The ball skids into the hands of our scrumhalf, Warren Lund, who darts away, passing it down the line.
“Good hook!” Coach shouts as the forwards break apart and scramble into position.
The play moves quickly, the ball weaving through the backs as the team executes our set play.
I jog forward, staying ready to support, my body thrumming with adrenaline. Our inside center breaks through a tackle, then offloads the ball just before being brought down.
I take the chance to scoop it up, barreling straight into a defender without hesitation.
The hit was hard, but I stay upright, driving my legs to gain speed before being brought down.
I felt the weight of bodies pile on top of me, the chaos of the ruck forming around me. The wind feels like it’s been knocked out of me, and that’s how I know I’m out of shape. God damnit.
“Support!” I call, holding onto the ball as my teammates crash into the ruck, securing possession.
Warren darts in, plucking the ball out and passing it wide. The backs surge forward, finishing the play with a diving try in the corner.
The team erupts in cheers as I push myself to my feet, panting but grinning.
“Nice work, Holland,” Coach calls from the sideline. “That’s the kind of grit I want to see on game day! Alright, we’re done for the day. See you guys tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I mumble, wiping the sweat from my brow. My teammates clap me on the back as we all head for the locker room.
Mason jogs over to my side, a teasing grin on his face. “You enjoy getting flattened, or is it just a hooker thing?”
I smirk. “Better than standing around waiting for the ball like you backs.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Mason says, jogging ahead of me.
I shake my head because my cousin’s an idiot. Trying not to walk with a fucking limp, I make my way into the locker room where the rest of the guys are already showering and changing into street clothes.
I find an empty stall toward the back, stripping down and stepping into the hot water, and it feels good against my clammy, sweat covered skin.
I know I’m going to be in pain tomorrow for practice, and especially for Friday’s game., but I have to push through it.
Honestly, I could just say fuck it and quit., but I’m no quitter. I don’t really care if we win or lose, but I know my team does. So I have to stay strong for them. I’ve got no idea why I was given the captain position, but I won’t let my guys down.
When I’ve successfully scrubbed all of the mud and grass off of my body, I step out, wrapping a towel around my waist before heading to my locker.
Of course, Mason is still here waiting for me. He’s a loyal fucker, and I like that about him. We always have each other’s backs.
He stands from his spot on the bench he was sitting on and grins at me.
“We’re going out,” he states, as if that’s a final decision. Giving him a questioning look, I dig through my gym bag to find clean clothes. I pull them on, careful with bending my leg as I step into my sweats.
“Who’s we? I’m going home. I’m starving, and I need sleep,” I tell him, slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading for the door. I can hear Mason’s footsteps as he follows behind me.
“You, me, Logan, and some of the guys from the team. We’re going to Rascal’s,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I’mnot going anywhere.”
Walking through the parking lot to my car, Mason strolls up next to me, pouting.
“Come on, man. I can’t go without my wingman,” he tells me, sagging in a pathetic way. I shake my head and chuckle.
“Sorry, Mase. Not tonight,” I say as I toss my bag into the back of my car and get in the driver’s seat, starting it up immediately because it’s cold as fuck out here. A moment later, I sigh, rolling my window down.
“Are you getting in the car, shithead? Or are you going to walk home?” I ask, annoyance laced in my voice.
