Page 7

CHAPTER 7

DYLAN

B y the time I step out of the locker room, my brain feels like it’s been wrung dry.

The day has been a whirlwind—more introductions and drills, another tour, overanalyzing every single interaction. My muscles ache from the scrimmage, and my head is buzzing with everything I learned.

My original plan is to go back to my hotel. Shower. Eat something simple. Get my mind right. Smart choices. No distractions.

Then I hear it—“Hey, Porter! You coming to dinner?”

I blink, turning toward the voice. A group of players—some of the ones I met earlier, some I haven’t spoken to yet—are standing by the entrance, clearly waiting for my answer.

For a second, I hesitate. This was not in my plan. I was going to lay low. Rest. Keep my focus.

But then I remember my friend’s pep talk—“You can either let your head screw you over, or you can walk onto that field tomorrow and do what you always do—kick ass.” And I did. The hard work is done.

And really—blowing off steam doesn’t mean losing control, right? It’s just dinner. It’s a chance to build some connections, maybe actually relax for the first time today. And I don’t want to get labeled as the antisocial new girl who thinks she’s too good for team bonding. So I shove my hands into my pockets, smirk, and say, “Why not?”

The place they take me is casual but packed, the kind of spot that screams team favorite. Long wooden tables, a low hum of music, and the walls are lined with signed jerseys and old team photos.

Dylan Porter, welcome to the inner circle.

I know it’s just a test drive, but it still feels good to be included. The worry about whether I’d belong here feels like a distant memory.

I take a seat near the middle of the group, at first just listening as they talk around me. They discuss the program?—

“Training is brutal, but worth it.” Then the coaches—“They’ll push you until you feel like you’re dying, but then you realize you’re the strongest you’ve ever been.” Then the competition—“Some of the returning players are scary good. You’ll see.”

I nod along, absorbing everything, still feeling a little like an outsider looking in.

Then—“Okay, I gotta ask.”

I glance up as one of the women—tall, lean, eyes sharp with curiosity—leans across the table, smirking.

Oh no. Here it comes—really, what the hell was I thinking? I came to leave my mark on rugby and this is all anyone is concerned about.

“What’s with the hair? We thought you were into cosplay or something when we first saw you. Rumors were swirling that Harley Quinn herself had arrived on campus.”

For a beat, I just blink.

Then laughter erupts around the table. Even some of the ones who were cooler toward me earlier are cracking up.

I grin despite myself. “Yeah, no. Sorry to disappoint. Just an impulse decision.”

One of them nudges my shoulder. “Damn. So no secret anime alter ego?”

I smirk. “Not unless rugby counts as a fantasy world.”

More laughter. And just like that, the energy shifts completely.

As the meal goes on, I find myself talking more.

Sharing a little about where I came from, what drew me to rugby, and what I want from this opportunity.

I expect them to just nod and move on, but instead, they listen and ask real questions. Before my on-field performance today, they were sizing me up like competition. Now? They’re actually taking me seriously. It’s a subtle shift, but a big one.

And for the first time today, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

Plates are cleared. Drinks are finished.

Then someone leans back in their chair, stretching. “Alright, so who’s up for a drink?”

A few heads turn toward me. “We usually hit up a bar nearby after training kicks our asses. It’s tradition.”

I hesitate. I already pushed myself by saying yes to dinner. I already stepped out of my comfort zone. I should go back. Rest. Stay smart.

But something about tonight feels different. I glance at my reflection in the restaurant’s window. The bright colors in my hair catch the light. And instead of feeling self-conscious about it, I feel bold.

I meet my teammates’ expectant stares. I grin. “Alright. One drink.”

The cheers that go up are loud enough to turn heads in the restaurant.

I laugh, shaking my head as they start plotting where we’re going.

When we leave the restaurant, I head back to my hotel first—because if I’m doing this, I’m doing it right. I put on a cute outfit that’s a little out of my normal wardrobe choice—a short flared skirt with a matching crop top. I add more makeup than normal—sharp cat’s-eye liner and a bold red lipstick. I own the version of me I saw in that window reflection.

Because maybe—just maybe—tonight isn’t just about proving myself on the field.

Maybe it’s about letting myself be seen.

And for once?

That doesn’t feel like a bad thing.