Page 24

CHAPTER 24

KAI

T he world narrows the second I step onto the field.

It always does.

Rugby is simple. Straightforward. You don’t have to think—you just do .

Hit first. Run hard. Find the space. Score the try.

It’s muscle memory. The only thing that’s ever made sense. When everything else in my life feels complicated, rugby is the one place I know exactly what I’m supposed to do.

But today?

Today, my focus is off. Really off.

The whistle blows. The ball moves. My body reacts like it always does—pure instinct, driving forward, muscles locking into the brutal rhythm of play. I hit hard, slam into my opponents like it’s the only thing tethering me to the present. The crunch of bodies colliding, the sting of turf scraping against my legs—it should settle me. It usually does.

But my head isn’t here.

It’s on a rooftop, in an alleyway, in a dimly lit hotel room.

It’s in the curve of her back as she arched into me. In the sharp gasp that slipped from her lips when I sank my teeth into the soft skin of her shoulder. In the way she fucking dared me to give her more.

My fingers flex, gripping the fabric of my jersey like I can squeeze the memory out of my head. Not the time, mate.

I shake it off, scanning the field, repositioning. The play shifts. I move with it, shoving back the nagging pull of memory, the ghost of her still imprinted on my skin.

A body flies past me—too fast. I react on instinct, tracking the movement. An opponent makes a break, his legs pumping, aiming for a gap that isn’t there. I step into his path, bracing for impact. The collision is solid, satisfying. His momentum dies against my chest, and he stumbles back, barely managing to stay on his feet.

I hear him swear under his breath before he shoves at my chest, a smirk curling at his mouth.

“Little tense today, are we mate?” he sneers. “What, bad night?”

I clench my jaw, rolling my shoulders like I can shake off the weight pressing into me.

If only he fucking knew.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Just reset, feet planted, waiting for the next phase of play.

The game moves on. The roar of teammates, the heavy thud of boots against grass, the sharp calls cutting through the air.

I move with them. But my thoughts keep slipping.

Back to her.

Back to the way she pulled me in like she already knew I’d lose myself in her. The way her fingers dug into my back when I pushed her over the edge. The way she looked at me afterward—half-lazy, half-dazed, like I’d left a mark she hadn’t been expecting.

It should’ve been like any other hookup. I should’ve forgotten her name by now. But instead, I keep catching myself reaching for my phone like I might find a message from her.

Even though we never exchanged numbers.

I tell myself it was just a one-night stand. Just really good sex.

That’s all.

So why the hell do I still feel like I can smell her perfume on my skin?