Page 9 of The Break Down

It’s a whole other experience.

If you’ve never been to a rugby training session, do yourself a favor and add it to your bucket listimmediately.

It’s like stumbling into Mount Olympus, if Mount Olympus was covered in sweat, dirt, and men who look like they bench-press small cars for fun.

And then there’s the cool-down stretch.

Sweet. Mother. Of. God.

They break out these massive elastic bands, loop them around their thighs, and get on all fours like they’re trying to summon the devil via glute bridges.

It’s practically soft core.

And yes, I filmeverything—for professional reasons, obviously.

But I’d be lying if I said my thighs weren’t clenched and my mouth wasn’t dry by the time they were done.

Holy hell.

And yeah. Okay. Fine. My gaze might linger on Koa a little longer than the others.

IwishI didn’t want him.

I wish my body didn’t react to him like he’s the second coming of every bad decision I’ve ever made.

But it does.

My girly bits perk up like they just saw Zac Efron holding a puppy.

And it’s not fair. Because he’s the biggest jerk on this entire tour.

A grump.

A grouch.

A human red flag wrapped in muscle and tattoos and an accent that could convince me to rob a bank.

I know better than to crush on a man with zero interest in me. I mean, my brain sure as hell does.

But apparently, my libido missed the memo.

Because out of every gorgeous guy on this team, it’s the one who can barely look at me without scowling that makes my heart race.

And worse. He’s theonlyguy to get me going like this since I discovered foreplay.

And that’s a real problem.

Because no matter how hot he is, it’s clear he wants nothing to do with my chubby self.

Not for real.

Not in any way that counts.

So yeah. Be professional. Focus on the job.

I’m here to make the Carolina Rovers go viral. Not to fall face-first into a pile of unresolved sexual tension and self-doubt.

Note to self:Film the thighs. Avoid the man.

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