Page 5 of A Reason to Try

Chapter Three-Dane

Alright, so I wasn’t exactly known for being levelheaded.

My reaction to the campground Mr. Knight’s transport had brought us could have been better.

Truth was, it wasn’t even that bad. I was just knackered. Exhausted from traveling with this band of merry idiots.

Fine.

It was more than that. Ever since this deal went through, I’d been out of sorts.

I was aggravated about the whole bloody purchase of my team by that feckless American billionaire.

I didn’t want to be uprooted. Taken from my country and brought to this place where the people didn’t know shit about rugby.

I’d already given my whole life to the sport. Rugby wasn’t just a game to me. It was my identity, my passion, my reason for waking up every morning.

From the moment I first picked up a ball as a kid, I knew this was it. Rugby was mine.

The thrill of the game coursed through my veins like a potent elixir, fueling late-night practices and early morning training sessions. I had dreams—big ones.

I was slated to play for the All Blacks, the New Zealand national team, the very pinnacle of rugby achievement.

But that dream shattered the day an injury brought my career to a crashing halt. It happened in an instant—one moment I was charging down the field, adrenaline pumping, and the next, I was on the ground, pain radiating through my leg like a wildfire.

The world had blurred around me as I realized something was very, very wrong. It wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the gut-wrenching fear of what this injury could and did mean for my future.

No. I never made it to the All Blacks. But I wasn’t done with this sport yet. Now, I was coaching. Something I swore I would never do.

The transition was tough at first. But I was slowly finding my way.

After that fucker, Mitchell Knight, bought us, he sent a dozen Americans to train with us until the lease for our club ran out.

They were surprisingly alright guys. I’d expected poor players, but that was bad of me. Some of the newcomers had even followed my career, which was astounding to me.

I never made it, far as I was concerned. But I guess some people remembered me.

The press used to call me Great Dane. Some still do. It was because of my size, of course, and not any rep I had for being a dog with the ladies. I’d had affairs, of course. But nothing spectacular.

Nothing like her.

Ironic that the billionaire bastard who bought my team had named us the Carolina Rovers. Our logo was a big snarling beast of a dog—you probably guessed what kind.

That’s right. It was a Great fucking Dane in a blue spiked collar.

But all of my baggage wasn’t the fault of the curvy woman spitting fire at me with her near black eyes.

Here I was, banished all the way around the world, to North Carolina, and this woman, who happened to be named Carolina, had me completely flummoxed.

Was I drooling?

I managed not to wipe my mouth, but only just. I knew I was being a right prick. Just like I knew I had to stop.

But there was just something about her that drew my total awareness to her instantly, pulling me in like a moth to a flame. Keeping my attention like a dog with a bone.

I was used to women who bent under the force of my intensity. Ones who found my size and presence intimidating, often giving way to my demands. But not her.

Thank fuck.

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