I step onto the grass. Tyson’s already watching me, standing near centerfield with his hands on his hips, that grin painted on.
“Look what the physio dragged in.” He laughs. “Come to limp your way through one last humiliation?”
I crack my neck and drop into a crouch. “Not limping yet.”
“You will be.” His smile turns vicious. “I’m taking you out for good this time.”
I don’t blink. “Try me.”
He looks up—right past me—toward the suite where the wives are. Where Magnolia is. Where he knows she is. And the bastard blows a kiss.
Motherfucker.
“I will never give her up, Sebring. She will be mine,” he says.
And then he’s on me before the whistle even screeches. Shoulder check. Cheap shot. Every move is dirty as always.
He’s not playing rugby. He’s playing me.
Trying to drag me into his head game, bait me into losing mine. But he doesn’t know—I don’t play for blood anymore. I play for fire. And tonight, every flame in me burns for her.
“You sure you want to do this?” he says, low enough the ref can’t hear. “When I take you out this time, you won’t get back up.”
I stay silent. Jaw tight, heart hammering. My vision narrows, sharp and honed, adrenaline coiled in every muscle. This is fight-or-flight—but I’ve trained too long not to fight smart.
He wants chaos. He wants anger. I’ll give him ice.
The ball hits my hands on the second phase—snapped out of the ruck clean and fast. But Tyson’s on me, reading the play before it’s formed.
I sidestep, and he follows. I feint left, and he takes the bait, allowing me to cut through the gap right behind him.
The crowd erupts. My lungs burn. My legs scream, but they hold.
I hit contact hard, spin through one tackle, offload before the second—and our winger takes the ball straight down the line. Open space. Try zone dead ahead.
Tyson’s still scrambling behind me when the whistle screams and the points go up.
Coach shouts behind me. Macklin slaps the sideline board like a war drum. And all around us, the stadium pulses back to life. But I don’t celebrate. I turn and walk back to the reset.
Tyson meets me at center again, face twisted, his cockiness unraveling fast.
“Fluke,” he spits.
I tilt my head. “Blink and you’ll miss the next one, too.”
“You’re favoring that right.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I bark a bitter laugh. “You think I haven’t built a whole new game around protection?”
He sneers. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still breakable.”
My voice drops. “So are you, motherfucker.”
His eyes flash, and for a split second, there’s nothing between us but pure, undiluted hate. Then the whistle splits the air. I take a step back. The game resumes—and this time, it’s just him and me.
I’m reading the pitch like it’s wired into my bloodstream—every shift, every shoulder turn, every hesitation.
No, I’m not at a hundred percent, but I don’t need to be. I’ve played broken before and I’ve played angry. But never this way—with Magnolia in my blood.
