Page 8 of Hometown Halftime

“Good job, Riley. I think you and Kinsey are going to make the perfect team.”

Chapter three

Kinsey

I’m standing outside the rugby office of the field house, staring at the door, and I take a deep breath.

“Day One,” I say to myself as I step forward.

I slip the key into the lock and open the door, letting it swing shut behind me as my sneakers squeak across the floor. Stopping just inside, I take it all in. Neatly stacked along the far wall, sits equipment—cones, scrum caps, and balls—still in pristine condition. There’s a desk along the other wall, empty except for a few clipboards, a cup of pens and pencils, and a few whistles on blue cords.

I drop my bag onto one chair and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of this moment. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I said yes to this. There’s a small, irrational part of me that wants to laugh about it, and a much louder part that is starting to question my judgment.

Because what the hell do I know about coaching?

Playing is instinct. It’s reaction, muscle memory, and trusting your body to do what you have trained it to do. Coaching is explaining all of that to someone else and being responsible for whether they get it or not.

I grimace, walking over to the stack of equipment.

“I can do this,” I say under my breath.

My fingers brush over the plastic wrapping on one of the brand-new balls, smooth and untouched. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, and my nerves settle a bit. The weight of it in my hands is familiar. That part hasn’t changed.

And I realize that I missed this.

I missed the rhythm of the game, the way everything feels when a team is moving the way it should. The focus and the clarity. The feeling of knowing exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I set the ball back down carefully, exhaling as something that feels suspiciously close to hope edges in. This could be good. Which immediately turns back into the much more realistic thought that this could also go completely sideways.

I snort under my breath and turn toward the shelves, spotting a big box labeled ‘Practice Jerseys’ in thick black marker. I slide it off the shelf, and the second I get it against my hip, I regret my choices.

“Damn,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. “What did they put in here, bricks?”

I hug the box closer, glancing around the side and head toward the door, already planning to get everything out onto the field before anyone else shows up. Maybe if I move fast enough, I can at least look like I know what I’m doing.

Without being able to see over it, I hug the box as I blindly reach for the knob and turn it, forcing it open. I jostle against the door frame, struggling to move myself and the box through before it shuts. My foot catches the door, my steps falter, and one hand flies out to my side before I hit a wall.

A very solid, very human wall.

Then it all happens in slow motion. The box springs free from my grip. My balance goes with it, and there’s a moment where I try to recover, shifting my weight, convincing myself I can stay upright.

Only to fail horribly.

The box tilts forward, jerseys spilling out everywhere as I collide fully into the human wall.

“Oh, fuck—” a deep voice says.

That ridiculously sexy voice makes me realize it’s Riley.

We go down in a mess of limbs, fabric and cardboard, the impact knocking the breath out of me as I land on top of him, jerseys scattered across the floor.

“Shit!” I yell out.

Riley’s arms wrap around me, preventing me from hitting the floor. My body rocks against his as we settle, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re both wearing flimsy joggers. My eyes shoot open when my vagina sends a distress call to my brain, red flares flying, letting me know that she’s currently pressed against Riley’s dick.

His unfairly large dick. My brain must be miscalculating because through the fabric, I know he’s not hard, but holy shit, I can tell he’s big.

For a second, neither of us moves.