Page 11 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

It’s been ten minutes since we walked into the indoor garden where the rehearsal dinner is being held, and I’m already fighting the urge to take Annabeth’s hand and run.

Thank fuck for good air conditioning and giant ceiling fans.

And no, it’s not because she doesn’t look good—hell, she looks incredible tonight.

Long gone the cover of emeralds hugging her curves, soft waves in her hair, a touch of highlighter that makes her cheeks glow under the fairy lights.

No, I want to run because she looks good enough to eat—and I’m starving for her.

Also, this entire weekend? The vibe here?

It’s off. Like she’s the outsider at her own damn family event.

The aunts and uncles are polite. Smiles, handshakes, lots of “oh, so you’re a rugby player,” followed by awkward pauses like they don’t know whether to congratulate me or apologize.

They all work for her dad, Marco Martinez. I can tell they’re either in awe of him or they secretly hate him. Maybe a combination of the two.

Corporate sharks dressed up in pastel linens and polite charm.

It’s the only reason they aren’t even ruder to my girl. And that makes me fucking hate them.

They keep referring to Marco as “the Boss” like he’s Tony Soprano.

But I know real guys like that.

Hell, my own father is one. Anthony Moretti is a reformed mafia boss, or so he claims. I wouldn’t know since I haven’t talked to him in the two years he’s been out of prison.

I can say with the utmost certainty that whatever the Martinez family is into, it’s legit.

These people are snobs, not gangsters. But between you and me, there isn’t a lot of difference between billionaire CEOs and mafia.

What I do notice that makes me unreasonably angry is that not one of these people embraces my girl with genuine affection.

None of them make her laugh.

None of them light up with surprise or even forced interest when they see her.

She’s tolerated.

Not loved.

And that pisses me off more than I’d like to admit.

Annabeth stands tall through it all, smiling like it doesn’t hurt.

But I see it.

The stiffness in her spine.

The way she keeps tugging her dress down like it’ll make her more acceptable.

And the second the bridesmaids sashay in? I feel the power shift in the room.

Fake tan.

Fake-ass laughs.

And compliments so dripping in condescension they might as well come with a side of glitter-coated knives.

“Oh my God, Annabeth! You look so, um, comfortable! ”

Comfortable.

Comfortable?

Who the hell says that to someone at a rehearsal dinner?

“What a cute dress!” the next one pipes up, dragging out the last word like it’s a crime against fashion.

Cute. That’s social code for safe and forgettable.

The same way you describe a clearance rack sweater or a dog you’re not adopting.

I know quality and my girl dresses well.

She was born a tech heiress, for fuck’s sake. Her gown is tailored and fits like a glove, rivaling any of theirs.

She is stunning as fuck .

I lean in and press a kiss to Annabeth’s temple, my hand wrapping around the back of her neck like it belongs there.

My thumb strokes the soft skin just under her ear— possessive —right where I know they can see.

Petty? Maybe.

Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

I do it partly just to watch the Botox crack across their expressions—but mostly because I can’t stop touching her.

Not when I’ve got her this close.

Not when she looks like sin in that green dress, all curves and confidence and everything they’ll never be.

“Oh wow,” one of them— Jasmine, maybe —blinks at me like I just stepped off the cover of GQ .

Then she looks at the two of us and she can’t even hide her surprise . “ You two look really great together. Like your auras match.”

At least she isn’t being nasty. Just clueless.

“Auras? Please tell me you’re joking, Jas. I mean, are we supposed to believe that like,” Lisa’s voice cuts in, tight and syrupy, “this isn’t just, like, a joke or something? Tell the truth Luca, Annabeth didn’t make you come here with her? You want us to think you’re really with her?”

Her tone drips with disbelief and disdain.

Like she’s trying to pull back the curtain and reveal that of course this is all an act, that Annabeth— my Annabeth —could never land someone like me.

Annabeth opens her mouth, probably about to awkward-laugh her way out of the moment, but I step in before she can.

I’m done playing nice.

“You know,” I say, letting my voice carry just enough to cut through the fake laughter and pastel polyester, “it never fails to amaze me how easily cruelty rolls off the tongue when it’s dressed up as concern or how easily some people can disguise insults as compliments.”

Lisa’s fake smile flickers.

“Not that we owe any of you an explanation, but yeah—Annabeth and I are together. Very much so. And if you actually knew her, you’d understand why I’m head over fucking heels.”

“Luca,” Annabeth whispers, and I squeeze her neck gently, letting her know I got this.

Lisa’s mouth opens like she’s about to argue, so I turn my full attention on her.

“Of course, I know her. I care about her. She’s my cousin,” Lisa says tightly, as if that proves something.

