off names and positions from the roster, I try to keep track.
I really do.
But my gaze keeps drifting back to the same man.
Noah Walker.
The hooker.
He really is built like a tank.
And if the way he just flattened another player is anything to go by, he plays like one too.I have a feeling I’m going to be seeing a lot of him.
Finley is still yapping, and I am still staring—helplessly drawn to the man.
As if sensing my gaze, he looks up.
Our eyes meet across the field.
Clear.Sharp.Assessing.
Then—unbelievably—he winks.
I blink.
Oh no.
I know that look.
