Fair enough.
We reset, and I focused on my rhythm: one, two, plant, turn. My boots dug into the turf. The ball came at me again, fast and heavy. This time, I caught it; my hands stung from the impact, but I pulled it tight against my chest before the defender could close in.
“Better!” Coach called. “Maybe Whitaker can learn!”
Kendrick jogged past, slapping my shoulder pad so hard it jolted me. “Told you. Just running and catching, man. What’d you play again back home?”
“Rugby.” I rolled my shoulder where he’d hit me. “Less choreography, more chaos.”
He grinned. “You’ll fit right in. We've got plenty of chaos here. We just schedule it.”
The next rep, I was lined up against a defensive back. He was short and fast, with a look that said I was already his least favorite person.
“Don’t think your uncle’s giving you my reps, bro,” he sneered, crouching down.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Stay outta my lane.”
The snap came, and we collided with a crash of pads I wasn’t used to. His forearm jammed into my chest, causing me to lose my balance and act on instinct.
Rugby taught you to use the hit, not fight it. I rolled my shoulder, let his weight carry us forward, stepped through, and broke free.
By some kind of miracle, the ball spiraled, and I caught it clean. I turned and took off through the end of the rep like a bat out of hell.
“Not bad, Australia!” someone yelled again.
The defensive back jogged past, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe not lucky this time.”
“Cheers,” I panted.
By the end of the day, my shirt was soaked, my calves were trembling, and my lungs were burning, but my body buzzed with the right kind of exhaustion. The kind indicating you had survived the battle and might even have earned your spot doing it.
As we walked off, Kendrick fell into step beside me again. “We’re hitting Moe’s after this. Burritos the size of your head. You in?”
I hesitated, glancing at my uncle who was talking to the other coaches. “Yeah, alright. Don’t want to look like the antisocial foreigner.”
“Good man. Word of advice? Avoid the ranch dressing. Americans are crazy about the stuff.”
“Right.” I laughed. “Duly noted.”
By the time we hit the locker room, my arms ached. Helmets clanged, laughter echoed off the tiles and the airhummed with post-practice energy, almost resembling a sense of belonging.
I was halfway through untying my cleats when someone addressed me again. “Gotta be nice having the coach for an uncle.”
I laughed, trying to make it sound easy. “Yeah, real nice. Means I get yelled at twice as much — once here, once at home.”
Kendrick smirked. “Still, bet it helps.”
“Yeah, nah.” I tugged off my shirt. “He’s not really the favoritism type. More the ‘run it again until you get it right’ type. He reckons I’m here to help him prove a point.”
“Crash-test dummy?” Reece offered.
“Exactly. Family discount.”
The room burst into laughter again, easily and naturally. Someone threw a towel, and someone else argued about who’d eaten the last protein bar.
Then Kendrick leaned over again, his tone quieter. “You sticking around after the season?”
