Page 17

CHAPTER FIFTEEN-FINLEY

The fans are in an uproar, clearly upset at their home team’s loss.

But the Rovers? We are celebrating our first win with hearty cheers and roars!

I quickly upload a reel to our socials and am shocked to see the immediate response.

Gaining half a million followers in a few weeks is nothing to some, but these are real fans.

Not bots. They engage and participate and enjoy a healthy dialogue with each other.

It’s exciting. Amazing . And I am thrilled to be part of it.

The crowd’s thinning, the sun is low, and the heat’s still clinging to the Louisiana air like a second skin.

The Rovers won, barely—but that’s good in sports, right? The energy. The excitement. It’s electric.

Koa looked off in the first half. But he carried that second half like a man possessed.

No, not possessed.

Driven.

I watched him move across that field like he was on fire.

Focused. Relentless. Dominant.

Every tackle hit like a truck. Every pass had purpose.

He played like a man who had everything to prove—like the game meant something bigger than a win.

Like he had something to lose.

And when the final whistle blew, I knew exactly what— or who —was on his mind.

He hasn't looked at me once since walking off the pitch.

Not directly. Not even during the team huddle, or when they jogged off the field toward the lockers.

But I felt it.

That thick, charged tension buzzing under my skin.

Now I’m waiting outside the locker room, trying not to be that girl.

The one who gets handsy with the hot athlete while everyone else is packing up Gatorade bottles and talking stats.

But the second the door opens, and he walks out— wet hair, clean shirt clinging to his abs, jaw tight —my body reacts before my brain can.

“Koa.”

He stops.

Turns toward me like he was expecting it.

Like he was just waiting for the sound of my voice to pull him back from wherever he’s been.

And then he’s moving.

Purposeful. Straight for me.

A handful of hardcore fans are waiting outside those doors, vying for his attention.

But he walks past them.

Right to me.

I don’t get a chance to say anything.

He cages me against the wall in the narrow hallway, one arm on either side of my shoulders, heat rolling off him like waves.

His eyes are dark, locked on mine.

"You good?" I breathe, excitement burning through me like fire.

“I am now.” He nods. But that’s not what he came here for.

He presses his mouth to mine. It’s hot, urgent, and over too quickly.

We’re not alone, and he’s a public figure.

I worry that Dane, his coach , won’t like it.

That Mitchell Knight, the team’s owner and technically my boss , won’t like it.

But none of them matter when I’m in Koa’s arms like this. The entire world just seems to fall away. And I am so fine with that.

"You came to see me play," he says, voice low, like he’s saying something dangerous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. The whole game. Every second.”

I swallow hard. “Well, you came back hard today, Koa. Really, it was incredible to watch.”

His jaw clenches.

“Saying things like that will get a good girl like you fucked, Red. Careful.”

“Why would I want to be careful?” I whispered, catching his bottom lip between my teeth and tugging him to me and driving my tongue into his mouth.

He lets me in immediately, kissing me back with a hunger that mirrors my own.

With a rumbling growl, my sexy number eight pulls back with a few loud smacking kisses. And heat, almost overwhelming, fills my veins, boiling my blood.

I am so needy for him.

“All I want to do is drag you back to that locker room and fuck you until you forget how to use that wicked mouth of yours.”

Oh .

Good idea.

My thighs press together instinctively.

His gaze drops, clocking it instantly. “That’s what I thought.”

“Koa,” I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks.

“I won’t. Not here. Someone could walk in. See us.”

“Let them,” I say before I can stop myself.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.

“Can’t do that, Red. Anyone else sees you, I can’t guarantee they will keep their eyesight for long afterwards. But know this, I’m not playing games when I say you’re mine.”

I suck in a shaky breath.

The last few days with him have been… incredible.

We’ve walked through street markets, drunk coffee so strong it practically slapped us, ate crawfish and beignets, and kissed under a balcony while jazz floated down from above.

It’s been cinematic. Unreal.

Koa’s so attentive and intense, always a little rough around the edges.

But he makes me feel seen in a way that’s addictive.

Dangerous.

He says the most outrageous things, like he’s actively trying to melt my bones.

And I am so hot for him I’m probably a fire hazard.

But still.

As I stand near the edge of the field, the locker room doors swinging open behind me, something cold starts to settle in my chest.

What if I’m reading too much into this?

What if all the possessive growling, those toe-curling orgasms, and the times he’s whispered you’re mine were just part of the game for him?

He’s an athlete. A professional.

Probably used to girls like me falling for him hard and fast. Maybe he thinks it’s cute.

Temporary .

Regret prickles at the back of my throat.

Shame follows.

God, did I let him in too easily?

Before I can spiral too far, the sound of voices draws my attention— and then I see the shift.

