I shut my mouth, cleared my throat, and shoved my shoulders back, pretending I didn’t feel them stiffen right back into place.
“Everything alright, Sloane?” Micah asked as we passed.
“Perfect.” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Ready for round two.”
I faced the pitch again, ignoring every nerve ending howling at me that this was a terrible idea. That doing this again with him, under forty pairs of eyes, was asking for it.
But I didn’t back down from anything, not the double standards when it came to women in sports, the underestimation of ability because of my gender. Not even the years of uncomfortably wearing men’s shorts because they didn’t actually make women’s rugby shorts. No. If that couldn’t keep me down, then nothing would stop me from doing another round with him. I wasn’t going to show weakness today.
Even if he was currently the hottest, most inconvenient problem I’d ever created for myself.
“Captains,” Coach Knox called, motioning us forward. “Positions.”
Connor murmured, “Ready for round two, sunshine?”
I didn’t look at him this time. I just kneeled down, knowing that hefting a six-foot-five man, even with my five-nine height, across the pitch, would be a challenge. Adrenaline ran through my body like lava. I was going to drag his ass across the pitch and let that be a reminder that I wasn’t fragile, weak, or in need of him. A kiss could just be a kiss, and he would learn that it won’t happen again.
“Do your worst,” I whispered darkly.
He sat in front of me, then slowly laid back onto the grass. Power went to my head for a beat as I climbed over the top of him. Then his arms wrapped around my neck, his torso lifting just enough to take his weight without collapsing my balance.
Being this close to him again was torture.
I held my breath, and he took that as his cue to wrap his legs around me.
He was a solid heat against me. My arms wavered, but I would not let him win.
“On your call,” he murmured in my ear.
I drew in a quick breath and suppressed the shiver threatening to break free. Digging my toes into the turf, I pushed from my hips, letting the movement bloom outward. My thighs, glutes, hell, everywhere, burned immediately, but that feeling wasn’t foreign to me; it was how I’d learned to carry weight without giving up. It motivated me. The same way my body had learned to take up the space I deserved. I’d show that to everyone around me until I could no longer move. And that would not be today.
The first pull would always ask the most. My spine held steady like a cable as all my weight transferred forward, but I was built for endurance.
It wasn’t pretty or fast as I grunted and groaned my way up the pitch, my shoulders feeling like they might snap.
His arms tightened around my neck when I hit a softer patch of turf, his chest brushing mine as I slowed, his breath catching against my ear as I dragged him another inch.
“Good,” he murmured, barely audible. “Keep that pace.”
“Shut up,” I rasped, hauling him forward again.
My quads fired. My core shook. My shoulders cried. But I refused—absolutely refused—to let gravity, fatigue, or Connor O’Riley see me falter.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, a light thread of amusement there lacing his Irish-American accent.
Then, as if I’d closed my eyes, every inch I pulled him felt like wrestling with the memory of his hands on my hips. Because every exhale he let out skimmed the back of my neck like a reminder I didn’t want but couldn’t shake.
Halfway down the pitch, sweat dripped into my eyebrow, and I blew it away with a violent huff. Connor adjusted slightly, lifting more of his torso to reduce pressure on my arms.
Thoughtful. Infuriating. I hated him for it.
“No helping,” I snapped without looking down.
He chuckled. “You’d rather suffer?”
“Absolutely.”
Inch by inch, I moved him.
