Like a rational fucking adult.
When I’d rather put my fist through his face and get this over with.
“Andstay the fuck away from my sister.”
“Your sister’s doing me the favor of being seen in public with me as a publicity stunt to sell tickets so that I can prove to the wanker formerly known as my UK coach that he was fucking wrong when he told me I was done playing rugby.”
Fuck.
All of that tastes worse in my mouth than my morning eggs did and feels worse than my eggs did coming out the other end.
Smells worse too.
But thevery, very, veryworst part?
The worst part is the utter silence falling in the changing room.
Not just the three of us.
Some of the younger guys are in.
Two other dudes are lingering in the doorway.
At least ten of my teammates heard me say that.
Might as well strip off my shorts and budgie smugglers too. Stand there letting it all hang out to go with what I’ve confessed because Goldie fucking told me to.
“Fuck your old coach, man,” Crew says.
I jerk my head around to look at the tall Black man, who nods like he’s repeating himself.Fuck your old coach.
“He still in your head?” Holt asks.
I scoff.
That means yes. Likely they know it.
“You need a good therapist,” Porter says.
“I don’t need a fucking therapist. I need to play. And sell out this fucking stadium and show him he’s an ass-wanker.”
“You think we don’t want to sell out too?” Holt says quietly.
“Tired of working three jobs, bruh,” Crew adds.
He’s like me.
Caught the rugby bug when his military family was stationed overseas.
Unlike me, he seems to genuinely still like his family and not think he constantly needs to prove himself and live up to some abnormal level of perfectionist standards.
Bloody hell.
Maybe I do need a therapist.
Rather talk to Goldie though.
I’m doing my best not to growl as I look around the locker room. “You know why I picked this team?”
