Page 1 of Playing Rucking Hard

Prologue - Last Night

Emma Russell

Ideserve one night of freedom.

Sounds overly dramatic? Maybe, but how do the songs go—it’s my life—andI’ll do it my way. Well, that’s both a flawed paraphrase and a lie, but I’ll take what I can get, even if it’s only one night.

From the force of habit, I check my phone. No messages.Good. One night. I can do this. I deserve to do this. I’m about to enter twelve months of hell. Yes, I’ve worked for this opportunityall my life—with aching bones, calloused toes, shin splints, and everything. But for one night, I can cut loose. Just be me. Just be nineteen. Drop-dead gorgeous on my worst day and, unfortunately, just as insecure as anyone else on every other day. I smooth down my black, faux-leather shift-style dress and am thankful I decided on black ankle boots instead of killer heels. The last thing I need is to break a leg dancing. Also, the boots tone down the dress fromsexy-as-sintoseductive elegance.

Less than one week ago, I arrived in Sydney with a list of things to do, more responsibilities than I ever expected, and an ounce of hope. For a country girl, I’m the smallest fish in an ocean of sharks. There are other cities in Australia with bigger football teams. But this is my chance to earn minimum wage from dance while studying for a career that will give real hope to other families. Sydney might be the most expensive city in Australia to live in, but it also has the most opportunities, including more specialist options to help …no. I refuse to be the grown-up adult tonight. Tonight is my night to be the me who doesn’t have a care in the world. No assignments overdue before I’ve turned up to my first class, and no choreographer who hates me before I’ve shown them my first routine.

Sydney. It’s the choice I had to make, and I’d make it again and again if karma would promise me …no. I’m not going there.

Before I can overthink my choices, I walk into the first nightclub without a queue stretching around the block. In a city of millions, it seems like everyone my age knows everyone my age. I don’t want to stand in line, the shy girl who knows no one. It’s unnerving. Back home, everyone grew up with my grandparents or parents. Dating back home meant vetting family histories to ensure no distant blood relations—and then double-checking I’m not into their brothers, cousins, or friends. You know, anything to avoid rubbing shoulders with an ex and his new whatever at future Christmas or other family holidays.

Back home, I can avoid answering difficult questions—but there is no escaping the gauntlet of sympathetic stares at the grocery, doctor’s surgery, or even on my morning jog. Here? It’s a whole new, anonymous world.

Okay, Em, get a grip.I embrace the power of positive thinking. I get to live my dream starting tomorrow. Yes, I’m still chained to responsibilities that I never asked for or expected, but tonight I can be free. Free from …no. Again, I shut down those thoughts. I have to stop thinking about it as a responsibility. It was my choice, and I’d make the same choice again.

Finally inside the club, I join the line at the bar, brush back my long, dark, wavy hair, smile, and pretend to be any other girl.

“Can I buy you a drink?” A masculine voice is attached to the arm snaking between me and the bar.

I don’t even look around before answering, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

By the twelfth polite rejection before I get the waiter’s attention and order my vodka with lime and ice, I stop feeling the need to let men down gently. They quickly move on to their next target like sharks searching for an easy kill.

I’m prepared to repeat my refrain when I seehim.It’s as if the crowd has parted for one man, and I’m instantly mesmerized. Those eyes—blue, no, aquamarine that shine when caught by the strobe lighting—do something to my hormones. Consider me country-girl sheltered because I’ve never seen a man who ticks so many of my boxes. I mean, if I were going to describe the perfect man to make me forget my life’s choices and responsibilities, Mr. Perfect would sportthatink down his open-necked shirt and forearms, andthatarm porn which is testing the strength of shirt sleeve stitching across his biceps. If I were looking for a one-night mistake, he’d havethatsexy scruff around his jaw that can tease a girl until she forgets her own name—and her way home. I gulp and steady my nerves ashe approaches the bar where the barman finally slides my drink into my waiting hand.

Instead of moving away with my drink, I wait for Mr. Perfect to say something—anything. I look hot enough for every other male to try their luck, so why not him? But Mr. Perfect doesn’t acknowledge me or throw out a pickup line. He nods to the barman, who quickly lines up three shots of top-shelf whiskey.

Gorgeous women start to circle him, and it’s only a matter of time before he takes his pick. They are confident and forward, while I … I’m clinging to the last threads of my self-confidence. I don’t belong here. I know it, and from the dismissive looks from the women, they know it, too. It takes more than my height or looks to belong in a place like this. I feel like a country bumpkin playing dress ups.

I take a small sip, deciding to sit on one drink for the half an hour it will take to make it back to the entrance, when Mr. Perfect says, “Don’t tell me, you’re looking for your next ex-girlfriend rather than your next ex-boyfriend?”

Before I get a chance to think about my answer, his aquamarine eyes soften, and so does my inherent shyness. My mouth overrides my brain, and I flippantly reply, “Why, are you offering to apply for the position?”

If I weren’t gripping my bag strap with one hand and my drink in the other, I’d cover my mouth just to stop anything more from coming out.Stupid. Stupid. Stupid girl.

“Of your next ex-girlfriend?” He smirks, and I was right to be nervous about his jawline. It’s so damn sexy when he smiles—and what’s with the neck click?Mr. Perfect is talking to me.He’s talking to …me. He leans in closer and whisper-shouts, “Sorry, sweetheart. Wrong junk to be your next ex-girlfriend.”

His words destroy any awkwardness, and my giggle turns into a choked laugh, but at least I don’t snort my drink at him. He smiles, knowing he’s caught my attention hook, line, and sinker.He is everything my mother warned me about and everything my father would shoot on sight, with muscles for days, a tight white shirt slightly open at the chest, revealing just a glimpse of an arc tattoo. It readsFree from...

Free from what?I want to ask, but force my eyes back to his. To my surprise, his eyes stay locked on mine—no wandering down to my natural cleavage—a generous C-cup, thanks for asking. Could I go larger for my new job?Yeah, nah. As far as I’m concerned, my breasts are perfectly proportioned to my waist—thanks to pilates and yoga, and my toned ass and legs—thanks to genetics, dance, and running.

“Mmm, shame.” I fake a sigh, although he probably doesn’t hear it over the pump and grind music. “So, are you applying for the position of my next ex-boyfriend?”

“Maybe,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “What are the benefits?”

I can do this. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know or care about my responsibilities. I want one night to be free.Why shouldn’t it be with Mr. Perfect?

“Other than me?” I’m about to clutch at my chest when some drunk bumps me forward. My stranger catches and straightens me with red-hot reflexes, but not before I lose my drink.

“Falling for me already?” he jokes, again with that smile. “I haven’t agreed to be your next ex anything.”

“I thought we were negotiating benefits.” At least I didn’t spill my drink all over myself. Small mercies?

“Well, sweetheart, you only have to look in the mirror to know you’re every man’s fantasy.”

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