Messy.
I should stop it.
But I don’t.
Because I’m standing there completely stunned.
And somewhere deep inside—buried beneath the practical part of my brain that keeps insisting this whole thing with Noah is temporary—there’s a little spark of something warm and dangerous.
Because Noah hasn’t said anything out loud.
No declarations.
No big romantic speeches.
But the way he’s standing up for me right now?Punching the hell out of that loudmouth for being rude to me?
That sure as shit feels like a declaration.
Because—well, let’s just say things got real pretty quickly.
There’s shouting.
A couple more punches.
Players jumping in to pull people apart.
And suddenly the sideline looks less like a rugby pitch and more like a triage station.
And the aftermath?
Ice packs.
Bloody faces and knuckles.
And me shoving tampons up one player’s nose to stop the bleeding—which, yes, is a real trick and something I won’t ever stop using.
Coach Dane and Coach O’Donnell from the other team storm onto the field, barking orders and dragging their players into line.
At first Great Dane looks ready to explode.
“You all know the bloody rules about sportsmanship!”he roars.
Everyone goes quiet—everyone.
And then—just when I think the entire team is about to get a lecture that will last until Christmas—he adds, “And good on you, lads, for teaching those fucking wankers how to behave!O’Donnell!We’ll be seeing you on the field tomorrow and I sure as fuck hope those boys of yours will play like the men they pretend to be.”
A ripple of snarls and some laughter spreads through the entire training center.
I shake my head and grin despite myself.
Because apparently this is what passes for discipline in professional rugby.
And while the coaches finish their shouting match, my eyes drift back to Noah.
He’s standing a few yards away, knuckles scraped, chest still rising and falling from the adrenaline.
For a moment, our eyes meet.
