“Okay, lads? Good morning,” Eksteen says. He sets his coffee down next to his laptop.
Some of us reply with a “Morning.” Mathias doesn’t, because he’s Mathias. Not that I’m hyperfocusing on what Mathias is doing again.
Fine, I might have been staring. Just a little. And no, it’s not jealousy. It’s just that . . . I don’t get it.
What does he have—except for eight more years’ pro rugby experience, national team representation, a successful side hustle of organising big community matches, about a thousand sponsorships, millions of adoring international fans, and about three hundred millimetres in additional height—that I don’t?
Jerk face.
Eksteen continues speaking, pulling me out of my spiral. “As we all know, Bosley and Jones are getting married next weekend, so there’s no match on the first or second of May.”
Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. I guess I’m not finished whinging about Mathias.
He has this super fucking wholesome, super fucking perfect love life too. So fine, maybe I am jealous. I’m only twenty-three, there’s still plenty of time to find “the one,” but in the meantime, could I at least find . . . anyone?
Jesus, literally anybody will do.
Dating apps are useless. Finding someone IRL in a club or a bar or even a park is a total no-go, and I rarely meet any new people outside of my teammates and my family.
For once in my life, I just want to be someone’s first choice. I want to be Eksteen’s first choice, the team’s first choice, the fans’ . . . Just one single individual person’s first choice.
At the wedding announcement, Dan Chelford, the Cents’ captain, slaps Mathias on the back. It ignites a chorus of cheers and “Oi-oi!”
We’re all invited. Some of us have even been asked to be in the wedding party. Not me, though. Of course not me. It’s not like Mathias and I train together every single day because we play the same position. It’s not like—
Oh, fuck off, Harry.
I’m even boring myself with my little pity party.
“Sunday is our last fixture for a few weeks, and we need to show Gloucester what we’re made of. So . . . here’s the roster.” Eksteen reels off positions followed by the player filling that spot. It’s the same as it is most weeks. Occasionally—very occasionally—he’ll mix it up because he wants to try something new, or he has to substitute someone because of injury. “Doyle number one. Williams two. Chelford three. Harris four. Eggington five.”
The guys who’ve been summoned simply nod their acknowledgments. Honestly, I’d probably cry if he called my name any lower than sixteen.
Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten.
If I chant it often enough in my head, eventually I’m gonna hear those words being spoken, right?
I’ve been practicing kicking. I’m so much better than I was two years ago.Soooomuch better. Just give me a chance. Come on.
“Number ten is Jones.”
“Fuck!” I say, hopefully not out loud.
Pi’s hand shoots out to tap my leg. “Mate,” he whispers.
“Campbell eleven.”
I don’t miss the way Pi’s fist curls into an excited air punch. He deserves it. We play different positions, and he’s earned the right. I’m not going to be the twat who’s jealous of his best friend, but I do have to wait until the final spot to hear my name.
“And last but not least,” Eksteen says peering up over his clipboard at me and twisting the knife even deeper. “Ellis, twenty-three.”
I should be happy. Iamhappy, and I have nobody to blame but myself. Obviously, I haven’t worked hard enough. I need to push myself more. At least I’m not one of the six lads fidgeting in the back row whose names haven’t been called. They’ve only just moved up from the academy squad, but it must feel like such a kick in the bollocks to get overlooked every week.
“Before we kit up and get to training, Dan has a little announcement,” Eksteen says.
“You retiring?” Snatch shouts from the front.
“Ha ha ha,” Dan deadpans. “You wish, mate. Right, I’ll keep this brief.”
