“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, settling into the cart. “I’m saving all my applause for the winner.”

  I step in behind her, wrap an arm around the back of her seat, and murmur low enough for only her to hear, “You keep wearing that skirt, and I’m gonna start swinging like Tiger in ’05.”

  Her lips twitch. “Guess we’ll see how much pressure you can handle.”

  Game on.

  We’re three holes in when the cart girls roll up—sun-kissed, all legs and lip gloss.

  One of them—the blond, tanned, too-much-lip-gloss type—grins when she spots me. “Well, damn. It’s The Wall. Who let the rugby boys out to play today?”

  She twirls her pen between her fingers, eyes dragging a little too slowly over my body. “Anything I can get you? Water, snacks, something a little stronger?”

  Magnolia steps down from the cart and loops her arm through mine. “Could I get a water, please?”

  I don’t miss a beat. “This is my fiancée. She’s the one I’m trying to impress today.”

  The blond’s smile flickers for half a second. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Magnolia replies, sweet as sin. “He’s a keeper.”

  The girl redirects to Elias, who’s already halfway through unwrapping a protein bar, unconcerned.

  Laughter ripples through the girls, their attention landing on Elias. The blonde tilts her head, smiling. “You got a fiancée too?”

  Elias leans on his club, unfazed. “No fiancée.”

  The brunette perks up. “That’s interesting.”

  He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m only here for the golf—and to beat my brother. Everything else is background noise.”

  They laugh, still intrigued, but he’s already turning back to the green, more interested in his swing than their flirtation.

  The girls roll away on the cart, laughing as they go.

  Magnolia glances at me over the rim of her drink, lips twitching. “You were quick to introduce me as your fiancée.”

  “Didn’t want there to be any confusion.” I press one more kiss to Magnolia’s temple before sliding into the driver’s seat. “C’mon. Let’s go see if I can keep my lead before seeing you in that damn outfit throws off my swing.”

  She lets out a content little sigh as we cruise toward the next hole, hair fluttering in the breeze. “Okay, I admit this is kind of fun. Peaceful. And very cute to watch you two compete like oversized boys.”

  “You’ve never played?”

  “Never so much as held a club.” She glances at the bag behind us and the green ahead. “But it’s sort of calling to me.”

  “You want a set of clubs, favorite? I’ll get you a set of clubs.” I nudge her knee with mine. “Custom. Pink. Rhinestone headcovers if it makes you happy.”

  Elias groans. “Please don’t be that couple.”

  Magnolia laughs, then leans in and kisses my cheek, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “You’re being extra sweet today.”

  I glance down at her, a smile tugging at my mouth. “You’re being extra sexy today.”

  Elias makes a gagging noise. “Jesus. Get a room or at least wait till the turn.”

  Magnolia beams as if she’s already halfway in love with the idea of her own clubs. I tuck it away in the back of my mind—she’s getting a set.

  No rhinestones, though. She’s not that kind of girl.

  We’re halfway through the seventh when Magnolia twists in her seat, eyes on Elias as he lines up his next shot. “So…” she says, drawing the word out just enough to make it suspicious. “What’s going on with you and Violet?”

  Elias pauses mid-backswing. “Wow. Not even gonna warm me up first?”

  Magnolia sips her drink as though she didn’t just drop a conversational grenade. “Just curious.”

  “She’s your best friend.”

  “Yes, and I’m your teine,” Magnolia fires back.

  Elias shakes his head, steps back from the tee box, and gives her a look. “You don’t muck around, do ya?”

  Magnolia shrugs, cool as ever. “What’s the point? Life’s too short to muck around.”

  “Better to fuck around, right?”

  I shoot my brother a warning. “Elias––”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, well… Violet’s great.”

  “That’s a politician’s answer.”

  He shrugs, adjusting his grip. “Fine. She’s smart, sure of herself, calls me on my bullshit. And funny.”

  “So you like her.”

  He smirks. “That obvious, huh?”

