Page 8 of The Break Down

Do I care?

Not really. Not anymore.

I’m not what you’d call traditionally athletic. Or athletic at all. I mean, I like to watch sports, but binge watching TV dramas is my sport of choice.

I like jelly donuts more than jogging, Netflix marathons more than real ones.

But guess what? That doesn’t mean I don’t love my damn body.

It took me a minute—okay, years—to get here.

To not flinch when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

To stop shrinking just because I took up more space than someone else thought I should.

But thirty is creeping up on me, and I’ve learned to sayscrew it.

Screw the unsolicited opinions.

Screw the shame.

This body is mine, and it’s fierce and soft and sexy, and I don’t need a permission slip to feel good in it.

So when I strut out onto the field, tripod and video camera slung over my shoulder and my cell phone out, I hold my head high.

I notice everyone is watching me, and I falter a step, but just one. See, right before the nerves can settle inside my stomach, like butterflies on speed, I catch Koa Jackson glaring at me—as usual—and right before I switch from angsty to angry, the best thing ever happens.

I promptly watch him get clocked right in the head with one of those ridiculous egg-shaped rugby balls!

Yeah. I grin.

Becausescrew you, Koa.

I don’t need his approval.

I don’t want it.

He can keep his judgment and that glower that could curdle milk.

No, I’m not skinny, but I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.

Capris, tank top, no bra?

Mind your business.

I didn’t come here to impress anyone.

Especially not the hot, brooding Kiwi who clearly thinks I’m some silly, fluffy cheerleader brought in to make the team look good online.

Spoiler alert, Koa: I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to work.

Your glutes just happen to be very photogenic, sir.

And honestly?

It’s something I can use to bring this team and really, all of Major League Rugby, some positive press.

Because watching these guys practice?

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