At twenty, you’d already scored a full-time job as the social media manager and graphic designer for a professional rugby team—something people your age usually only daydreamed about. And most days, you loved it. The energy, the chaos, the creativity.

Except derby weekend. Because derby weekend meant facing him.

Henry Pollock.

Cocky, annoyingly gifted, and constantly causing trouble for your players. He thrived on getting reactions—especially yours. Every taunting celebration, every smirk after a try, every shove that got your boys carded… it all made you mutter curses under your breath while editing footage at 2 A.M.

Seeing him twice a year felt like twice too many. But because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your mutual friends ensured you still crossed paths outside of rugby, even though you lived an hour apart. You hated that he always acted amused when he saw you.

During the match, you were on the sidelines capturing photos when he scored right beside you. He jumped up, grinned like he owned the world, did a celebration that made your fans boo, then turned and winked directly at you. Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

After the game, you waited in the hallway for your team to finish changing, scrolling through photos, trying to pretend he didn’t exist.

Too late. He spotted you instantly.

Henry strolled over with that infuriating swagger, still flushed from the game. “Hey, darling,” he drawled, smirk sharp as ever. “Did you like my try?”