Page 30 of Star Rucked Lovers

The whistle sliced throughthe crisp morning air, sharp and commanding. George stood on the sidelines of the Toulouse rugby club’s practice field, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. The players moved like a well-oiled machine, their boots pounding against the damp turf as they executed drills with laser-sharp focus. The cadence of their movements—the thud of the ball, the barked calls—was a language George knew so well it was practically etched into his DNA.

He itched to join in, but this wasn’t his place, not his club. He was here as a guest only, and just the presence of the Australian captain had some of the young players wide-eyed and eager to impress; he didn’t need to risk injury if one of them got too big for their boots in a reckless tackle.

“Still got those restless feet, mate?” Tommy asked, appearing beside him like some kind of scruffy oracle. His battered face was lit with quiet amusement, brown eyes crinkling at the edges.

George exhaled a laugh, though his gaze stayed fixed on the field. “Reckon I’ll always have ’em.”

“Thought so.” Tommy crossed his arms over his chest, his posture easy but deliberate. He watched the players for a moment before continuing, his tone seemingly casual. “What are you thinkin’ about these days? Beyond the next game, I mean.”

“Beyond rugby?” George echoed, almost startled by the question. It hung in the air between them, heavier than he expected.

“Yeah. Beyond rugby,” Tommy said with a knowing glance. “You’re not gonna play forever, you know. This,” he gestured at the field, “coaching was my choice, but somehow I don’t see that for you. What are you gonna do?”

George frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He hadn’t really allowed himself to think too deeply about that, about what came after this life he’d built with blood, sweat, and more injuries than he cared to count. “Dunno,” he admitted finally. “Haven’t really thought about it much.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you did,” Tommy replied. “You’ve got more in your life than just the game now, don’t you?”

George’s chest tightened slightly.Myst. The thought of her sent a pang of something sharp and aching through him. He nodded absently, still watching the players, though his thoughts were far away.

“Look at ’em,” Tommy said, gesturing toward the field. “They’re working their arses off, chasing something bigger than themselves. That’s what makes it worth it, yeah? Putting everything into something you love.”

“Yeah,” George murmured, his voice faint. His eyes followed a young winger who darted forward, quick as lightning, catching a pass and bolting past the defence. The boy’s sheer determination struck a chord deep inside him.

It reminded him of Myst, the way she carried herself on stage, her presence electric and unshakable. She chased her dreams with the same fire these players had, pouring herself into every note, every lyric. And hadn’t he admired that about her from the start? Her grit, her passion, her refusal to settle for anything less than extraordinary?

“She works just as hard as I ever have,” he muttered under his breath, barely aware he’d spoken aloud.

“What’s that?” Tommy asked, turning to him with a raised brow.

“Nothing,” George lied quickly, though his jaw clenched. It wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have, not yet, anyway. But the truth was swirling in his chest, undeniable now: he’d been unfair to Myst.

And the absolute truth was, his career had an expiration date. Hers didn’t. In three years, or five, or seven, or whenever he hung up the boots, did he want to find himself alone? Was he going to look around and realise that if he’d just tried, he could have shared the life that came after with Myst?

Tommy, thankfully, didn’t push him further. Instead, he gave George a hearty clap on the back. “Just think about it, mate. You’re allowed to want more than one thing, you know.”

As Tommy strode off toward the coaching staff, George stayed rooted in place, watching the players with fresh eyes. They weren’t just training, they were building something, brick by brick, with every pass and tackle. A career, a team, a future.

And maybe he could, too. If he was willing to fight for it.

The pen hovered over the page, trembling slightly in Myst’s small hand. The journal rested on her lap, its leather cover worn soft from years of use, pages filled with half-songs and scribbled thoughts. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the pen, a staccato rhythm that hinted at the chaos inside her.

“Ugh,” she groaned, tossing her head back dramatically and letting out a sigh loud enough to rival any diva meltdown. “This is impossible.”

“Nothing about you being dramatic is impossible,” Jessie quipped from across the room, not looking up from her phone. She was sprawled out in an armchair, legs slung over one side casually. “But please, do go on. I’m captivated.”

Myst shot her cousin a glare, though it lacked any real venom. “I’m serious. I can’t… I don’t know what to say.” She gestured helplessly to the blank page. “It’s all just… stuck in here.” She tapped her chest with the pen, her voice cracking on the last word.

Jessie finally looked up, her pale blue eyes narrowing. “Well, maybe if you stopped sulking and actually said something to him instead of writing another tragic ballad, you’d get unstuck.”

“Not helpful,” Myst muttered, but her cheeks flushed pink. Jessie wasn’t wrong, not entirely, anyway. Still, the thought of reaching out to George made her stomach twist into knots. What would she even say?Hey, sorry for being a hot mess of a girlfriend. Please forgive me and also ignore the tabloids blaring about me and Antoine, he’s actually a creep?

No. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.

“Okay, fine,” Jessie said, swinging her legs off the chair and standing up in one fluid motion. She crossed the room with purpose, snatching the journal right off Myst’s lap before she could protest. “If you’re not going to call him, at least finish the damn song. You’ve been moping around this apartment for days! Either write your feelings down or go scream them at him in person. But pick one, because I can’t take much more of this energy.”

“Jess!” Myst lunged for the journal, but Jessie held it just out of reach, smirking like the menace she was. “Give it back!”

“Not until you admit that I’m right.”

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