The article sucks anyway. I know it does. And I know that if I was a stronger writer, I could probably craft some magic out of it. But I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m unpracticed and unseasoned, and Lachlan left me with nothing.

Of course, I’m the one who spent too much time ogling him and not enough time asking the questions that I needed to. Nicola had mentioned that the San Francisco Chronicle had done a story on them a month ago, but it hadn’t drummed up any serious interest. That’s why Bram wanted me to write it for The Bay Weekly. It needed that human aspect, instead of being cut and dry.

Unfortunately, because I barely had any human interaction with Lachlan, I didn’t think I brought that human aspect to the table. I’m about to erase it and start all over again when Neil ventures into my side of the office.

“So, honeypie,” he says, leaning over my desk. “Where’s the article? Let’s give old Neil here a looksee.”

“Ugh,” I say. “The interview went horrible.”

“Oh, I bet it wasn’t all that bad,” he says while he nudges me out of the way to stare at the screen. He glances it over, his lips moving as he reads the words.

He gets to the end and turns to look at me expectantly.

“What?” I ask.

“Kayla. That’s garbage.”

“What?!” I shriek, even though I know it’s the truth. “It’s not garbage.”

“I know you can do better than that.” He jabs his finger at the screen. “All you’ve got here is blah blah blah boring shit about charity. And then a quote from a Scottish World Cup rugby player who helped out with what he could.” He shakes his head at me. “Helped out? That’s all you got?”

I glare at him and shove him out of the way. “Well, I told you that it didn’t go well!”

“But Joe won’t run this. I can’t even edit this. It’s boring, Kayla, and you my dear are the opposite of boring. Go back to him, get another interview, and inject some of that personality of yours into this piece.”

“But my personality is why everything got fucked up to begin with!”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and stares down at me with mock endearment. “Kayla. Get your head out of the gutter, put on your big girl panties, and go try again.”

I hate that he’s right. But he’s right. If I think I deserve a shot at a new career choice, I’m going to have to earn it, and I sure as hell didn’t with this pile of stink.

When Neil leaves, I take out my phone, swallow my pride, and text Lachlan.

Hey, it’s Kayla. I just want to apologize for the other day. I’m really sorry if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t my intention to offend you.

I know I’m texting with kid gloves here, but I feel it’s the only way to ease into this situation.

I wait and thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to text back.

That’s all right. It’s a touchy subject, and I shouldn’t have been such a wanker.

Wanker. I love the Scottish idioms. And the fact that he said that can’t mean he’s all that mad and disgusted with me.

I decide to chance it and text: I totally understand if you say no to this, but would it be okay if we try again? I promise I won’t be an idiot.

Sure. Can you meet me tonight at six o’clock? The field at Avenue D and 9 th .

Tonight? I wasn’t expecting for him to say yes, let alone to want to meet up so soon. And in a field of all places? I quickly google the address because I have no idea where it is. Treasure Island pops up. I’ve only been there for a music festival. Other than that it’s the lump of rock along the Bay Bridge between San Francisco and Oakland.

Still, it’s not too far from work so I tell him I’ll meet him, even though the clouds are coming in fast and dark today.

This time I’m going to be prepared. Even though I have a crapload of work to do, I pass off as much as I can to Candace, and then go through my interview questions again and again, before I copy them out on my phone’s notepad as well as a physical notepad.

By the time five o’clock rolls around and it’s time to go, the skies outside open up and dump a deluge of rain on the city. It rarely rains in San Francisco—usually we just get clouds that seem to hold their breath but never let loose—but I grab the umbrella under my desk.

Treasure Island is close by, but I still have to go over half the Bay Bridge with everyone else in the city, so by the time I actually get to turn off from the traffic, it’s nearly six. Thankfully the rain has let up a bit as I crawl along the wide streets until I spot the field.

To my surprise there’s a game of some sort going on. When I pull the car over to the side of the road and park, I can see it’s a rugby match. I turn the car off and watch through the windows as the rain patters down. I can’t make out Lachlan in the mix of men, and my eyes scan the sidelines where people in rain slickers and umbrellas are watching. He’s not there either.

I sit in the car for a while, until the windows start to fog up, then I grab my umbrella and head out. The rain is down to a light drizzle, but the field is wet and muddy already. The people at the sidelines are talking with each other and slapping the players on the back as they come in off the field. Some head back to the line of cars. I guess the game is over.

And then I spot him, the last one walking off the field and the one holding the ball. It’s called a ball, right?

It doesn’t matter what it’s called, because just like that, I’m stunned by the sight of him. No, floored. My knees actually feel weak, and I dig my heels down into the grass to try and keep upright.

Lachlan is soaked from head to toe. Slick. Splashed with mud. And wearing cleated shoes, black shorts that would cling to him under normal circumstances, and a thin grey t-shirt that looks plastered on. There is absolutely nothing left to the imagination and I try and commit every step he takes into my memory to draw upon later. I feel like if I don’t see another man for the rest of my life, it doesn’t matter, because this vision will eclipse them all.

And he knows I’m staring. He doesn’t care. As he comes closer and I tear my eyes away from his massive thighs, the rigid outline of his six-pack, his nipples poking through that wet shirt, those tattoos—damn those tattoos!—I see what can only be described as a smirk on that gorgeous face.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away and tucking the ball under his arm. It makes his bicep flex beautifully.

I tilt my umbrella back to stare up at his face. A lock of wet hair sticks to his forehead.  Drops of rain trickle down his nose, over those full lips, and down his throat until they settle at the base of his neck. Oh god, to lick that throat.

“H-hi,” I say before composing myself. I smile. “I really didn’t expect to see you playing rugby.”

He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the rain, and eyes the sidelines where the rest of the team is leaving. Raindrops drip from his lashes. “Aye,” he says with a nod. “It’s just a pick-up league. Been playing with them a few times.”

I want to follow his gaze but I can’t. I don’t want to look away from this sight, and even if I do, I’ll hit him in the face with the umbrella. I can’t risk starting off on the wrong foot again.

“Well, I’m sure you’re giving one side an unfair advantage,” I say. “Did they have to fight over you?”

He looks at me, tilting his head, and though he’s not smiling, his eyes just might be. “They don’t know who I am.”

I nearly laugh. “How do they not know who you are?”

He shrugs and takes the ball out from under his arm, and starts spinning it between his hands. He frowns and looks everywhere. I’ve noticed he has a hard time looking at me sometimes. “I didn’t tell them.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t know anything about the game, but I’m pretty sure they’ve figured out that you’re more than just a Scottish guy who plays a few pick-up games every now and then.”