I’m not worried he’s going to drop me, and it feels really good to be in his arms, having him hold me.

There’s nothing romantic about it.

Lord he’s strong.

“Put me down—you’re so gross!” I squeal with a laugh, the dirt on his arms and hands getting all over my legs and body as he dashes across the grass.

“We’re going to Vegas!” his buddies shout. “Road trip!”

The referee begins blowing his whistle and shaking his head, doing crisscross “foul” hand motions like this is all part of the game. The whole thing is out of hand and out of control. I wonder what’s going to happen when Ashley has to put me down and return to the game.

Shit.

I interrupted.

I caused a huge scene, which is so unlike me!

“Road trip, road trip,” one of the behemoth teammates is chanting. “Road trip!”

“You’re not coming along!” Ashley shouts back with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Is it bad that I want to snuggle him?

“Like hell we’re not!” Stewart says as he runs in circles around us. “When do we leave?”

Good question.

I can’t wait to find all that out; first thing I’ll do when I get home tonight is click the link, enter all my information, and discover all the details.

Tomorrow.

Next week.

I’ll be ready.

Seventeen

Ashley

I’m going to get shite for what happened today at the match for the rest of my life. Definitely for the rest of the season.

I watch the last of the mud slide down the drain, water pouring in to chase after it, my head bent in exhaustion after a long day.

“Jones, you still in there?”

Stew is standing next to the stall, leaning against the tiled wall, staring in impatiently.

“Clearly I’m still in here—you’re staring right at me, you tosser.”

He laughs. “We want to talk to you about Vegas.”

We? Vegas?

“Go away.” Water sluices down the back of my neck, down my back.

“What are the actual dates of the trip? I want to let Allie know.”

Is he fucking serious right now?

“Mate, I don’t know the dates. She just found out tonight that she won, and even if I did know, do you think I’d tell you?” They’re not coming.

I cannot imagine a trip with these wankers around, driving me more insane than they already do. Who wants to vacation with these idiots?

“Should I just text Georgia myself then, orrrr…”

Why hasn’t he walked away? “Are you still standing there?”

“Duh.”

“Leave me in peace, I’m tired.” And my muscles ache—not just from carting Georgia around the field in my arms, but from being hit so many times during the match.

I feel like I’m stuck in the body of an eighty-year-old man sometimes.

Stewart eventually relents, or maybe I just ignore him long enough that he gets bored and walks away, leaving me to my thoughts.

A part of me wants to stroke myself off to relieve a bit of this tension I’m feeling, but I’m in the locker room and there are still enough people around that if anyone caught me, they would think I was a giant pervert.

Which I’m not.

Usually.

My mind obviously drifts to Georgia and the look she had on her face when she came running at me today out on the field. At first when I saw her I was alarmed—honestly, the mere presence of her at my game threw me for a loop.

I saw her walking toward the field when we were mid-play but thought my eyes were deceiving me. We hadn’t discussed her coming to watch, so the fact that she showed up…

…was a surprise indeed.

Then, when I saw her climbing down the steps of the bleachers and hurrying toward me, practically running, I panicked.

Who wouldn’t think the worst when their roommate came rushing out at them in the middle of a conference rugby match? I thought someone had died. Or had a heart attack. Or there was an emergency. Maybe the house had caught fire?

Who even knows.

The last thing on my mind was good news.

The very last thing I would have expected from her was her gallivanting onto a playing field filled with dirty rugby players. Very uncharacteristic of her, but kind of a turn-on.

Never would’ve thought she had it in her to be that impulsive.

I like it.

Georgia Parker comes across as serious, a bit prissy at times, and proper—if I’m being honest. Both characteristics I’m used to coming from Great Britain.

She looked absolutely thrilled when I hoisted her up and spun her around. Laughing and giggling like a kid when I began sprinting with her around the field, hooting and hollering. And then, when my mates joined in…

Hilarious.

Absolutely hilarious.

Still, there is no bloody way I’m going to allow any of those halfwits to tag along on my holiday with Georgia. Never have I ever seen a more bumbling group of cockblocking twats.

I’ll have to lie, of course—no way is Stewy going to let this go.

I rinse the rest of my body and stick my arm out of the shower stall, fingers feeling around for the towel I left hanging next to the curtain, drawing up empty.

That fuck.

I had a towel, didn’t I?

It was there a minute ago…

Goddamn Stew, he stole it.

Shutting off the water, I stand there, dripping wet, letting the droplets fall before stepping out onto the cold, concrete locker room floor. Eyes settling on a smirking Stew, who now has what I assume is my towel wrapped around his head turban style, the rest of him fully dressed.

“You prick.”

Dick swinging, I walk to the towel rack and snatch two more up, wrapping one around my waist (it barely fits) and using the other one to sop up my hair.

“When is Vegas?” Phil Jefferson starts, but I raise a hand in the air to silence him—and everyone else.

“Don’t start. Don’t anyone bloody start on the Vegas trip. None of you blithering knobs are going. Not a one of you.”

“You sound like you’re from 1812.” Someone laughs in the corner. “None of yee blithering knobs are going.”

“I don’t sound Scottish, you moron.”

I set about ignoring them all; it’s damn near impossible. They’re gathered around, discussing all the things they’re going to do on their fictional trip. Gambling and shows and drinking at the pools on the Vegas Strip. Strippers and showgirls.

My lips press into a straight line.

I just won’t bring it up anymore; if they don’t know the dates we choose, they won’t be able to tag along, will they?

Nope.

In a bit of a rush to get home, I hurry through the task of dressing, each piece of clothing getting damp from the water still clinging to my skin.

“Can I get a ride home?” someone asks, and I immediately shoot them down with a no. I’m in no mood to make small talk or be a prisoner to more Vegas chitchat in the comfort of my own vehicle.

“Oh come on, man!” he shouts after me. “We have to plan our trip!”

That puts a smile on my face, and I smile again as I toss my black duffle bag into the passenger seat of my truck, body relaxing once I’m behind the wheel and buckling myself in.