  “I’m a woman. We know these things.” Magnolia glances toward the green. “Where’s your head at with it? Do you see potential, or are you just having fun while it lasts?”

  There’s a beat of quiet before Elias answers. “I see potential. If I’m being honest, she’s the first person who’s ever made me picture forever with someone.”

  Magnolia fights a smile. “So what’s stopping you from telling her?”

  He gestures toward the horizon. “The whole other-side-of-the-world part. She’s got her job, her life. I’m not asking someone to uproot everything for a maybe.”

  Magnolia plays it casual, a tiny shrug as if she hasn’t already thought this through. “If she moved here, y’all could find out if there’s more than a maybe between you.”

  He turns, giving all of his attention to Magnolia. “You think she’d do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. For the right reasons. Or the right person.”

  Elias’s gaze goes distant. Then he shakes his head with a soft laugh. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

  “The best kind,” she says, winking.

  Magnolia’s not just curious—she’s calculating. Nudging him toward something bigger. And the longer she sips her drink and steers the conversation, the more obvious it becomes.

  She’s dropping breadcrumbs.

  Perhaps Violet coming to Sydney isn’t a far-fetched idea after all.

  I lean forward on the steering wheel and glance her way. “Is she coming here?”

  Magnolia avoids eye contact and takes another sip of her drink. “Who?”

  I squint. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

  Her mouth curves in the faintest smile. “Not playing. Just protecting the suspense.”

  A quiet laugh slips out of me. “You’re so damn sneaky.”

  She meets my eyes, that knowing gleam sparking behind them. “I enjoy seeing people get what they want. Especially when they don’t think it’s possible.”

  I sit back, seeing her in a new light now. Yes, she’s the woman I love, but she’s also the quiet force rearranging lives with nothing but charm, timing, and heart.

  If Violet comes to Sydney, Magnolia will have her entire world right here where she wants it. Right where it belongs.

  By the eighteenth hole, Elias knows he’s been beaten.

  I sink the final putt with a slow fist pump, dragging it out just enough to get a groan out of him.

  “Jesus, we get it. You’re the athlete of the family,” he says, flipping me off with two fingers and a crooked grin.

  I toss a grin over my shoulder at Magnolia. “You see that? Poetry in motion.”

  She claps, eyes bright. “Stunning. Truly. I’ll be thinking about it for days.”

  “Jealousy’s a bad look on you, Elias,” I say as we head back to the cart.

  “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your moment, champ.”

  I do. Every bit of it.

  But not because I won the game. Not even because I smoked him by six strokes and he’ll be stewing about it until our next rematch.

  Magnolia rides beside me in the cart as we roll back toward the clubhouse, the course golden in the late morning light. Her hair’s caught in the breeze, lip gloss faded, cheeks pink from the sun and laughing too much. She’s got that quiet smile she wears when she’s content.

  She came for a golf game, but she ended up putting something in motion. And if Violet ends up in Sydney? It’ll fill in the hole in her heart… and possibly my brother’s as well.

  And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens.

  Chapter 18

  Alex Sebring

  The sky’s a dark brooding navy above us, and the lights glare down—way too bright for a game falling apart at the seams.

  Thirty-seven minutes into the first half and we’re trailing. Bad.

  The scoreboard spits out the truth in neon numbers, but I don’t have to see it. I can read it in the crowd. The tension crackling through the stands, the nervous edge in their cheers. It buzzes under my skin—this sick churn in my gut that hasn’t let up since their first score.

  I pace the sideline, headset pressed to one ear, heart hammering with every missed tackle, every clumsy offload, every wasted opportunity.

  We’re playing Tyson’s team. Of all the fucking teams in the world. And we’re bleeding out.

  I watch our fly-half take another late read, wreck the play, and get swallowed up by their line defense like he’s wearing a neon target. He scrambles out of it. Doesn’t even notice the wing where the space opened up—where we could’ve had a breakaway if he wasn’t so far up his own ass trying to prove a point.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I yell, yanking the headset down.

