Page 17 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

When I told Annabeth I’d wait however long it takes, I meant it.

I still mean it.

But I didn’t take her for a runner.

Now here I am—packing up the last of my shit from the suite we shared, every movement slow and deliberate, like I’m mourning a death.

Because maybe I am.

The death of the only good thing I’ve ever had.

The only woman I’ve ever loved.

And yeah, that’s a lot to admit, even to myself.

But it's the goddamn truth.

All it took was one woman and seventy-two hours to completely turn my world upside down.

Fuck. Shit.

I zip the suitcase closed, then just stand there like an idiot in the middle of a room that still smells like her— cinnamon and coconut and sunshine —and wonder how the hell I let this happen.

How I let her slip away.

The knock on the door nearly sends me flying.

“Annabeth?”

My heart takes off at a sprint and I’m across the room in seconds, wrenching the door open without thinking.

But it’s not her.

It’s him.

The same fucking asshole who’s been wrecking my life since the day I was born.

My father. Anthony Moretti.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growl.

He doesn’t flinch.

Of course not.

He’s too used to being feared, obeyed, and untouchable.

“Language, Luca. I’m still your father.”

I laugh. Cold and bitter.

“Is that what you think? Well, maybe I wasn’t clear enough when I walked out of your life and didn’t look back for ten fucking years. I want nothing to do with you.”

A shadow moves behind him, and there he is.

Marco Martinez.

Annabeth’s father.

I meet his gaze. Strong. Stern. Assessing.

He has no idea what he’s walked into, but I’m done holding back.

“Mr. Martinez,” I say, my voice steady even though my chest is tight. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, but there are two things you need to know.”

He crosses his arms. “And what’s that?”

“First,” I say, taking a breath and meaning every fucking word, “I’m in love with your daughter. She ran because she’s scared. She doesn’t know I’m serious about her yet, but I am. And I’m not letting her go.”

His brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And second—” My voice drops. My eyes go back to Anthony . “Whatever business you’ve got brewing with this man? You need to get the fuck out of it. He can only bring you ruination and misery. It practically oozes off him.”

“Hey—watch your mouth,” the slimy bastard next to him says.

It’s Peter fucking Galetti —same prick who dragged me and my mother back to him when I was ten years old and we tried to get away— and he’s stepping toward me with his chest puffed up like that means something.

I don’t even hesitate.

My fist flies before I know I’ve moved, catching him clean across the jaw.

He stumbles backward into the wall, groaning.

I point straight into Anthony’s smug fucking face.

“Come at me. Right now. Do it, old man. Just like you used to. Let’s see if you still hit like you did when I was thirteen.”

He doesn’t move.

Because he knows.

He knows I’m not a kid anymore.

And I’m not afraid of him.

Not now. Not ever again.

Not when I’ve got something real to fight for.

Not when I’ve got Annabeth.

“Okay, enough of this. Arnold, escort Mr. Moretti and Mr. Galetti to the airport,” Annabeth’s father says to the big motherfucker standing behind him.

Bodyguard, I’m guessing.

“But Marco, I thought we had a deal?—”

“You thought wrong, Mr. Moretti. I merely wanted to flesh out this man my daughter got herself involved in. And I have done that. Enjoy your flight home.”

He turns away, motions for the bodyguard— Arnold —to escort my father and his lapdog out.

The slimeball Galetti takes an ice pack from the man and holds it to his jaw and my old man is looking at me like I just snatched a crown off his head.

They’re done.

And I should feel triumphant. Victorious. Instead, I just feel gutted.

Marco Martinez doesn’t blink as those assholes are escorted away.

He just studies me with those calculating eyes of his—eyes that remind me too damn much of Annabeth’s when she’s shielding herself from the world.

“I don’t care how much money you have, I am not walking away,” I tell him, jaw tight, throat raw from everything I’ve been holding back.

“I hear you,” he finally says. “And I know you don’t care about money. I was alerted when you demanded everything you and Annabeth spent this weekend be charged to you , not to the room.”

I shrug.

“I have money. It means nothing to me. And Annabeth? She’s not a transaction.”

Marco exhales through his nose.

“So, you really care for her?”

I nod.

“Have you called her? Tried to find her?”

“Of course, I have. She’s not picking up,” I admit, glancing down at my phone. “I, um, hurt her. By accident. Because of him.”

“Your father, you mean?”

“Anthony Moretti was never a father. He was a tyrant. Mean, domineering, hateful to me and my mother. God, you have no idea how much I hate that man.”

