Page 1 of Star Rucked Lovers

Chapter One

The very last thingGeorge Dennis needed right before his first game of rugby as captain for his country was to get distracted by a beautiful woman.

He’d thought he was ready. He was in the best physical condition of his life, had just won the title of Australian Player of the Year, been named captain three months before the tour of Europe began, and used that time wisely to study up on the teams he’d be facing and to gain the respect of his teammates.

And yet, on the verdant turf of Dublin’s Aviva Stadium, with the Irish supporters turning the inside of the stadium as green as the lush grass underfoot and a pack of burly Irishmen waiting to pound George and his teammates into the dirt, he looked full into the face of a delicate slip of a girl and completely lost his heart.

It was her voice, he tried to tell himself. She was singing his national anthem and doing it with a fervency even the most rabid nationalist would approve of, her voice surprisingly powerful for a slight little thing, fully-trained and perfectly on pitch. George appreciated music, but his own singing left a lot to be desired, he knew. Still, he sang along, well aware of the TV cameras tracking down the line of gold-jerseyed players, aware viewers would be watching who was singing and who was not.

There were only a few seconds between the end ofAdvance Australia Fairand a burly tenor stepping up to sing the Irish national anthem, and George used them to turn to the national coach, standing beside him, and ask a question which should have been the last thing on his mind.

“Who’s the singer?”

The coach shot him a raised eyebrow before shrugging. “Misty something.”

“She sang well. Got the boys fired up.” George attempted to come up with a reasonable explanation for his interest.

“Stay hungry,” was his coach’s parting shot before the band started to play, and George nodded, turning to face respectfully forward again. Still, his eyes tracked to one side, following the slight figure in the shimmering silver dress making her way to the side of the field. She had long, wavy dark hair which hung all the way to her ass, long strands dancing in the gusting wind blowing around the ground.

She’s probably cold, he thought. It was a chilly April day in Dublin and the silver dress was sleeveless and flimsy-looking. Everyone else in the stadium wore more substantial clothing than Misty, or whatever her name was, even the players in their shorts and short-sleeved jerseys; at least they had long socks on and would soon be running and sweating, keeping themselves warm.

As though aware of his scrutiny, the singer stopped at the sideline and turned, catching him staring as she looked him full in the face. She tilted her head as though curious, and then a fleeting smile crossed her face. She mouthed something; George puzzled for a moment before realising she’d just wished him luck. Instinctively, he smiled, and she raised a slender hand in a tiny wave before turning on her heel and proceeding up into the stands beside the assistant obviously there to escort her.

“Are you seriously eyeing up a chick right now?” his vice-captain grumbled at his side, voice low, and George shook himself.

“Just thanking her for a good performance singing the anthem.”

“Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!”

“Shut up, it’s game time!”Saved by the whistle, George thought in relief, and put all thoughts of the beautiful singer firmly out of his mind.

About seven hours later, after an exhausting, bruising game they’d won by a scant two points, a news conference, a shower which wasn’t hot enough, a recovery massage which didn’t last long enough because the entire team needed help, a very large dinner and a lot fewer beers than he’d have liked, George finally closed the door of his hotel room and collapsed on his bed, alone at last, and very grateful his status as team captain at least afforded him the privilege of his own room. He’d never been particularly comfortable in crowds, and the pressure of being ‘switched on’ socially all evening was making him feel as though his smile was cracking around the edges.

Reaching for the TV remote, he turned it on, looking to find something mindless to help calm his mind down so he could sleep. A Bond movie or something, maybe. He channel-surfed for a few minutes, flicking hastily past sports channels. That was work, right now, and he didn’t want any part of it. Finally he found some late-night Irish talk show with the host currently interviewing an American actor he vaguely recognised, figured that would do.

Tugging his suit off, he debated dumping it on the floor, but sighed and hauled himself off the bed to hang it up. He was tired, but not tired enough to be a slob. His phone fell out of his pocket as he hung his trousers up, and he switched it back on, smiling wearily as it began to ping with messages. Congratulations, he supposed. Flopping back down on the bed in just his boxers, he answered the messages from his parents; everyone else could wait. His eyelids were already drifting with weariness.

On impulse, he brought up a search bar and typed in ‘singer Misty’. None of the images which appeared resembled the beauty in the silver dress from that afternoon, though, and he scowled in frustration, wondering how to refine the search. He was pretty sure she was Australian, from the fervour with which she’d sung the anthem, and added that to the search, with no better result.

Maybe her name’s Misti with an i?He tried that, to no avail. Tired and annoyed, he slapped the phone face-down on the bed. Her name probably wasn’t Misty at all; the coach had seemed pretty vague about it. Maybe one of the newspapers tomorrow would mention who’d sung the anthems. He’d be reading all the columns anyway…

Sleep was drifting over George in a slow wave when he heard her voice. Powerful, sensuous, soaring, it jerked him right back from the edge of unconsciousness and snapped his eyes open. Sitting up, he stared at the television in disbelief, because there she was, singing on a small stage in a TV studio, wearing a sparkly gold top and tight black leggings with high-heeled boots, her wavy dark hair a thick soft mass tumbling around her.

Riveted, George stared at the screen. His mystery singer had an incredible voice as she belted out what he could only call a power ballad, a song he guessed was called something likeYour Hand In Minefrom the words of the chorus. A frantic grab for his phone and another search finally revealed her identity; she was a breakout star, he quickly discovered, Australian as he’d already guessed, and known only as Myst.

“Myst,” he whispered, watching as she finished her song and stepped down from the stage, smiling, to greet the talk show host waiting for her. George had the impression she steeled herself for the interview, as though uncomfortable talking rather than singing, but the host was a pro and soon had her at her ease, that gorgeous smile breaking out as she answered his softball questions.

The interview was pretty short, and by the end of it the only new thing George knew about her was that she had an album out and was in the middle of a European tour. She’d played at Dublin’s 3Arena the previous night and was playing another concert there on Sunday night before travelling on to the mainland UK.

I wonder if I could get tickets, and the okay from the coach to go?George wondered as he watched. He was sure one of the team’s ‘fixers’ who travelled with them and whose job it was to make anything they wanted appear as though by magic, could handle the tickets, at least. Permission from the coach might be trickier, especially since he already suspected George had been distracted by Myst before the game. Maybe George could drop a few hints to one of the younger players, get someone else to suggest it as a group outing… worn out, his eyelids finally drifted shut as sleep claimed him.

George woke up with Myst still on his mind, much to his own private frustration. It was hardly as though he had a problem meeting attractive women; hell, there’d been plenty the previous evening who would have been only too delighted if the national team captain showed interest in them! And yet… there was just something about her which called to him, something he’d never previously felt before.

Don’t be a creepy stalker. She won’t appreciate it. Still, he couldn’t resist the temptation to open a social media app and do a quick search for her. She had an account, with a blue verified tick, and a little to his surprise, a post from the previous afternoon with a photo of her singing at the stadium and a comment about being honoured to be asked to sing the anthem. The hashtag#GoAustraliamade him grin. He clicked the Like button and shared the post with a note saying ‘Thanks for such an inspiring performance!’ before following her account from his own.

I’m such a dork. Like she’s going to notice, from the thousands of other likes and shares of that post, and the half-million followers she has. Get over yourself, George.

Pushing himself to his feet with a suppressed groan—he had bruises everywhere—he headed for the shower, already thinking ahead to breakfast… and which of the younger players might be susceptible to a suggestion of going out to a pop concert that evening.

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