I close my eyes for a breath.
Tyson’s reach is deeper than I thought. Dirtier. Meaner.
And if Celeste—ice queen and spotlight darling—can be reduced to a pawn in his twisted game, what hope do the rest of us have?
For the first time since this began, I realize something.
Tyson isn’t circling me.
He’s circling all of us.
Chapter 14
Alex Sebring
The turf still smells like sweat and grass. Like grit. Like home.
I drop to the ground, back flat on the pitch, and let the burn in my legs settle. It’s not a bad kind of pain—it’s the kind that confirms you’re fighting your way back. Slowly. Gratefully. One sprint at a time.
The clouds above me hang low and pale, and somewhere behind them, the Sydney sun is trying to break through. Kind of like me, I guess. Not quite back. But almost.
“All right, Grandpa, you gonna die or what?”
I lift my head enough to glare at Rhys, who’s standing over me with a smug-ass grin and zero sympathy. Typical. “Is that your way of flirting? Because I’ve had better.”
He barks out a laugh and tosses me a towel, which I catch with more effort than I want to admit. “Don’t be late to your wedding tasting, Sebring. Isn’t it today?”
I check my watch.
Shit.
“I’m already late.”
“Better get moving then, lover boy.”
I stand—sore, bruised, and happy––because I’m here on this pitch with my boots on, my lungs burning, my eyes on the future again. And I get to be with Magnolia when the day ends.
There’s something about that—knowing she’s waiting for me, not because she needs something, not because she expects anything but because she wants me.
Just me.
For years, I had no one to come home to. No one to call when training ended. No one who understood what kind of ache lives in a man who gives everything to the game. Now I’ve got all of that—and more—in the woman I’m about to marry.
I hit the showers fast, scrubbing away the sweat and adrenaline, but nothing cuts through the buzz in my chest. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and head for my G-Wagon, ignoring the pulse in my knee and the sharp tug in my ribs.
By the time I open the door to Chloe’s restaurant, my knee’s barking and my ribs are reminding me I’m not twenty anymore. But none of that matters because she’s here.
I spot her through the narrow window of the private dining room. She’s already seated, radiant in that quiet, effortless way that floors me every damn time. Her hair’s pinned up, loose strands falling just right. One hand wraps around a glass of something bubbly. Her eyes flick to the door the second it opens, and her smile knocks the breath out of me harder than any tackle ever has.
The door clicks shut behind me, and all I can see is her. I cross the room.
“You look beautiful, favorite.” I lean down and kiss her, catching a taste of champagne and something sweet on her lips. “You’re far too patient with a man who kept you waiting.”
She hums against my mouth. “You’re not that late.”
I slide into the chair across from her. “Still, you’re a woman who should never be kept waiting. Unfortunately, this is your first real taste of rugby-wife life––me showing up late, usually sweaty.”
“Sweaty can be sexy,” she says, casual as ever.