“I have an idea. Now, tell me about this charity auction.”

“It was something the Rovers’ PR team came up with. Buy a date with a rugby player. Your daughter, she, uh, bought a date with me.”

“And she asked you to come to Mexico as your date?”

“She asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend because, well, sir, because your nieces are about as nice to her as a basket full of cobras.”

“Yes, I know this. Annabeth’s cousins have never been particularly warm to her. Just as my own siblings eye me with cold calculation instead of familial affection. I am afraid money makes strange bedfellows and even stranger relatives.”

“Nothing corrupts a person like money,” I agree.

“Except maybe love,” he counters. “Tell me, do you love my daughter?”

“Yes. I love her. I’m in love with her. But I-I think I broke her heart.”

Marco folds his arms.

“You didn’t break her heart, son. But you scared her. And when my daughter gets scared, she runs.”

“Yeah,” I rasp. “I figured that out.”

He gives me a long look. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ll wait,” I say again, because it’s still true. “However long it takes. I’ll wait for her.”

Marco lifts a brow, then surprises the hell out of me with a small, grudging smile.

“Maybe you don’t have to wait quite so long.”

I stare. “You’ve got an idea?”

“You mentioned you’re going back to your team. I assume you have a match coming up?”

“Our friendly tour ends this week. We’ve got our first Major League Rugby match back in Consequence on Saturday.”

Marco taps his chin thoughtfully.

“I see, and your team, Mitchell Knight owns it?”

“Yeah. I went to school with him—wait. You know Mitchell?”

“Indeed, I do. We have some common business interests. Now as for getting my daughter down to see a game?—”

“You think you can get her there? To Consequence?”

“I believe I can, son,” he says. “How do you feel about NDAs and prenups?”

My brows shoot up.

“Mr. Martinez, I’ll sign anything she wants me to if she’ll just talk to me again.”

And I mean it. I fucking mean it so much.

“You love my daughter. You defended her in front of our entire family. And you knocked out a man I’ve wanted to punch for the better part of a decade.” He smiles coldly. “You’ve earned the benefit of the doubt.”

“I just want a chance to show her this is real.”

“Then I’ll see to it she’s in the front row.”

Something sparks in my chest.

Hope. Wild, reckless hope.

“You’re really going to help me?”

Marco holds out his hand.

“I’m a father, Luca. And if you’re serious about my little girl. If you’re the man who truly deserves her? Then I’m going to make damn sure you prove it.”

“I am the only man for her, sir. I swear it.”

I take his hand, shake it firmly.

It’s a start.

“Shit. I need to book a flight—” I mutter, reaching for my phone like a man possessed.

“Don’t bother.” Marco lifts a hand like he’s flagging a waiter. “Arnold, see to it Mr. Warden’s luggage is onboard and that we’re ready to fly within the half-hour.”

He calls me Warden.

Not Moretti.

And right then, my esteem and respect triple for this man.

“Yes, sir,” Arnold says, already pulling out his phone and moving with military precision.

I just stand there. Blinking.

My mouth probably hanging open like an idiot.

Marco Martinez— tech mogul, father of the only woman I’ve ever loved —just chartered a flight for me like it’s nothing.

Like it’s ordering Uber Eats on a Tuesday.

He shrugs when I gape at him. “Didn’t I mention I have a jet on standby?”

No. He definitely didn’t.

“Rich people, man,” I mutter, still reeling.

“Hey.” He gives me a knowing look. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for her. You break her heart again, and I’ll bury you in a fucking hole in the Mexican desert so deep in that blistering ground, it will make Hell feel like it has air conditioning.”

“Fair,” I say, nodding. “But I’m not going to break her heart. Not now. Not ever.”

But if Annabeth’s really coming to Consequence?

I can’t stand here peacocking. I have shit to do.

I’ve only got five days to prove I’m not just some tattooed rugby player with a fake last name and daddy issues the size of Ogre’s Jersey.

I’ve got five days to get my ass in gear and show her what it means to be loved by a man who doesn’t run.

Because I don’t. Not anymore.

And if I’m going to convince her this thing between us is real?

If I want her to walk back into my arms without doubt or fear?

Then it has to be a damn good plan.

The fucking best.

Which means I’m going to need help.

Time to call in the Rovers.

If I’m already calling in Marco for help, then yeah, this seems like the next step.

Because sometimes winning the girl takes a team effort.

And this girl? She’s worth it.

Every play. Every sacrifice. Every mile.

Game on.