Page 3 of Your Second Chance
Luna pulled me into a hug before we headed in opposite directions.
I closed my eyes, taking in the sights and sounds of my new home.
Because the stadium wasn’t in the city center, just outside, it was a little more quaint and reminded me of the burbs of Chicago. I walked past a few residential streets before I came upon a little two-story walk-up where the administration buildings were.
The team had been struggling for years to get people into the stadium, and attendance numbers had been steadily declining. Peter loved my work, especially how I’d increased female attendance at Ravens hockey games, and that’s exactly what he’d tasked me with here. I hadn’t met any of the players yet, so I wasn’t sure how they felt about participating in social media ventures.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I could put on the “face” again. I was exhausted, my creativity drained dry. It felt like someone had their foot on the accelerator, but there was no gas left in the tank. If I could barely find the strength to shower, how was I supposed to focus at work?
I took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and forced a smile, digging for every ounce of energy I had left. Just one meeting. I had to get through this one meeting. Then I’d have the weekend to regroup before officially starting on Monday.
I needed this job to keep moving forward, especially with the tiny rice kernel growing inside me. Stopping wasn’t an option. If I didn’t keep pushing forward, I’d fall backward. And I couldn’t let that happen.
3
oliver stone
“We’re missing Stone,” Will Norman, our head coach, shouted as I slipped into the large conference room.
“Not missing. Right here,” I mumbled, dropping into the seat next to Will.
It was my first year as the official assistant coach for the Hands, but Will had been leading the team for a couple of seasons. Last year, I’d been the backs coach—a role I’d busted my ass in—but after a killer season, I’d earned the promotion.
“Good.” Will nodded. “We were going over our approach for the season. Peter’s coming in soon to introduce us to the new hire.”
“The social media girl?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, trying to make myself as small as possible. These chairs weren’t built for rugby players—I could barely fit one of my thighs into the damn thing.
It didn’t help that I still had the build I’d carried through my playing days. Broad shoulders, thick chest, and arms that strained the seams of most shirts I owned. I’d spent years as a player, pushing my body to the edge until the shoulder injuries became too much. A repeat dislocation, then another. Enough was enough. I’d moved on before it could get worse, steppinginto coaching as a backs coach first and, somehow, now as the assistant coach.
Still, I kept up with the guys in training. I ran drills, tackled when I could, and made sure to keep my muscle mass and stature intact. If I wasn’t going to be on the pitch, I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose the edge I’d worked so hard to build.
I ran a hand through my cropped brown hair, half listening to Will drone on about our defensive strategies for the season and how the boys needed to improve their “line speed.” Will had a way of turning rugby into poetry when he got going—something about creating space, breaking through defenses like a well-oiled machine, and the beauty of a perfectly-timed offload.
I almost zoned out completely until Peter’s voice cut through the room like a knife.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s cut to it.” Peter pushed open the door.
Peter was our PR guy, which was a nice way of saying he ran interference between us, the media, and the league. He managed what we could and couldn’t do, what we were allowed to say publicly, and how we were supposed to represent the team. A headache, most days.
“I know you’ve all heard about the new hire,” Peter continued, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer like he was getting ready for a press conference. “She’s here to overhaul our social media presence.”
I grunted under my breath, crossing my arms over my chest. I knew we had someone new coming in, but I hadn’t given it much thought. What the hell did “overhaul our social media” even mean? If it involved pulling my players away for staged nonsense on the internet, I wasn’t about it.
Peter glanced around the room like he was bracing for pushback. “We’re behind, guys. Other teams are eating us alive online—bigger fan bases, better engagement, you name it. If wewant bums on the seats and attention on this team, we need someone to handle our image. And that someone is?—”
The door creaked open again, and every head turned.
Her curly hair was piled loosely on top of her head, a few stray curls escaping to brush against her face. She wore a pair of oversized linen pants that swayed with each step, paired with a short white linen shirt that stopped above her waist, exposing a sliver of smooth skin. The tattoos on her arms caught my attention next—little designs scattered like stamps, each one deliberate, each one a quiet story she wore without apology.
And then there were the combat boots. Sturdy, scuffed, and completely out of place with the lightness of her outfit. It should’ve looked odd, but on her, it made sense—like everything about her had been carefully unplanned.
Her skin, the color of gold, seemed to glow in the fluorescent light of the room, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that didn’t hit you all at once, but slowly sucked the oxygen from you, like realizing too late you were in deep water.
The room was silent for a beat too long. She swept her gaze across us, landing on me for half a second before moving on, unaware she’d rattled something loose inside my chest.
Peter cleared his throat, clapping his hands together. “Gentlemen, this is Nova. She’s here to get us back on the map, so let’s show her some respect.”
