“I’m a fucking team player,” I tell him. “You want to make progress, find out why whiny-boy over there has his head up his ass about his sister being an adult and me being here.”
“He says you’re washed-up, full of yourself, and have no place ruining our season for us by treating us like morons who can’t sell tickets to the matches on our own,” Porter says.
I twist my neck and stare at him. He’s tugging his Pounders training jersey down and staring right back.
He shrugs. “Rest of us are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but we’ve all heard what went down with Rafferty over in Nottingshire. Does feel like maybe you’ve played your best days already. But we have a great medical staff here. Maybe they can fix you in ways those English doctors couldn’t. And he’s wrong about the ticket thing. Sales are up since you came on. But what I don’t like is thinking new fans are coming to watch us be a shitshow, since that’s all your social media is lately. You passed out? You with your mustache on fire? It’s a shitshow.”
Heat spreads from my chest.
I take a glance around the locker room.
Silas is gone, but the rest of the guys—they’re watching.
They want to know if I’m a broken has-been who’s going to ruin their chances this year by being the weak link on the team and make a mockery of them to boot.
Six months ago, I was playing for one of the best teams in the whole damn world. Elite. Premiere. God status.
And today my new teammates in a run-down locker room with water stains on the drop ceiling and creaky benches and worn gear and threadbare carpeting think me and my social media presence will be the problem.
Challenge fucking accepted.
I turn in a slow circle, making eye contact with every one of them. “Remember this. Remember this, and then tell me how you feel when we win the whole bloody championship in front of a sold-out crowd who are all wearing our colors in someone else’s stadium in June. Because that’s what we can bloody well do if we all step up and play some fucking rugby like a team. And that’s what I’m here for. To win. As a fucking team. Any questions?”
You can see it.
More, you canfeelit.
You can feel the shift in the room at the idea of beingthe teamin the league. The guys who build a massive fan base across theentire nation. The team that plays together so well that no one can beat us. The team that goes all the way. The team that proves playing rugby as a full-time job here is possible the same way football and baseball and hockey and soccer are full-time jobs.
Except I don’t think I’m feeling it.
I think Iwantto feel it, and no one here believes me.
Not good enough, Fletcher. Work harder. Be better. You think you’re number one, but you’re number three, at best.
You’ll never be good enough.
Try harder.
You’re a disappointment.
Your grades suck.
You were rude to your teacher.
Even in rugby, you’re a disappointment.
I finish looking around, feeling not the inspiration now, but the doubt.
Fuck.
“I’m a team player, and I won’t fucking hold anyone back,” I tell Holt.
“You ready to prove you’ve got what it takes?”
“Bring it.”
“Even if it means stopping seeing Goldie?” Crew says.
