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PROLOGUE-KOA

Consequence, North Carolina.

I swear this town has a personal vendetta against me. Like I stepped off the plane and the universe went, “Him. Let’s ruin that one.”

Day one? Nearly drowned in a rainstorm so biblical I half-expected Noah—the dude from the bible and not our team’s best hooker (not that kind)—to float by in a bloody ark.

They said coastal charm .

I got waterlogged socks and hypothermia.

Then came the real horror.

Walking into the coach’s temporary batch and getting an eyeful of his naked, and did I mention hairy , arse.

Coach Dane quickly got involved with one of our new team’s assistants.

And on a shag rug, of all things— oh, the horror!

It was like walking in on your da doing the nasty. With gusto.

I still can’t make eye contact with the guy without flashbacks. I may need therapy.

Or a lobotomy.

But the cherry on this cursed sundae?

Michael bloody Knight.

The American billionaire who bought us like a crate of bourbon and dumped us in this swampy hellhole to sell rugby to small-town America.

I’m actually 85% sure the people here think rugby is just violent soccer with fewer rules.

Anyway, I haven’t seen the man in months.

He’s gone ghost, and we’ve been left in a glorified campground, playing in muck, taping up our injuries with duct tape and hope, until— miracle of miracles —they finally finished building us proper paddocks.

One indoor. One outdoor.

We clapped. We cried. One of the lads tried to hump the turf.

Honestly, morale is not great .

Now, our first friendly match is coming up, and I need laser focus.

Zero distractions. Nada.

Except, guess who Dane’s fiancée brought to town?

Her best mate.

A so-called branding expert with a voice like honey and a temper like napalm.

She’s the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.

With curves so fine, they make my mind go blank. And a tongue so sharp it might be classified as a deadly weapon.

Seriously, Finley Adamo is so damn fit she could drive a monk to sin.

And she’s coming on tour with us.

For the entire season.

God save me.

I’ve worn the number eight since I was thirteen. It’s not just a jersey. It’s who I am.

Strong and powerful, but also mobile and skilled with ball handling.

Ha ha. Shut up. I know I walked into that one.

Anyway, number eight is like the engine room.

The muscle, yes, but more.

Number eight is the player who dictates whether to go wide, keep it tight, or reset the attack.

The calm in the chaos of the breakdown.

Except there’s nothing calm about her.

She’s the breakdown, the ruck, the bloody scrum, and the goddamn try all rolled into one.

Finley Adamo is my kryptonite.

There. I said it.

She’s the itch I can’t scratch, the fire I can’t put out, the walking migraine that somehow smells like vanilla and sin and something that might actually be worth ruining my life over.

But this thing I’m doing now?

Wearing the number eight jersey for the Carolina Rovers?

Playing in Major League Rugby all the way out in Bumblefuck, U.S.A.?

It matters.

It’s not just some side gig. Not just a paycheck. This is it for me.

My last real chance to make something of myself. To be great.

Not decent. Not good.

Great.

And I know what people think. They look at me and see the bruiser. The brawler.

The hothead who gets carded too often and can’t keep his mouth shut. And sure, I might’ve chucked a chair or two in my time, but I live for this game.

I bleed for it.

Rugby is the one place I’ve ever made sense.

I’m not the clever one.

That’d be my brother, Tank. He’s the brain. The planner. The golden boy.

Me? I’m just the guy who knows how to hit hard and carry harder. Who understands the rhythm of the scrum like a heartbeat.

The guy who controls the chaos. Me? I live for the fucking breakdown.

That’s what I do.

That’s who I am.

So no, I can’t afford to muck it up. Not now.

Not when we’ve finally got eyes on us. Not when we’re this close to building something that could actually last.

But Finley?

She’s loud, brilliant, impossible.

And every time she walks into a room, I forget my game plan.

Every time she looks at me with those emerald eyes and all that red hair floating around her shoulders, shining bright like flames, I forget my bloody name.

She’s the kind of woman who makes you want to throw it all away just to hear her laugh.

And that?

That’s dangerous.

Because I’m already hanging on by a thread.

And she’s got scissors in her smile.

What I want to know is how the hell am I supposed to build a legacy when she’s walking around here, completely unattached, so close yet untouchable, wrecking my will to live?

Go on and tell me that if you’re so fucking smart.