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CHAPTER ONE-FINLEY

“Fin? You in here?”

Carolina’s voice cuts through the early morning fog of my half-conscious brain like a buzz saw dipped in honey.

I jolt awake and nearly smack my skull on the upper bunk I’ve been crashing in all week.

My home sweet tin-can hell.

“Yeah,” I croak, voice gravelly from sleep and possibly emotional exhaustion.

I sit up slowly, moving like I’m eighty-five and one sneeze away from a hip replacement.

She’s standing there in the narrow doorway of the RV like a literal angel, holding out a travel cup filled with what I can only assume is the sweet, life-giving nectar of the gods.

Coffee.

I take it like a drowning woman handed a lifeline.

“The guys have a training session in twenty. You said you’d film it,” she reminds me, all sunshine and casual efficiency while I still feel like a troll dragged out from under a bridge.

“Mmm. Yeah, yeah. Let me shower and I’ll be right there,” I mumble, taking a heroic gulp that immediately scalds every taste bud off my tongue.

Worth it.

“Geez, Fin, that’s hot! Be careful,” she laughs, stepping in to start making my bed with the kind of cheerful competence that makes me want to cry or punch a wall. Maybe both.

My best friend was always friendly and efficient, it was enough to make me sick.

Like Donna Reeds meets curvy, sex siren in one little cute Jersey Girl package all wrapped up with a bow— or a hot pink scrunchie .

God knows I love Carolina, but I can’t be nice until after my caffeine kicks in and I’ve had a shower.

The RV shower is barely bigger than a coffin, but it runs hot for a glorious eight minutes.

That’s long enough to rinse the travel funk from my body and maybe a few regrets from my soul.

I scrub hard and fast, thinking about the dozens of better life decisions I could’ve made before ending up as a glorified rugby roadie.

Because let me tell you something, all this ?

This whole rugby team meets Oregon Trail situation we’ve got going on?

Not what I expected when I impulsively joined my bestie down in Consequence.

I don’t know what kind of fever dream possessed the team’s owner to decide we’d go tour bus caravan style across the entire continental U.S. like some half-baked boy band reunion tour. But it sucked.

Most of the guys are stuffed onto a charter bus that smells like socks and testosterone, while Dane and Carolina are cozied up in this smaller RV like it’s their personal love nest on wheels.

And me?

Oh, I’m just here.

With them.

Third-wheeling like a champ in a converted child’s bunk room, trying to pretend I don’t hear every creak and sigh of their extra-curriculars through the paper-thin walls.

Oh yeah. My headphones have been working overtime.

Once I’m dressed and vaguely presentable, I stumble out of the RV and blink against the morning sun like I’ve just emerged from hibernation.

This whole week has been a crash course in WTF is my life now and I’m not sure I passed.

See, I grew up in Jersey.

Fast pace. Big noise. People flipping birds in traffic and calling it foreplay.

Down here, everything moves slow.

S-L-O-W.

At first, I thought I could adjust. I mean, what’s a few extra minutes waiting for coffee or learning to pump gas?

But rugby? That’s not slow, it’s straight-up confusing.

The rules make no sense. The ball isn’t even the right shape. And every guy on the field looks like he could crush a watermelon between his thighs.

I had to mention thighs, didn’t I? Now I’m thinking about his.

Koa Jackson .

The man is unparalleled. And his thighs?

His thick, god-tier thighs— pure muscle and zero mercy —had my ovaries clocking in for a double shift.

That would be reason enough for this whole move, unfortunately, he hates my guts.

I mean, he really really hates them.

I don’t think he’s said a single word to me in the whole time I’ve been here.

But I’m not the type of gal to run from big, bad ballers.

So, here I am.

When I told Carolina I wanted to ditch Jersey and help give this new team some viral traction, I half-expected her to laugh.

But she didn’t. She said yes.

She believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

So I packed up, cashed in my points, and flew one-way to Consequence, North Carolina.

And who was the first person I met when I got off the plane?

Koa freaking Jackson.

All biceps and brooding. The man looks like he was carved from obsidian by a horny goddess and then dipped in Polynesian sunshine.

He’s six-and-a-half feet of muscle, attitude, and a growly Kiwi accent that makes my brain short-circuit just a little.

If only he wasn’t a total jerk.

Never even says hello.

Just stares at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his cleats.

Every time I try to implement something new for the team, he stalks off, muttering under his breath about fancy PR nonsense .

So yeah, my impression of the guy?

Hot.

Grumpy.

And unfortunately, completely allergic to my charms.

What? I got charms. My Uncle Tony says I’m downright cute for a pleasantly plump broad.

Yeah, he calls women broads. Which is probably why my Uncle Tony is still single.

Anyway, what can I say? Koa Jackson makes me feel about as wanted as a plague of locusts.

But I can’t back out now. I signed a contract with the Rovers to be their one woman PR team.

So, I’ve got to spend the entire season filming practices and pretending I don’t notice the way he glares at me like I personally insulted his mother and every ancestor before her.

This is fine. I’m fine.

Totally capable of ignoring the growly, gorgeous nightmare who makes my insides turn into some sticky sweet and somehow spicy combination of cotton candy and rage.

I can so handle this.

Probably.

Maybe.

Who am I kidding?