“Exactly,” I say, taking a step forward, my hand still snug around Annabeth, needing that contact to ground me. “So tell me, Lisa. If you know her so well—if you care about her like you said you do, why isn’t she a bridesmaid ?”

Silence.

Just the sound of brittle egos snapping like cheap acrylic nails.

I don’t look away.

Not once.

Because Annabeth deserves someone who shows up, who sees her, who doesn’t let bullshit like this slide.

And today? That someone is me.

A wave of too tight satin shifts as the girls freeze mid-blink, like I’ve just asked them to recite pi backward.

“What?” Lisa blinks. A little too fast.

“Oh, well, you know,” Brittany pipes up, twirling a strand of over-straightened hair. “Annabeth isn’t really into girly stuff, right?”

“Well, Lisa asked her, right?” Jasmine adds quickly. “You told me Annabeth said she didn’t want to be a bridesmaid? Like she just wanted to chill and skip all the dress fittings and hair drama?”

“Well—yeah,” Lisa huffs. Her gaze skitters sideways like she knows she’s full of shit. “Annabeth told me she’s not really that into weddings and stuff.”

“Really? And when did Annabeth say that?” I ask, but no one answers.

Because Lisa is full of shit.

“Well, there’s also the bridesmaid dresses,” another one— Courtney?

—mutters before immediately backpedaling.

“I mean, not that Annabeth wouldn’t look good in it.

It’s just that Lisa had a really specific vision, and the boutique only carried up to a size— well, never mind. I mean Annabeth, it’s not personal.”

Not personal?

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

I glance down at Annabeth.

Her smile is tight.

Her eyes say please don’t make this worse.

But I can’t let it slide.

I take her hand in mine and face the pastel plastics across the table like I’m lining up for a goddamn scrum.

“Well, that’s a shame,” I say, my voice low and clear enough that half the room is now pretending not to eavesdrop. “Because Annabeth in anything— and I mean anything —would make the rest of you look like background extras.”

Jasmine’s mouth drops open.

Brittany makes a noise that sounds like a choking gasp.

Lisa glares at me like I’ve just ruined her rehearsal dinner.

And I couldn’t give two shits about the spoiled female.

So, I just keep going.

“If any of you bothered to really talk to Annabeth, you would know she’s smart. She’s real. She’s funny as hell. And as far as looks are concerned? The woman is a damn goddess without even trying. She doesn’t need your dresses or your aesthetic. Trust me—she doesn’t need your approval, either.”

Annabeth stares up at me, blinking fast.

And shit, maybe I’ve gone too far.

Maybe I’ve just dragged a wrecking ball through years of buried pain and complicated family politics.

But when she squeezes my hand?

I know I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Because no one— no one —gets to treat her like she’s less than.

Not while I’m around.

Not ever again.

They go quiet.

Flushed.

One sips her rosé like it’s a sedative, eyes darting anywhere but at us. Another twists her napkin in her lap like it's suddenly her life’s work.

Lisa’s got that tight, brittle smile she wears when she knows she’s lost control of the room but refuses to admit it.

Annabeth tries to tug me away with a nervous little laugh, like she’s hoping to smooth things over, to pretend this never happened.

But no.

Fuck that.

I lean down and press a kiss to her temple, slow and deliberate. My hand slides to the small of her back, anchoring her to me in full view of everyone.

“Before I go,” I say, loud enough for every single bridesmaid and their simpering boyfriends to hear, “let me just thank you all for not asking her to be in your snotty little bridal party.”

Gasps. Glares. More rosé.

I smirk.

“Because now? I get to have her by my side the entire time. And that is exactly where she belongs.”

Annabeth’s breath catches— her chest rising and falling fast.

She blinks up at me, wide-eyed, her cheeks blooming pink like I just said something outrageous instead of the damn truth.

She’s looking at me like she can’t believe I did that. Like no one ever has.

Too fucking bad, because I meant every word.

I cup her face gently, tilt her chin up—and kiss her.

Not a peck. Not a pretend kiss.

A soul-searing, toe-curling, wipe-the-smirks-off-their-faces kiss .

One hand gripping her waist. The other fisting the back of her dress.

Let them stare. Let them whisper.

I don’t give a single damn.

When I finally pull back, her lips are parted, her breath unsteady, her lashes fluttering like she’s been caught in a dream.

“You ready to go,” I murmur against her cheek, “or do you want to dance, Angel?”

Because I’ll follow her anywhere. I’ll hold her up if she wants to run. I’ll spin her across the damn dance floor if she says yes.

But what I won’t do?

Is pretend anymore.

Not when every part of me knows—I’m not faking this.

Not even a little.

I am all in.

And I think she might be, too.