Page 4 of The Break Down

My best friend was always friendly and efficient, it was enough to make me sick.

Like Donna Reeds meets curvy, sex siren in one little cute Jersey Girl package all wrapped up with a bow—or a hot pink scrunchie.

God knows I love Carolina, but I can’t be nice until after my caffeine kicks in and I’ve had a shower.

The RV shower is barely bigger than a coffin, but it runs hot for a glorious eight minutes.

That’s long enough to rinse the travel funk from my body and maybe a few regrets from my soul.

I scrub hard and fast, thinking about the dozens of better life decisions I could’ve made before ending up as a glorified rugby roadie.

Because let me tell you something,allthis?

This whole rugby team meets Oregon Trail situation we’ve got going on?

Not what I expected when I impulsively joined my bestie down in Consequence.

I don’t know what kind of fever dream possessed the team’s owner to decide we’d go tour bus caravan style across the entire continental U.S. like some half-baked boy band reunion tour. But it sucked.

Most of the guys are stuffed onto a charter bus that smells like socks and testosterone, while Dane and Carolina are cozied up in this smaller RV like it’s their personal love nest on wheels.

And me?

Oh, I’m just here.

With them.

Third-wheeling like a champ in a converted child’s bunk room, trying to pretend I don’t hear every creak and sigh of their extra-curriculars through the paper-thin walls.

Oh yeah. My headphones have been working overtime.

Once I’m dressed and vaguely presentable, I stumble out of the RV and blink against the morning sun like I’ve just emerged from hibernation.

This whole week has been a crash course in WTF is my life now and I’m not sure I passed.

See, I grew up in Jersey.

Fast pace. Big noise. People flipping birds in traffic and calling it foreplay.

Down here, everything moves slow.

S-L-O-W.

At first, I thought I could adjust. I mean, what’s a few extra minutes waiting for coffee or learning to pump gas?

But rugby? That’s not slow, it’s straight-up confusing.

The rules make no sense. The ball isn’t even the right shape. And every guy on the field looks like he could crush a watermelon between his thighs.

I had to mention thighs, didn’t I? Now I’m thinking abouthis.

Koa Jackson.

The man is unparalleled. And his thighs?

His thick, god-tier thighs—pure muscle and zero mercy—had my ovaries clocking in for a double shift.

That would be reason enough for this whole move, unfortunately, he hates my guts.

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