Page 1 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

Consequence, North Carolina.

“Love’s like a ruck. You get knocked down, but if you want to win, you have to get back in there—braced, steady, and ready to fight like hell for the ball or the girl.”

That’s what my college rugby coach told me right after my then-girlfriend, Isabella Swenton, dumped me.

For Mitchell bloody Knight.

Yeah. That Mitchell Knight.

Rugby golden boy.

Billionaire.

Now he’s the owner of the Carolina Rovers.

The brand new Major League Rugby team I just happen to play for.

Coincidence? I wish.

FML.

Look, Mitchell’s not a bad guy.

He’s charming.

He’s smart.

He’s got cheekbones that make women spontaneously ovulate and a Rolex for every day of the week.

He doesn’t even gloat— he doesn’t have to .

And these days, he’s too busy building his rugby empire to remember I exist.

Which would be fine if I wasn’t currently being auctioned off like some shirtless steak dinner to promote his shiny new team.

I blame Koa Jackson.

Or his girl, Finley, since she’s the one who came up with this harebrained scheme.

Auctioning rugby players for dates?

The pretty little redhead must have lost her ever-loving mind.

How the hell did I get roped into this?

Well, that part’s easy.

It was in the fine print, right there on my contract.

Somewhere, in like 6-point font, way down on the bottom after all the dizzying dollar signs.

The player agrees to participate in obligatory marketing campaigns and events to promote the team and the sport.

I’m not sure when it was exactly that I began regretting this decision.

Maybe it was the third press junket where no one asked me a single question about my tackles, but they all wanted to know how many crunches I do a day.

Or maybe it was when I saw my own face— smirking, shirtless, oiled up like a side of lam b—on a ten-foot banner with the words “Ruck and Roll: A Carolina Rugby Romance Gala” splashed across the top in pink glitter font.

I should’ve stayed in New Zealand.

Where rugby’s sacred, not foreplay, for fuck’s sake.

Here, it’s all about spectacle.

Viral moments.

TikToks and reels .

Apparently, sportsmanship is only valuable if it comes with a filter and a thirst trap.

Now I’m standing in the green room of some fancy event center in Consequence, North Carolina, wearing a suit so tailored I can’t lift my arms.

One of the PR girls just told me to ‘ pout more’ for the behind-the-scenes footage.

What the fuck does that even mean?

“Okay, you can be growly if you want,” she murmurs and shrugs, snapping more photos of me before moving on to the next menu option.

Some of the guys are eating this up. But not me.

I rake a hand through my hair and look out the window.

Downtown Consequence twinkles like it wants to be New York.

Bless its heart.

A born and raised Jersey boy, I know what I’m talking about.

But maybe I’m not who I thought I was anymore, either.

Warden, I remind myself.

Luca Warden.

My mother’s name.

Clean. Safe. Unburdened.

It’s the name on my contract.

The one I printed on the back of my first pro jersey.

The one I use to keep myself at arm’s length from my family’s criminal legacy.

But no matter what I call myself, the blood’s still Moretti.

And that blood runs deep.

Still, I didn’t fight this hard to be reduced to a six-pack and a smile.

I came here to play. To win. To carve out something real. Something for myself.

Instead, I’m about to be paraded on stage like a prize bull at a high-end meat market, where some giddy socialite will buy thirty minutes of my time for a good cause and a better photo op.

Mitchell Knight’s fancy shmancy PR team has this whole fairy tale in mind— The Mafia Prince Who Walked Away .

Yeah, sure.

Cute marketing.

I should charge royalties.

But me? I’m just trying to keep my head down, stay in shape, and maybe get through this night without grinding my molars to dust.

That’s the plan at least.

Until the auctioneer rings the little bell and yells “Sold to bidder #69!”

I blink. Is this a fucking joke?

Then I see her, and I know it is.

A grand cosmic fucking comedy and I’m at the butt of it.

She’s different from the usual bored socialite, living for likes on her social media profiles.

Curvy. Confident. Cool as fuck.

And she is completely unimpressed by me.

She doesn’t bat a lash at the biceps, the tailored tux, my two hundred dollar haircut, or my flawless smile.

I wonder if the headlines, or the Moretti name I don’t use, would make a difference?

But I think not.

In fact, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Like bidding on me is a thing she has to do.

Like she’s participating in this whole dog and pony show for some plot twist known only to her.

I don’t know her name.

Not yet.

But I know one thing.

I am fucked.

Royally fucked.

And this time, it’s not because of my last name.

It’s because of her.