CHAPTER 2
DYLAN
The wheels of my duffel bag rattle across the pavement, the sound too loud in the early morning quiet. I tighten my grip on the handle, rolling my shoulders back, forcing myself to stand taller. The professional rugby training facility looms ahead—sleek, massive, a fortress of glass and steel.
This is it. Everything I’ve worked toward.
So why does it feel like I’m walking into enemy territory?
I exhale, reminding myself why I’m here.
This is the next step.
I belong here.
I’ve trained for this.
The words loop through my head like a mantra, but a tiny voice in the back of my mind isn’t convinced.
A group of players pass nearby, chatting, their laughter easy and familiar. One of them glances my way—then does a quick second look.
I know exactly why.
My hair.
Even without a mirror, I know exactly how obnoxiously vibrant it looks in the daylight.
Half of it is bright magenta—loud, rebellious, unapologetic. The other half? Teal, bold and electric. It’s like I dipped my head in vivid paint—the two bold shades I haven’t decided if I love or regret are impossible to ignore. The contrast is sharp, the part running perfectly down the center.
It hangs just past my shoulders, straight but slightly messy, the kind of half-styled, half-chaotic look that makes it obvious I don’t usually spend much time fixing it—or in this case, that I just got off a plane.
I tug at the ends instinctively, feeling the weight of the color, the attention it’s pulling.
Was this a mistake?
I dyed it before I left, on a whim, telling myself it was about confidence, about stepping into something new. But now, under the bright daylight, in front of a bunch of strangers who don’t know me yet?
I feel like a neon sign screaming LOOK AT ME.
Great. First impression:Reckless idiot.
I shove my free hand in my pocket, trying not to fidget. It’s fine. I’ve already proven myself on the field. That’s what matters.
At the entrance, a team rep—mid-40s, clipboard in hand—waits just inside. She gives me a polite but professional nod.
“Dylan Porter?”
“That’s me,” I say, forcing a confident tone.
“Welcome. Here’s your itinerary for the visit. She hands me a printed schedule, then gestures for me to follow her.
The tour begins in the locker rooms. Rows of pristine lockers, benches, the scent of fresh laundry mixed with that underlying permanent sweat smell every rugby facility has. I clock where the women’s section is, mentally placing where I’ll be changing.
Then the place I care about most—the training field. Players are already out there running drills, shouting plays, moving with a sharpness that makes my pulse spike.
The gym & rehab area are massive, with more weights and state-of-the-art equipment than I’ve ever had access to. A few players nod in my direction, but most stay focused, lifting, stretching, rehabbing injuries.
I should be soaking this all in. Instead, I feel antsy. My hands are still in my pockets, itching to move, to do something other than follow and nod.