  He jogs to the sideline for water, face red and sweat-slicked, a scowl already locked in place.

  “Play to the inside on that switch. You’re hesitating—if you read the ten’s shoulder, you’d see he’s opening for the slip.”

  He rips the bottle from the trainer’s hand, glares at me like I’m the problem. “You wanna run the fucking game, Sebring? Be my guest.”

  I don’t move. Don’t blink. “I’m trying to help you beat these fuckers, Declan.”

  He barks a bitter laugh. “You’re counting down the minutes until I’m gone.”

  “You’re making it easy, mate.”

  “Not your mate.” He steps in close enough that I catch the sharp rise of his chest. “Why don’t you fuck off and wait for your comeback parade?”

  Then he’s gone—jogging back onto the pitch, ball tucked under his arm.

  I say nothing and shove the headset back on, folding my arms across my chest to keep from putting my fist through the gear cart.

  Beside me, Coach shifts, muttering to his assistant through the headset. His jaw clenches so tight it could splinter bone.

  It’s unmistakable. We’re not losing this game because of injuries or bad calls. We’re crashing because the guy at the helm stopped giving a damn the second he heard I was replacing him.

  I glance across the field—Tyson’s team huddled near midfield, confident and smug. Tyson himself standing loose in the pocket, stretching out his neck.

  Motherfucker.

  My fingers tighten around the rolled towel in my hand, knuckles popping. I want on that pitch. Every muscle in my body is screaming to move. To fix it. To fight for it.

  Watching my team drown while that smug piece of shit coasts toward victory is eating me alive.

  Coach folds his arms across his chest, eyes on the field. “We lose this, we’re done. Out. You know that.”

  I nod once. “Well aware.”

  Assistant Coach Macklin steps in closer, voice low, more direct. “We’ve cleared you. The medical team has signed off. We haven’t pulled the trigger yet—not because we’re indecisive but because we didn’t have to. But with how he’s playing, we need you out there, Sebring.”

  I don’t answer right away. My eyes track Declan on the pitch, where he’s launched another kick that dies five meters short and veers wide. Tyson snags it with an ease that makes me want to snap something.

  “How are you feeling?” Macklin asks.

  My jaw tics. “Stronger.”

  “Strong enough?”

  I exhale hard. “Close but not a hundred percent. Maybe eighty-five. My head’s good, legs are decent, but I’m not back at my best yet. I’m still favoring the right.”

  Coach doesn’t flinch. “Your fifty percent is better than most guys’ hundred. We’re not asking for eighty minutes. Not even forty. I just need you to drag this team out of the grave and give us a fucking heartbeat.”

  The tension coils tight in my gut because I want to say yes. I want to strip off this headset and run onto the pitch like I never left.

  I press a hand over my heart, over the ink that is Magnolia on my chest.

  “You go in and show everyone why we built this damn team around you.”

  The crowd roars, and I look up in time to see Tyson break the line. Declan flails in defense. Our fullback misses the angle. And Tyson crosses the try line like he owns it.

  He turns, points straight at the sideline—at me—and grins.

  Something detonates in my chest.

  I rip the headset off and drop it to the ground. “Yeah, I’m going in.”

  I pull off the warmup top and shove my mouthguard in. The stadium’s already buzzing, but when I jog toward the sideline ref and peel off my bib—ready to sub in—the energy shifts.

  A ripple rolls through the crowd, thunder on the verge of a storm.

  The announcer’s voice cracks over the speaker. “Sebring’s taking the pitch.”

  The crowd goes feral.

  High above the chaos, my beloved beauty stands at the glass—my anchor in the storm. Distance hides her face, but I know she’s watching. I press two fingers to my lips and stretch them toward her. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s a reckoning, and she’s the reason I’ll win.

  I step onto the grass. Tyson’s already watching me, standing near centerfield with his hands on his hips, that grin painted on.

