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I came here because construction on the new facility is finally complete, the last inspection reports hit my inbox this morning, and I want to see the finished product while it's actually being used.
That's it.
Business.
Facilities.
Rugby.
Things I understand. Things that don't have dark blonde hair, hazel eyes, a smart mouth, and a tendency to crawl into my bed every night and completely fuck with my head.
“Holy shit.”
I stop walking. Tank Jackson is standing near the edge of the training pitch, staring at me like I've sprouted another head. Koa is beside him. Luca is stretching a few feet away.
Dane has a tablet tucked beneath one arm, whistle hanging around his neck, and the expression of a man who's already regretting whatever is about to come out of his players' mouths.
I glance down at myself.
“What?”
Tank looks at Koa. Koa looks at Luca. Luca grins. Dane sighs.
Fuck.
“What?” I repeat.
“You're smiling,” Tank says.
I immediately stop.
“I was not.”
“You were,” Koa confirms.
“I saw it too,” Luca says.
“Fuck off.”
Tank's grin widens. “There he is.”
I should leave. I've seen the facility and all the recent additions. Hell, I worked with the architects myself.
The place is excellent.
Exactly what I designed, paid for, and spent an obscene number of hours arguing with architects and contractors to get built.
Elite weight room.
Recovery suites.
Hydrotherapy.
Medical facilities.
Film rooms.
Indoor training space.
