That was easy.
They flagged the track, I proved it was mine, lawyers backed it, and now everyone’s scrambling to move faster because Major League Rugby wants the drop in two days.
In fucking California, of course.
Fast turnaround.
Big stage.
Big moment.
Any other time, I’d be riding that high.
Today? I don’t give a damn.
Because the second I step into the room—I see him.
The same pencil dick fuckface who called me this morning, who spoke to her yesterday like he had any right, is standing way too close to my girl. Talking to her like he belongs there.
And her—my Sunshine—is standing there in that pink wrap dress that hugs her just right, yellow polka dots like something out of a daydream, those red sneakers grounding her in a way that makes her feel even more real.
Her short curls are wild again.
Untamed. Perfect.
She’s smiling.
Polite. Sweet.
Being exactly who she is.
And that’s the problem.
Because men like him? They see that and think it’s an invitation.
It’s not.
It never was.
I’ve been holding it together all morning.
Playing nice.
Playing professional.
Handling business like I always do.
But hearing him ask her that—if she’s single—that makes something in me snap clean in half.
My control.
Maybe part of my sanity.
Poof. It is just gone.
And it’s replaced with something colder.
Sharper. Certain.