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CHAPTER THREE-FINLEY

Okay, so. It’s sunny. And it’s hot.

I’m talking sweat pooling in places no one talks about kind of hot.

I should’ve worn shorts.

But here’s the thing—when you know damn well you're gonna be crouching and rolling around in the grass trying to get decent footage of a rugby scrum, you plan accordingly.

And this fluffy girl doesn’t do knees-out in the dirt without a bit of coverage.

Hence, capris.

So yeah, after a few hours, I’m a hot mess. And not in the sexy way some girlies can pull off.

I’m talking hot as in sticky and icky.

My tank top is clinging to me like a needy ex, and my hair’s scraped into a messy bun that’s less Pinterest cute and more survival mode.

Do I care?

Not really. Not anymore.

I’m not what you’d call traditionally athletic. Or athletic at all. I mean, I like to watch sports, but binge watching TV dramas is my sport of choice.

I like jelly donuts more than jogging, Netflix marathons more than real ones.

But guess what? That doesn’t mean I don’t love my damn body.

It took me a minute— okay, years —to get here.

To not flinch when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

To stop shrinking just because I took up more space than someone else thought I should.

But thirty is creeping up on me, and I’ve learned to say screw it .

Screw the unsolicited opinions.

Screw the shame.

This body is mine, and it’s fierce and soft and sexy, and I don’t need a permission slip to feel good in it.

So when I strut out onto the field, tripod and video camera slung over my shoulder and my cell phone out, I hold my head high.

I notice everyone is watching me, and I falter a step, but just one. See, right before the nerves can settle inside my stomach, like butterflies on speed, I catch Koa Jackson glaring at me— as usual —and right before I switch from angsty to angry, the best thing ever happens.

I promptly watch him get clocked right in the head with one of those ridiculous egg-shaped rugby balls!

Yeah. I grin.

Because screw you, Koa .

I don’t need his approval.

I don’t want it.

He can keep his judgment and that glower that could curdle milk.

No, I’m not skinny, but I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.

Capris, tank top, no bra?

Mind your business.

I didn’t come here to impress anyone.

Especially not the hot, brooding Kiwi who clearly thinks I’m some silly, fluffy cheerleader brought in to make the team look good online.

Spoiler alert, Koa: I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to work.

Your glutes just happen to be very photogenic, sir.

And honestly?

It’s something I can use to bring this team and really, all of Major League Rugby, some positive press.

Because watching these guys practice?

It’s a whole other experience.

If you’ve never been to a rugby training session, do yourself a favor and add it to your bucket list immediately .

It’s like stumbling into Mount Olympus, if Mount Olympus was covered in sweat, dirt, and men who look like they bench-press small cars for fun.

And then there’s the cool-down stretch.

Sweet. Mother. Of. God.

They break out these massive elastic bands, loop them around their thighs, and get on all fours like they’re trying to summon the devil via glute bridges.

It’s practically soft core.

And yes, I film everything —for professional reasons, obviously.

But I’d be lying if I said my thighs weren’t clenched and my mouth wasn’t dry by the time they were done.

Holy hell.

And yeah. Okay. Fine. My gaze might linger on Koa a little longer than the others.

I wish I didn’t want him.

I wish my body didn’t react to him like he’s the second coming of every bad decision I’ve ever made.

But it does.

My girly bits perk up like they just saw Zac Efron holding a puppy.

And it’s not fair. Because he’s the biggest jerk on this entire tour.

A grump.

A grouch.

A human red flag wrapped in muscle and tattoos and an accent that could convince me to rob a bank.

I know better than to crush on a man with zero interest in me. I mean, my brain sure as hell does.

But apparently, my libido missed the memo.

Because out of every gorgeous guy on this team, it’s the one who can barely look at me without scowling that makes my heart race.

And worse. He’s the only guy to get me going like this since I discovered foreplay.

And that’s a real problem.

Because no matter how hot he is, it’s clear he wants nothing to do with my chubby self.

Not for real.

Not in any way that counts.

So yeah. Be professional. Focus on the job.

I’m here to make the Carolina Rovers go viral. Not to fall face-first into a pile of unresolved sexual tension and self-doubt.

Note to self: Film the thighs. Avoid the man.

And pray for strength— but that last bit is for me alone.

Because deep down I know, if Koa Jackson makes a play for me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist.