As the forwards set up for a scrum, I look down the line of backs to make sure everyone is ready, making eye contact with Moxie before continuing down the line and groaning at what I see. As always, Bean’s head is down, like he forgot we’re in the middle of a match. If he wasn’t clear on the other side of the pitch, I’d whack him in the back of the head and tell him to concentrate. He already fumbled once tonight, giving the KC Renegades an unnecessary chance to score, and if I had my way, he would be on the bench for that.
My eyes catch Moxie’s again, and he scowls at me. Likely reading my thoughts. I clench my jaw and get into position, ready to run as soon as the ball passes through the scrum.
It shouldn’t matter to me whether the Thunder win as long as I’m playing my best. This isn’t my team, and a win in MLR means nothing for my career. I’m just here to keep up my skills. And yet the fact that we’ve only won a single match so far sits heavier on my chest than Savannah’s cat, and I can’t shake it. I’m not used to losing.
I don’t like it, especially because the Thunder has the talent. They’re just forgetting to use it.
The scrum starts, both teams fighting to gain ground. Freddie, the scrum-half, rolls the ball inside, then grabs it when it gets kicked to the back. He tosses it to Moxie as the rest of us start running. Moxie throws to a center, who throws to the other center, who throws to Bean, who only gets a few steps in before he’s tackled. Thankfully he keeps hold of the ball this time. Freddie has the ball again, getting it to Moxie who feints a throw but kicks instead.
My turn.
I burst forward, barreling through a defender and dodging another as the ball hits the ground, bouncing right. I pick up speed, scooping the ball into my arm and ramming into a Renegade to continue on my way. Easy. The try zone comes fast, and there’s no one close enough to stop me from going straight between the goal posts and planting the ball down right in the center.
“And that’s the third try of the night for the Thunder’s Logan Callahan, bringing the score to twenty-four to twenty,Renegades!” the announcer says amid a mixture of cheers and boos. Thunder teammates clap me on the back as we return to center pitch for Moxie’s conversion kick, but my focus is on Bean. More specifically his glare.
“You ever get sick of being a hero?” he grumbles as I pass him. “No one wants you here, Callahan.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, surprised by the sting his comment leaves behind. “Start pulling your weight, and I won’t have to be a hero.” My eyes travel over his thin frame. “It’s not like you have much to pull, so it shouldn’t be hard.”
As soon as those frustrated words leave my mouth, I regret them. For some reason, I can never say the right thing to Bean, which is only making the overall tension in the team worse. Knowing Bean won’t believe any apology I make, I shift to an empty part of the pitch to watch Moxie kick the conversion.
Unfortunately, another player joins me. French Roast, as the team calls him, is Bean’s best friend, and I have no doubt he’s here to call me out for my tactless comment. “He’s going through some stuff,” French says, keeping his voice low. “Do you have to be so harsh?”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off. Iambeing harsh, but it’s not on purpose. I’m trying to help Bean get out of his own way, but I’ve never been the motivational type. The best I can do is stick to the truth and hope he sees my attempts at helping him for what they are. “You all coddle him,” I mutter. “It’s holding him back.”
French rolls his eyes, clearly not a fan of my assessment. He’s one of the softest men on the pitch, full of Kiwi charm, and yet, like everyone else, he only hears my comments as conceitedinsults. I don’t need him to be my friend, but these matches would be a lot easier to win if my teammates wouldworkwith me. Give me a chance to pass on what I’ve learned over the years.
“He’s giving the best he can,” French says.
“He’s not.” I shut up and hold my breath as Moxie steps back, ready to make the conversion. As is often the case, it’s a perfect kick, and the Thunder half of the crowd—more than I expected at an away match—erupts into cheers as we jump to only two points behind the Renegades.
It doesn’t matter. The clock has nearly run out and, barring some miracle, there’s not enough time for us to get the ball back and secure a win. Another loss for the Thunder.
“I know you’re keen to win,” French says as we start spreading out for the kickoff to finish the last few minutes of the match, “but there’s more to life than rugby, mate. Ease up, yeah?”
More to life than rugby? At the moment, that’sallI have. Rugby, and a tightness in my chest that gets worse with every week I’m no closer to a conversation with Lola.
By the time we wrap up the match and get back to the hotel, I’m exhausted. Most of the lads head to the restaurant to refuel, but I go straight to my room and huck some protein powder into a shaker bottle with some water, drinking it as fast as I can.
I thought these drinks were bad before, but now that I’ve had almost a month of Savannah Blair’s cooking, the thing is barely palatable. Anything was going to be better than protein shakes, but that woman’s meals are…insane. They’re incredible. I actually look forward to popping one in my oven (which I learned the hard way heats unevenly and requires rotating the food halfway through), and it’s been a long time since something made mewantto leave the training facility at a reasonable hour.
At some point I should tell her as much, but I figure the several hundred dollars I send her each week says enough about how much I like eating her food.
Downing a bottle of water to rinse the protein taste from my mouth, I grab my phone and plop onto the bed, unsurprised to see texts from my parents. It doesn’t matter what time of day I’m playing; they’ll be watching. At least with the time difference between here and Sydney, it’s mid-Sunday afternoon for them. I’ve played matches around the world in the middle of the night for them, and they’ve never missed one.
Mum:
That was such a close game, Logie!
Dad:
Nice tackle at the start of the second half.
Mum:
It looks like you’re starting to mesh well with your new teammates.
Dad:
