Noah
When your teamowner is an eccentric billionaire with some very creative ideas about how a rugby club should operate, you don’t fly private.
You don’t even fly commercial.
No.
You take a bus.
Now, to be fair, Mitchell Knight does not do anything halfway.The bus we’re riding in looks less like a team coach and more like a luxury tour rig.Plush seats.
Privacy compartments.Built-in screens.Three separate bathrooms.
It’s absurd.
Comfortable, but absurd.
Some of the married lads bring their own RVs, so the whole trip ends up looking like a strange little convoy rolling across the southern United States toward Texas.
But honestly?
I’m not thinking about any of that.
Not the miles.
Not the tournament.
Not even Great Dane’s speech about discipline and hydration before we left.
Nope.
All I can think about is Chiara.
Because she’s here.
On this bus.
And the way the seating works means she got one of the private compartments in the back.
Two seats, a curtain, enough space for someone to stretch out and sleep.
Since she’s the only physio traveling with us—and the only woman on the bus—it made sense to give her the privacy.
Which is all well and good.
Except now I know exactly where she is.
And the knowledge is driving me completely bloody mad.
Most of the lads are asleep.
Tank’s curtain is pulled.
I can hear the faint rumble of his snoring.Someone up front is watching a match replay quietly.
Outside the windows, it’s pitch black.
We left late, so we’ll roll into Texas right around sunrise.
