Those giant beauties are so bloody cool.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
I’ve been draggingarse all morning, and not only do I know it, but my teammates do too. Our final match of my first pro season is approaching, and I'm playing like absolute dog shite. It makes me question whether I even belong here at all, or if this was just a dream boat and I should get off at the nearest port.
Every move I make feels like a battle against my own bloody body. The pitch stretches out farther than it should, and I can’t catch my breath. Coach Auclair blows the whistle, sharp and impatient, but I’m already two steps behind.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzz settling between my ears. My legs are slow, stiff in a way I haven’t felt in months.
It shouldn’t be like this. I have too many people counting on me to be messing with my schedule the way I have.
I’ve spent my life bending the world to the shape of my routine. But last night—hell, the last several days—I let everything slip. The late nights sprawled on the sofa with Adhira gave way to sleeplessness as I battled anxiety. When I’d manage to fall asleep, nightmares of an unthinkable outcome for her woke me, leading to early mornings spent making her breakfast so I’d know she was eating. Then yesterday, when I skipped my morning workout to keep her company, the last thread of my seamless routine had officially been shredded. Now I’m here, playing catch-up with my own body.But I can’t get myself to regret any of it.
A ruck forms in front of me, and I’m supposed to be in the thick of it, breaking through, finding that tiny gap in the defence. But I’m stuck. The ball’s too far, the breakdown too slow. Ariki is across from me, looking ready to tear into it, and I’m still getting my feet set, still catching up to the play.
I hear Coach’s voice slicing through the air, cutting straight to my bones. “Move it, Elliott! You’re losing ground!”
I force myself to lunge forward, not fast enough, and definitely not strong enough. The other flanker beats me to it, snatching the ball before I even get a hand on it. I want to scream. I want to slam my fist into the ground, but I don’t. I just suck it up and swallow the frustration.
This is my mess. My fuck-up.
My teammates shouldn’t have to suffer because I’m taking on too many roles for too many people.
The whistle blows again. I dig deep, pushing harder, fighting the fog in my head and the pull of exhaustion that makes me want to collapse in the middle of the pitch.
The next hour drags on, and when we’re finished, my head hangs low in defeat, shoulders sagging, a weight the size of Adhira settled into the pit of my stomach.
“Elijah,” Coach calls out, waving me down. “Can I have a word with you?”
I carry myself to his altar, ready for a heavy blow that’ll leave me even more frustrated than I already am.
He stands tall with his hands on his hips, blue eyes the same terrifying shade as his daughter’s staring back at me.
“You’re looking sluggish today. What’s going on with you?” His lips pinch, brows downcast, creating a dark shadow over his eyes.
I suck in a breath, willing my thready heartbeat to calm down. “I’m sorry, Coach. It’s just an off day. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Coach grabs my shoulder and gives it a rough squeeze. “Elijah, youwillhave off days. That’s life. It’s how you come back from them that matters. I have every confidence that youwillcome back from this. I just wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I hadn’t mentioned it. I’m not trying to dog-pile you with guilt because from the looks of it”—he rakes his gaze over my frame—“you’re already very aware that your performance needs some work. With the last match of the season this weekend, and your contract renewal coming with it, I just want to make sure you’re on top of your game.”
My eyes widen, and I’m sure he sees the flash of horror in them at the reminder of my contract. He shakes his head. “Stop, stop. Cut that out. The renewal is coming, I’m sure of it. You’ve played every bit as well as I’d hoped you would in your first season in the premiership. Just go home and get some rest.”
“Thank you, Coach,” I say, hustling to the locker rooms, where I’m greeted by a scowling Rafael, not that his expression is any different when he’s happy.
He gives me a similar speech, using far fewer words, and when I’m released, I hurry through my shower before sprintingto my car. I just want to go home and get this day over with so I can start afresh tomorrow.
I’m feeling far better now than I was earlier. I guess that’s what happens when the woman you live with is as intelligent and utterly distracting as Adhira. She didn’t know that I was in a shit mood when I returned home, which eased some of the tension that had built in my muscles.
She thanked me for putting felt pads on the bottom of the stools so they wouldn’t make that sound she hates so much, then babbled on and on about flat-toothed orcas who extract Great White livers with “surgical precision.” I swear, she could teach a class on them.
When she went to her room for a nap, I snuck downstairs to see Tina and Rodney, the owners of the Broken Teapot. It felt good to get my hands on some clay and throw a pot. It was a little lopsided thanks to the unnecessary strength I’d poured into it from frustration with my performance today, but by the time I got back to the apartment, I was feeling a lot more myself.
Adhira and I shared dinner, as has been our nightly routine, and now we’re relaxed on the sofa, watching women’s football.
My phone rings right on time, and I answer with a wide smile. “Hello, little lad—” Mum’s tight-lipped expression greets me, a stark contrast to the usual loud, excited greeting I get from my sisters.
A sensation similar to heartburn climbs up my chest. “Is everything okay?”