  “Look what the physio dragged in.” He laughs. “Come to limp your way through one last humiliation?”

  I crack my neck and drop into a crouch. “Not limping yet.”

  “You will be.” His smile turns vicious. “I’m taking you out for good this time.”

  I don’t blink. “Try me.”

  He looks up—right past me—toward the suite where the wives are. Where Magnolia is. Where he knows she is. And the bastard blows a kiss.

  Motherfucker.

  “I will never give her up, Sebring. She will be mine,” he says.

  And then he’s on me before the whistle even screeches. Shoulder check. Cheap shot. Every move is dirty as always.

  He’s not playing rugby. He’s playing me.

  Trying to drag me into his head game, bait me into losing mine. But he doesn’t know—I don’t play for blood anymore. I play for fire. And tonight, every flame in me burns for her.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he says, low enough the ref can’t hear. “When I take you out this time, you won’t get back up.”

  I stay silent. Jaw tight, heart hammering. My vision narrows, sharp and honed, adrenaline coiled in every muscle. This is fight-or-flight—but I’ve trained too long not to fight smart.

  He wants chaos. He wants anger. I’ll give him ice.

  The ball hits my hands on the second phase—snapped out of the ruck clean and fast. But Tyson’s on me, reading the play before it’s formed.

  I sidestep, and he follows. I feint left, and he takes the bait, allowing me to cut through the gap right behind him.

  The crowd erupts. My lungs burn. My legs scream, but they hold.

  I hit contact hard, spin through one tackle, offload before the second—and our winger takes the ball straight down the line. Open space. Try zone dead ahead.

  Tyson’s still scrambling behind me when the whistle screams and the points go up.

  Coach shouts behind me. Macklin slaps the sideline board like a war drum. And all around us, the stadium pulses back to life. But I don’t celebrate. I turn and walk back to the reset.

  Tyson meets me at center again, face twisted, his cockiness unraveling fast.

  “Fluke,” he spits.

  I tilt my head. “Blink and you’ll miss the next one, too.”

  “You’re favoring that right.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I bark a bitter laugh. “You think I haven’t built a whole new game around protection?”

  He sneers. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still breakable.”

  My voice drops. “So are you, motherfucker.”

  His eyes flash, and for a split second, there’s nothing between us but pure, undiluted hate. Then the whistle splits the air. I take a step back. The game resumes—and this time, it’s just him and me.

  I’m reading the pitch like it’s wired into my bloodstream—every shift, every shoulder turn, every hesitation.

  No, I’m not at a hundred percent, but I don’t need to be. I’ve played broken before and I’ve played angry. But never this way—with Magnolia in my blood.

  The whistle shrieks, and the scrum sets. I drop into position as if I never left. Ball in, and we break. I move fast, clean, with precision.

  I fake the carry, drag two defenders—including Tyson—and pop a no-look pass off my hip to Jonathan sprinting the blindside. He’s already in full stride when it hits his chest.

  Their defense is too late, and the crowd detonates. But I don’t let myself enjoy it. No celebration. No grin. Not even a nod. Because this isn’t a victory. Not yet. This is a war.

  We line up again. Tyson keeps barking at me, at the ref, at his own team. He’s unraveling, and he doesn’t even see it.

  “You’re still limping.” Sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

  “And you’re still swinging and missing.”

  He charges me midway through the second half—late. Desperate. Dirty. Tries to clip me on the pivot, take out the left same as last time. But I’ve been expecting it.

  I drop my shoulder and sidestep—fast enough he misses by inches and eats turf.

  The crowd loses it. Gasps. Shouts. Cheers like thunder crashing off the grandstands.

  Even Coach is grinning now. And then it happens––we draw a penalty and reset fast.

  Ball comes to me on the switch. I dummy wide, flick inside to Bradley who is tearing through the pocket, but he doesn’t stop––straight through the line past the fullback under the posts.

  Tie game.

  And suddenly this team—my team—is alive again. Hungry. Feral.