Page 4 of Dump Tackle My Heart
I was intimidated as hell the first few months on the job. Still am, sometimes.
But here’s the thing.
Most of the guys are actually sweet.
Dumb as rocks occasionally, sure.
But sweet. Loyal. Big-hearted.
All except one.
Hudson Tank Jackson.
Our team's hulking, silent enforcer. The bruiser. The back row forward whose entire job is to smash into other grown men at full speed and take the hits no one else can.
Quick rugby explainer for the uninitiated: the back row—Tank's position—is like being the final boss of a video game.
You’re big, mean, and the last person standing between the other team and the goal line.
You hit hard, you clear out rucks, you protect the ball, and you sacrifice your body every single match.
And Tank? He lives up to his nickname.
He doesn’t talk much.
Doesn’t party like the other guys.
Doesn’t pose for the cameras or charm the fangirls.
But on the pitch, he’s terrifying.
A silent storm in cleats and eye black.
And off the pitch?
Yeah, well, that’s where things get complicated.
Because I slept with him.
Like a fucking rookie.
I did the one thing you are never supposed to do when you work for a professional sports team.
I got horizontal with a player. And not just any player.
The most dangerous one.
Hudson Jackson.Tank.
The guy who looks like he could deadlift a car and quote Shakespeare—and not even break a sweat while doing it.
It was just one night.
One stupid, hot, amazing night.
And okay, maybe I got a little carried away.
Maybe I let myself believe he was more than just a big, bruising slab of sex on legs.
