Page 22

CHAPTER 22

DYLAN

T he morning air is crisp, clean. The scent of damp grass, sweat, and fresh-cut turf settles deep in my lungs. A familiar smell. A grounding one. The scent of routine, of control. Of everything I can count on.

Around me, teammates lace up their cleats, stretch, talk in low murmurs. The sound of home. The steady thud of a ball against the ground. The distant whistle of our coach barking out orders.

I stand on the field, a rugby ball gripped between my hands, rolling it between my fingers, my muscles still warm from stretching. My body is still sore from the weekend.

But not from rugby.

From him.

From Kai.

I refuse to let my brain go there.

I squeeze the ball tighter, my knuckles white around the leather. Focus. Stay sharp. There’s no room for distractions here.

“Alright, let’s move!” My coach’s voice cuts through the fog in my head. “Warm-up drills, five minutes!”

I inhale sharply, exhaling through my nose.

No distractions. That’s what I told myself before I visited the club’s facility. That’s what I need to remember now.

I get into formation, falling into the rhythm of the game, muscle memory taking over. Quick, precise passes fire between us. My fingers sting slightly from the repeated impact, but I welcome it.

The ball slaps against my palm, the rhythm steadying me.

This is what I know.

This field. This game.

Not him.

Not his hands on me.

Not his voice in my ear, rough and teasing, his breath against my skin.

I force the memory away, tightening my grip on the ball, sending another pass flying down the line.

The whistle blows. Four sets of 50-meter sprints.

I dig in, launching forward. The grass gives beneath my cleats, my legs burning as I push harder, faster. Lungs tightening. Heart pounding. A clear head.

This is what I do. What I’ve always done. Run. Push. Fight.

I try to outrun the memory of his body against mine.

The sprints bleed into drills. Tackling. Scrumming. I brace against the pack, every muscle locked tight. Bodies collide, push, fight for dominance. A controlled battle of strength and will. Just like that night.

Just like him .

I grit my teeth, drive forward. My heart pounds. My arms strain.

More.

Harder.

More.

The whistle shrieks, the pack breaks apart. I wipe sweat from my forehead, inhaling deeply, letting the air cool my skin, my thoughts.

One of my teammates grins, nudging me. “Damn, Dylan. You got something to prove?”

I force a smirk, shake out my arms. “Always.”

But the truth?

I’m not just competing against myself.

I’m competing against the ghost of a night I refuse to let mean anything.

Coach calls for a water break. I jog to the sideline, grabbing my bottle, tilting my head back as I take a long pull of water.

The field stretches out before me. My future.

I exhale sharply, steadying myself.

One night. No strings.

I’m here for rugby.

That’s all that matters.

And yet… my body still remembers. My skin still burns in places his hands have never touched in the light of day.

I shove it down. Swallow it whole.

And I walk back onto the field.