The few lingering fans on the edge of the field have multiplied.

It’s like they just appeared, swarming the walkway near the locker room. And they’re all laser-focused on one person.

Koa.

He turns, towel slung around his neck, jaw still damp from his post-match shower.

He hasn’t even gotten fully dressed yet, and he’s already swarmed. It’s amazing he snuck past the others when he did.

But they see him now. And he can’t ignore them.

He gives me one long, lingering look. And I nod, making sure he knows I get it.

He has a job to do. I do, too.

I grab my camera and start snapping. Photos of him and I zoom in on the other guys as they start to move closer to him, the couple of dozen fans moving with them.

They are shouting questions and grinning, and it’s cool to watch.

A couple— early twenties, both holding Rovers merch —rush forward with matching wide eyes.

“Oh my God! You’re Koa Jackson! Please sign my shirt!”

“We saw you perform a haka with your old team in New Zealand! It gave us chills! Will you be doing one here?”

I blink.

Wait—a haka? Here? Hmm.

I’ve definitely seen footage of that. It’s an incredible idea. A great way to draw hype and teach Americans some of what rugby is about.

I step back instinctively, not used to this level of public attention. This isn’t just a few Instagram thirst comments.

This is real, screaming fan energy.

Cell phones out. Pens and markers appearing out of nowhere. Flashing smiles and sparkling eyes.

And Koa?

He handles it effortlessly.

He signs shirts, poses for selfies, answers questions. “Nah, not yet. But who knows? Maybe before a home game. The haka’s sacred—you don’t just throw it in for show.”

His voice is smooth, respectful, and that Kiwi accent suddenly feels a lot heavier. More grounded.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in his element.

Not just the guy whose hands make me forget my name, but the professional rugby player.

A man who played internationally.

Someone who once led his provincial team in New Zealand through a season that made headlines.

Who’s now here, helping anchor a brand-new franchise and slowly becoming the face of the entire Carolina Rovers team.

And me?

I’m just the social media girl who didn’t even know what a breakdown was until last week.

The truth is, I still know little about rugby. Sports and I aren’t really friends.

A week ago, I couldn’t tell you if Koa’s a big deal or a benchwarmer—not without Google and a few hours to spare.

I didn’t grow up watching this. I couldn’t name another player on the team without checking my spreadsheet.

But I know this.

I know how people look at him.

How that couple glowed when he smiled at them.

How every woman in a ten-foot radius keeps sneaking glances.

I see the ease in his body language, the quiet power in the way he stands.

Like he’s used to being watched. Admired. Wanted.

Suddenly, I feel like I’ve wandered onto a stage I don’t belong on.

Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Not at all.

But because without any warning at all, I’m right now wondering if I ever really understood the gap between us.

The one between sweaty kisses behind a snack shed and the man who carries a legacy with him every time he laces up his boots.

Fear makes me shudder.

Not the fear of being caught or seen or judged.

Real fear.

The kind that takes root in your gut and whispers, you’re in too deep, and it might be too late to walk away unscathed.

Because I know myself.

And I know what I feel when he touches me. When he looks at me like I’m the only goddamn thing that matters. I know what it means that I’ve memorized the shape of his smile and the way his jaw ticks when he’s frustrated and how his voice gets low and rough when he’s about to kiss me.

This isn’t a crush.

This isn’t lust.

This is the edge of something terrifying.

And maybe I’m not built for this world— his world.

The crowd shows no sign of thinning out.

They’ve doubled, maybe tripled, all flocking toward the man at the center like he’s the sun and they’re desperate for the warmth.

So I take a step back.

Then another.

I feel like I’m watching him from a thousand miles away.

Then his head snaps up.

Like he senses it.

Like my retreat tripped some primal alarm in him.

His gaze finds mine.

No. It slams into me.

Dark. Intense. Questioning.

And I feel it like a hand to the chest.

Like a leash tugging at my spine.

His glower isn’t angry—it’s wounded. Confused. Possessive.

Like he knows I’m slipping through his fingers.

“One second,” he says to a fan who won’t stop chattering at him, voice a little too sharp.

Then, louder, eyes locked on me:

“Red? What are you doing?”

Panic flares hot in my chest.

“Oh, uh, Carolina’s calling,” I lie, forcing a too-bright smile. I lift my phone to my cheek. “Can’t hear her.”

I can’t tell if the tremble in my voice is from guilt or the threat of tears—or both.

His brows furrow. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more.

But I don’t let him.

I turn.

And I walk away.

Coward.

I ignore my inner voice and keep moving.

Each step feels heavier than the last.

Like I’ve left something important behind.

Like a thread’s been cut between us, and I’m not sure I know how to tie it back together.

But some things just can’t be fixed.

Some things never belonged together from the start.