Page 2 of A Game of Ruck
Or maybe it was when I saw my own face—smirking, shirtless, oiled up like a side of lamb—on a ten-foot banner with the words“Ruck and Roll: A Carolina Rugby Romance Gala”splashed across the top in pink glitter font.
I should’ve stayed in New Zealand.
Where rugby’s sacred, not foreplay, for fuck’s sake.
Here, it’s all about spectacle.
Viral moments.
TikToks and reels.
Apparently, sportsmanship is only valuable if it comes with a filter and a thirst trap.
Now I’m standing in the green room of some fancy event center in Consequence, North Carolina, wearing a suit so tailored I can’t lift my arms.
One of the PR girls just told me to ‘pout more’for the behind-the-scenes footage.
What the fuck does that even mean?
“Okay, you can be growly if you want,” she murmurs and shrugs, snapping more photos of me before moving on to the next menu option.
Some of the guys are eating this up.But not me.
I rake a hand through my hair and look out the window.
Downtown Consequence twinkles like it wants to be New York.
Bless its heart.
A born and raised Jersey boy, I know what I’m talking about.
But maybe I’m not who I thought I was anymore, either.
Warden,I remind myself.
Luca Warden.
My mother’s name.
Clean.Safe.Unburdened.
It’s the name on my contract.
The one I printed on the back of my first pro jersey.
The one I use to keep myself at arm’s length from my family’s criminal legacy.
But no matter what I call myself, the blood’s still Moretti.
And that blood runs deep.
Still, I didn’t fight this hard to be reduced to a six-pack and a smile.
I came here to play.To win.To carve out something real.Something for myself.
Instead, I’m about to be paraded on stage like a prize bull at a high-end meat market, where some giddy socialite will buy thirty minutes of my time for a good cause and a better photo op.
Mitchell Knight’s fancy shmancy PR team has this whole fairy tale in mind—The Mafia Prince Who Walked Away.
