“You’re fucking dead, Monroe.”
I laugh loudly, and that seems to piss him off even more. God, it’s just too easy.
I run my tongue over my teeth and grin mischievously. I’m sure I look crazy, and that’s what I’m banking on.
“Bring it on, Tommy Boy.”
I adjust my grip on my green Ellington U shorts, rolling my shoulders. As hooker and captain, I’m basically at the heart of every scrum, every battle, every hard-fought inch of territory.
It’s a lot of pressure, but I love it.
Ridgewood has a reputation for playing dirty, and so far, tonight was no exception. Late tackles, high hits, shoving in the ruck. Things are escalating, and fast. I can feel the tension bleeding off of my guys and theirs.
But I’m not rattled. If anything, I’m thriving.
“Stay tight,” I mutter lowly as me and the guy’s crouch into the scrum. "They want us angry. Don't give them the satisfaction. We can’t let them win because we can’t keep our heads."
Across from us, Ridgewood’s front row sneered, their prop, a hulking figure with a permanent scowl, spitting onto the grass.
“Nice speech, Captain. Hope it sounds as good when you're eating dirt,” the big guy says. I think his names Allen or something stupid like that.
I can’t help but grin at his juvenile trash talk. “Guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we?”
The referee raises his whistle. “Crouch! Bind! Set!”
Our packs slam together in a violent collision, bodies straining for dominance. I can feel Ridgewood’s prop twisting illegally, driving up under my chin in an attempt to disorient me.
I bite down my frustration, keeping my form, hooking the ball cleanly back to my scrum-half.
But Ridgewood won’t fucking let up.
The moment the ball is out, their flanker slams into me, late, high, deliberate. I go down hard, skidding across the mud, elbows scraping against the rough turf.
The whistle doesn’t blow.
The crowd erupts, jeers and shouts filling the air. I barely have time to shake off the hit before the Ridgewood player is standing over me,pressing a heavy forearm to my chest.
"How’s that dirt taste, Monroe?" the Ridgewood flanker sneers.
Rage boils inside me and I know I’m about to lose my cool. Instead of trying to stop the anger from boiling over, I give in, because fuck it.
My hand shoots out, shoving the Ridgewood player off as I spring to my feet. The shove wasn’t hard, but it was enough. Enough to ignite the powder keg.
Players from both teams rush in, shoving, grabbing, and shouting. I look up just in time to see some guy from Ridgewood heading straight for Mason. Fists are flying, and I duck away from a stray elbow as I jog over to where Mason is throwing punches at Tommy Crawford.
With a growl, I yell, "back off!"
Yanking Crawford by the back of the shirt, I tug him backward, causing him to stumble to the ground. Crawford gets one good punch in, right on my jaw, before the whistle blows.
"Enough!" The referee storms between us, shoving us apart from one another, his face red with fury. "One more move like that and cards are coming out!"
Slowly, we all make our way back to position, but the tension remains, and I honestly just want this fucking game to end at this point.
My jaw clenches as Crawford passes me to get into his position, and I can’t help the glare I’m shooting at him. I can feel the ref watching my every move, and against my better judgement, I stay rooted to my spot.
"Keep it clean," the referee warns, locking eyes with both Tommy and me.
I exhale sharply, trying to hold my eyes back from rolling. Instead, I nod.
