Page 5 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Maybe I thought I saw something real behind those stormy eyes.
And then? He opened his mouth.
Said something dumb.
I still don’t even know what it was exactly other than I’ve always been sensitive about my weight, and he basically called me a dog treat.
Said I was one of the best snacks he ever had—one of many, I assume.
And well, all that just popped the bubble.
You know the one.
That magical, breathless, post-sex moment where I was floating and glowing and full of all kinds of feelings I didn’t want to name. And then—pop.Gone.
So I ran.
I ghosted him.
Blocked his number.
Avoided the locker room like it had been cursed.
And when I saw him around the paddock, I perfected my eye-roll-and-pivot combo like a damn professional.
He hasn’t tried to talk to me since.
Fine by me.
Yeah, right.
Shut up, stupid inner voice, I am so fine!
Anyway, now I’m screwed.
Because Finley—goddess of PR schemes and harebrained ideas that sound adorable on paper but are absolute nightmares to execute—has decided we need a newholiday campaign.
Something heartfelt.
Something viral.
Something that makes American fans fall in Sweetheart with rugby.
Her solution?
Rugby Thanksgiving in the Mountains.
Yeah. That’s the official title.
One player.
One cabin.
A bunch of GoPros and drone footage.
Cooking.
Chopping wood.
