Page 18 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

“Move your fuckin’ arse, Warden! You’re a forward, not a fuckin’ backward!” Coach Dane’s bellow cuts through the humid Carolina air like a war horn.

I grunt and shove through the sprint, lungs burning, legs on fire, thighs tight with every goddamn meter.

Warm-ups are a cruel lie.

There’s nothing warm about them.

Just pain. Precision. And sweat that clings to your skin like armor.

This isn’t a game for the soft.

Rugby is war dressed in jerseys.

It’s muscle. Blood. Bone-on-bone chaos.

You don’t play this game unless you’re half-crazy and whole-hearted.

And I am.

I’ve got a heart full of fury, a head full of love, and every ounce of me is wired to fight for it.

Today, we’re up against the Florida Gators— the dirtiest, most underhanded pack of bastards in the league.

Fast, brutal, cocky as hell.

They’ve got height.

Speed.

A smug-as-fuck fly-half named Malone who’s been talking shit since preseason.

I don’t just want to beat them.

I want to flatten them.

“Pick up the pace!” shouts Koa, our team captain—a man I’ve looked up to since before we met. “They’re watching us from the tunnel!”

Let them watch. I want them to see what’s coming.

Because I’ve got something they don’t.

Her.

My Annabeth.

Even without the confirmation text from Marco Martinez, I feel her.

Like a sixth sense.

Like gravity realigning.

She’s here.

She always brings calm with her, like sunshine cracking through storm clouds.

And when I finally catch sight of her in the stands, nerves painted across her pretty face as she gnaws that full lower lip, sitting between Daniela and Finley—I swear, I stop breathing for a second.

Goddamn. She is finally here.

And everything inside me settles.

Just like that.

This is why I work so hard.

This is why I will stay and wait forever.

Because she completes me. And everything I do? It’s all for her.

“Alright, you sorry sacks of donkey shite, bring your arses in!” Coach calls, waving us into the huddle.

His accent is thick as ever, part Kiwi, part dragon.

Honestly, half the shit he says sounds like a medieval insult.

But whatever. I’m dialed in.

“You looking to score a try today, mate?” Coach asks, squinting at me like he already knows the answer.

“I’m looking to win it all,” I snap back, voice steady.

He nods once. “Then get your game face on. Gators are fast and sloppy. Don’t let ‘em control the tempo. We ruck hard and fast. Target their nine. We go in with discipline, precision, and bloody fucking violence!”

Heads nod.

Grunts sound.

Cleats scrape the ground.

The air shifts.

This is it.

We lock arms and stomp out toward the pitch.

Studs bite into turf.

Breath fogs in the air even though it’s hot as hell.

Sun blaring, sweat already soaking through jerseys.

The ref blows the whistle.

The crowd erupts.

And I grin.

Because today? This isn’t just a match.

I’m not out here for rankings or stats. Not for the scouts or the press.

I’m fighting for my life.

I’m fighting for her.

For us.

The first hit comes in brutal.

One of their flankers tries to blindside me, but I plant low and drive into him like a fucking battering ram.

He grunts, slides back a foot.

We’re not playing touch out here.

This is war.

The Florida Gators are fast, slick, and dirty as ever.

They’re all elbows in the rucks and cheap shots in the mauls, but we don’t break.

The Rovers don’t flinch.

We grind.

Halftime comes and we’re deadlocked—17 to 17.

In the locker room, everyone’s breathing heavy.

Coach throws a water bottle that explodes against the wall, yelling about possession and pressure.

But I’m not listening.

Because when I glance out of the tunnel and see her?

Annabeth .

In the stands, her hands clasped, eyes locked on the tunnel.

Like she’s praying and furious and hopeful all at once.

I feel everything else fall away.

Her soft brown eyes hold more heat than the sun over the pitch.

She’s here.

And I’ll be damned if I let her down.

“You good, Warden?” Koa asks, thumping my chest.

“I’m fucking perfect.”

Back on the field, the Gators press hard.

Their fly-half tries to exploit the gap on the outside wing, but I see it coming.

I intercept the offload, barge through their fullback like a train through paper, and gain thirty meters before I’m taken down.

The crowd goes wild.

Momentum shifts.

I don’t stop moving.

I push. I bleed. I lead.

I call plays on instinct, working the ball wide, then pulling it in when their defense overcommits.

And then it comes.

Final minute.

Tied score.

Our scrum feeds me the ball clean.

I tuck it tight.

Lower my shoulder.

And drive.

Straight through their line, legs pumping like pistons.

One Gator clings to me.

Then another.

Their weight drags at my legs, but I don’t stop driving forward.

I grit my teeth, muscles screaming, until someone hits me low—and the ball pops free.

Shit.

It tumbles loose onto the pitch.

Chaos erupts.

Bodies crash in from every direction.

But I’m already diving—low, fast, head down.

We’ve got a ruck.

I slam into it shoulder-first, clearing bodies, throwing my weight behind the counter-drive.

Boots dig in around me. Elbows fly.

Someone’s shouting—maybe Coach, maybe one of the boys. I can't tell.

All I see is the ball.

And all I can think about is her.

I rip it free, clutch it close, and surge to my feet.

One last push.

One chance to finish this.

I burst out of the pile, the defense scrambling to recover, but I’m already past them.

Blood in my mouth, sweat in my eyes, and fire in my chest.

I roar like a fucking animal as I cross the try line and slam the ball into the turf.

Try time.

Rovers take the lead.

The stadium erupts.

My teammates rush me, hooting and hollering, but it’s not their faces I’m looking for.

It’s hers.

Annabeth.

And when I spot her in the stands— hands clutched to her chest, eyes wide with wonder and tears, and something that looks dangerously like love —I know I’d go through a hundred rucks just to see her smile like that.

This game? This win?

It’s all for her.

But I’m not done yet.

Because the real victory?

That comes when I win her.

The real plan starts now.

I didn’t just fight off the Gators today.

I fought off my past.

My fear.

My fucking last name.

All that’s left is one final play.

And this time, it’s not on the pitch.

It’s in front of the whole damn world.

Because if I’m going to win Annabeth Martinez for good?

She deserves the kind of love that gets announced at full volume.

And I plan to deliver.