Mills Boon this week announced a new series of rugby-themed romances, promising "jet-set locations, hunky alpha-male heroes and hot sex . . . in a rugby context". The first novel will be published to coincide with the start of the Six Nations next month. Anticipating a similar series set in the world of the GAA, Frank McNallyhas begun work on a romantic novel to coincide with the start of the All-Ireland Championships. Here is an exclusive extract from his book, The Rub and the Green
TRACY O'HARA resisted the urge to bite her nails. Since being appointed deputy assistant physio with the county hurling team, she had tried to maintain a professional detachment from what happened on the pitch. Especially anything involving him. But this was too close for comfort. The lads were in a real dog-fight. She looked up yet again at the scoreboard, with its Nivea for Men advertisement. Only a point in it with five minutes left. Could they hold out? Added to her nerves about the game - and the tingle in her spine every time she saw the number-eight shirt - was the unexpected responsibility she now carried.
Since the freak first-half accident that had required the hospitalisation of both the full-time physio and his assistant, she was now in sole charge of treating team injuries: even though she was still only in second-year physio. All around her, grown men were losing their cool. Not least the team manager, Tom. "Up his arse, Mikey!" he screamed for the umpteenth time at the corner-back, who had conceded two points in quick succession. Somewhere behind her, another hoarse male voice screamed that his "granny" would be a better option than some of those playing.
Tracy felt like she was being tossed around on a stormy sea of testosterone. But she told herself she had to remain calm, even if nobody else did. Involuntarily, her eyes wandered to mid-field, where he stood, waiting for the puck-out. The sun glinted on his curly dark hair and his swarthy features, now soaked with sweat. He looked not unlike Seán Óg Ó hAilpín*, she realised, watching his broad, rippling shoulders, which rose and fell rhythmically.
Her knees weakened slightly as she followed the sinews of his neck and then the line of his jaw: so firm and yet - she could tell even from here - moisturised. God, he was gorgeous, she thought. "Yis feckin useless eejits!" the man behind her roared. And emerging from her reverie, Tracy noticed that the opposition supporters were cheering another score. The teams were now level. Beside her, the selectors had gone into emergency huddle.
She gazed around her at the downcast home fans, many now biting their nails, as she wanted to do.
While gazing, she noticed the same supporters suddenly emit a mass howl of indignation. In that instant, the manager was beside her, spewing vitriol in the direction of the pitch. "He took him out of it, ref! The dirty wee git!" Instinctively realising that one of her charges was injured, Tracy sprang into action, running towards a melee in midfield, where a home player lay prostrate, writhing.
In her peripheral vision, Tracy noted that the referee was consulting his linesman. She also heard the home crowd shouting: "Off! Off! Off!" But as she neared the stricken figure, his dark curls were unmistakeable. And suddenly everything else faded into the background.
Kneeling beside him and opening her bag, she heard her exterior voice ask: "Where does it hurt, Tadgh?" It sounded cool enough. But her interior voice was saying "Oh. My. God." over and over. She could only hope her inner turmoil would not show.
Tadhg had pointed to an area between his upper thigh and groin. The sartorius muscle, Tracy reminded herself, fumbling in the bag for the deep-heat aerosol can. Oh no! She had forgotten to pack it. "You idiot," she berated herself, "you'll look like a complete amateur." But wait. She also had a tube of the stuff, she remembered. Thank God! The cream would be just as effective when rubbed in.
"Sartorius, sartorius, sartorius," Tracy repeated mentally, trying to remain professional as she lifted the hem of Tadgh's shorts and applied the cream. She was only dimly conscious of the continuing melee around them. But this was not quite clinical detachment, she knew. For a few fleeting moments, it was as if the world had dissolved, leaving only her and Tadgh alive. The pungent smell of the deep-heat cream rose from his thigh. And suddenly Tracy sensed that this was not the only heat being generated between them. She blushed as she felt his smouldering eyes upon her. Instinctively, she combed her hair back with now-sticky fingers. And for the first time their eyes met. "Do you think you'll be okay?" she asked him. But he didn't need to answer. His hurley was already thrust skyward, erect and throbbing for action. Soon, he too was on his feet.
As he trotted back into position, Tracy stole a furtive glance at his taut, sculptured body, particularly admiring the way the damp shorts clung to his gluteus maximus. "Off! Off! Off!" the crowd was still shouting. "My thoughts exactly," muttered Tracy.
The game had entered stoppage time now. The next score would win it. Suddenly Tadgh - who had acquired a new lease of life since the injury treatment - was bearing down on goal. From somewhere in the stand, Tracy heard the disembodied voice of Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh shouting: "He's 40 yards out! He's 30 yards out! He must score . . ."
Tadhg swung his hurley. The home crowd went mad and the manager danced a jig of delight. Amid the maelstrom of emotions, only Tracy felt calm. For the first time in months, she had a strange craving for a cigarette.
* Our lawyers would like to point out that he was definitely not Seán Óg Ó hAilpín, or any other real-life GAA star