With Just A Kiss

Chapter 1

Olsen

Deafening cheers and glaring lights greet me once again as I step into the pitch. I bask in the audience’s support for Team USA as I spot the banners and flags, some with my name or number on them.

I couldn’t help the thrill I felt as the team lines up for the second half of the game. We’re playing against Canada. This is the last one we had to play for the qualifiers for the Rugby World Cup, and I could already taste the sweet victory.

We’re already in the lead at 29-9. The rest of the game should be a piece of cake.

It’s a shame, really. Team Canada was one of the hardest to play against at the start of the season because of their steady and quick improvements. But somehow, their lineup today seems to be lacking in offense.

As we run up to take our positions, I notice a few of Canada’s players leering at me. I glare back, and to my surprise, they smirk nastily at me. I scowl but choose to ignore them.

Whatever. If they think they can take me on and intimidate me, they have another thing going for them. Our skills and reputation speak for themselves. They’re not the ones having a celebratory party after this game is over.

Yeah, it’ll be a rage. Then, I’d go home with a chick or two and spend the rest of the weekend lounging in my penthouse while waiting for the next training schedule.

My mind switches on to game mode as soon as I’m in my spot. Planting my feet solidly on the ground, I take in my view. Eyes trained forward and senses on high alert, I react the exact moment the whistle blows to signal the start of the game.

My teammate and good buddy, Ross, kicks the ball short and high. The forwards rush in to challenge it.

I watch carefully, my eyes following the ball and the players in front of me. I charge forward when my team takes possession of the ball. I think of myself as a cautious player despite my occasional risky moves, but I never let my guard down no matter what the scoreboard says.

As the inside center, I prepare for offense, dashing directly ahead to find a good position for catching the ball.

The game turns fast and intense all too soon as I wait for an opportunity. Number 10 makes a sideways toss to me, and I catch it perfectly like I usually do.

Securing the ball under my arms, I run determinedly to score a try, all the while keeping my eyes peeled on the lookout for a teammate in case I need to pass.

Hell yeah, just a few more meters to the goal line.

From the corner of my eyes, I see two players gaining on me, and a third one in front, waiting for a chance to steal the ball.

But I’m not giving him that chance.

I spot our Number 14’s open position and decide it would be best to pass. I swerve right and successfully dodge the oncoming tackle. Before I could pass the ball, I didn’t expect my tackler to extend a leg out and trip me.

I cry out in surprise, the contact feeling more like a kick in the shin.

What the hell? That’s fucking foul play.

I fall face-first toward the ground until my reflexes kick in and I twist my body… only to land on my shoulder at an unnatural angle.

Fuck.

Pain shoots through my entire upper body, a loud groan escaping me when I feel the joint pop out of its socket. But before I can fully register the pain, two more men are on me.

One forcibly rips the ball away from my clutch, and the other fucking digs his elbow into my ribs. I hear the cracking bones through the sudden ringing in my ears.

I almost faint from the shock.

The shrill blow of the whistle snaps me from completely blacking out. I move a hand to the ground and attempt to push the offenders off, but my arm gives out as I become more aware of the pain in my shoulders.

My mouth hangs open in a silent scream, and my body begs for some kind of relief.

It doesn’t come.

The weights on my leg and torso only become heavier as I wait for my team to rescue me. White spots dance across my vision as the fuckers are finally hauled away.

I shut my eyes, a loud groan erupting from my throat as I lay there, motionless in agony. I feel like a ten-wheeler truck rammed into me.

Sucking in my breath, I barely make out the heavy footfalls of the other players crowding around me. Despite the pain, my mind struggles for control.

I try to move my body. My left leg hurt like hell.

I’m no doctor, but fuck, I’m pretty sure that leg’s broken. So are my ribs. And what if I tore a ligament?

Suddenly, my mouth guard feels too thick in my mouth as panic sets in.

Is this it? Is this where all I’ve ever worked for ends?

Humiliating! My career can’t end because some cheaters decided they didn’t want me on the field. Not when the World Cup is just around the corner.

I vaguely see the referee issue a red card, but shit, they deserve more than a fucking red card.

Fuck this! I can’t even keep my eyes open now. My senses are fading, and my hearing is reduced to muffled sounds no matter how hard I try to keep conscious.

There’s commotion all around me—lots of shouting and swearing. A fight breaks out if I’m not imagining it. It’s hard to tell.

It feels like an eternity before two sets of strong hands take hold of me and transfer me onto a stretcher.

I want to be angry—to lash out and break those cheaters’ bones. Let’s see how they feel.

But the pain is too much, and it soon takes over my body. I stop fighting until finally, I black out.