The pitch was soaked and the coach was shouting. So, standard Tuesday. I’d already lost feeling in my thighs after thirty minutes of tackling drills, and Murphy had nearly broken my jaw in a scrum, but we were locked in now—eyes on the provincial cup and nothing else. Coach Doyle was explaining breakdown technique again, waving his hands around like a madman, the whistle swinging from his neck like a badge of honour. I wiped the sweat off my brow and nodded like I was paying attention, when really, I was thinking about steak. Or maybe a massive tub of Ben & Jerry’s. Don’t judge me. And then… she appeared. Right behind him, storming across the grass like a bleeding hurricane in runners. Blonde hair yanked back in a high ponytail, face flushed, jumper off one shoulder like it couldn’t be arsed staying put. No one’d seen her before—believe me, we’d remember. “Dad!” she shouted. We all froze. Coach turned, brows drawn together, the whistle now swinging violently. “Jesus, what?” he barked. “I forgot my chemistry books,” she snapped. “You left the car locked!” “You can survive one bloody afternoon without your books, can’t you?” he grunted, already turning back to us. “I have a double! I’ll get detention—again!” “You’re not driving my car,! she looked like a goddess who’d knock you out with a glare and then steal your hoodie. “I’m not a child, Dad!” “You’re fifteen!” “I’m seventeen!” “You don’t have a licence!” “I drive better than you and you know it!” The entire team was just standing there. Gawking. I swear even Murphy’s gum fell out of his mouth. And me? Before I even knew what I was doing, I was moving. Jogging up, rugby boots squelching in the muck. “I’ve got chemistry second,” I said, louder than I meant to. She looked up, eyebrows raised. Her eyes were this weird, unreal green. Like sea glass or a bottle someone’d chucked into the ocean years ago. “I mean—” I scratched the back of my n
