I’m next. The pass comes. My hands sting as I take it, ignoring the opposite flanker’s glare like I’m prey locked in their sights.
Don’t you dare miss this carry.
I don’t. I lower my hips, drive forward, drag him with me three metres before I’m down. The ruck forms, and I roll away, my chest heaving with exertion. I spit, blood-tinged saliva coating my tongue.
My gaze flits around the packed stadium as I rise, the scoreboard jeering at my shortcomings. I think of last week and my missed read—a late push no one blamed me for but myself. They said it didn’t matter.
It always does.
“Great line!” someone shouts, but I can’t bask in the praise; it feels undeserved.
I see our fly half shaping for a loop, needing bodies wide. I call for it, my voice loud and clipped. “Options left!”
Don’t screw this up. Don’t overcall. Don’t think you know better.
He’s quick to throw me a signal. The ball comes out, and we’re moving, my body taking on a mind of its own, trained by years of muscle memory, and yet I still don’t trust myself. Not enough to carry the weight of their futures on it. Onme.My heart hammers in my ears, breath catching with each pivot, a rhythm of effort and doubt I can’t quite shake.
We’re moving. I sweep left and clean a ruck, jarring an elbow out.
I second-guess every choice, every line, every cleanout.
Then it happens. Minute sixty-two.
Their scrum half darts blind and kicks in behind. It’s catchable. Our fullback hesitates, but I don’t.
I sprint ahead, getting there as fast as my feet will carry me. I arrive first, but the bounce betrays me, the ball slipping through, and they dive forward.
The stadium erupts in a chorus of cheers and boos. Sweat drips into my eyes; the air reeks of churned grass and bodies. The roar of the crowd is deafening, every sound vibrating through my bones.
And even before the ref points to the posts, I’m blaming myself.
Where were you? Should’ve covered better. Should’ve read it sooner. You hesitated.
I slump forward, my hands falling to my knees as I try to suck in a breath that just won’t come.
Coach shouts from the sidelines, but I can’t hear him.
My gaze flicks to the score, and there’s a tug deep in my chest.
We’re behind.Again.
My jersey presses on my skin, suffocating me beneath it like the hands of guilt wrapped around my throat. The same suffocation I’ll feel again, later, when something—or someone—starts to matter too much.
Ever since I arrived in Embershire to join the Wyvern Warriors, they’ve told me I am better than good enough. That I belong here, and most of the time,I believe it.But on days like these, when the sun hasn’t made an appearance in weeks and my spine is crumbling from sleepless nights spent on my disgusting sleeper sofa with my feet dangling over the end, second-guessing every move I make is all I can manage.
The match ends in a loss for the Wyvern Warriors, the second of only two for the entire season. A season nearing its end in the National Premiership League, and if I don’t get my shit together, I might not have a contract to fight for at all.
“Elliott!” my captain, Rafael, calls. I spin to face him, my heart in my throat as I take in his scowling expression. Not that it’s anything new, but I’d rather it not be aimed at me.
My stomach lurches as he barrels across the pitch towards me, apologies bubbling up my throat, but he slaps me on the back, tugging me against his chest in an abrupt, almost bruising hug that speaks of absolutely no affection. I’m left bleeding with confusion.
“You’re impressing everyone. I see that look on your face, and I suggest you wipe it clean because we all miss plays. This is a team sport. This loss isn’t yours to carry alone.”
I swallow hard, nodding my agreement, but can’t seem to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I certainly hadn’t been anticipating a pep talk when he came over here. As much as I try to remain optimistic, fear of failure when so much is on the line does nothing but strangle my joy.
This isn’t uni; it’s the big leagues. It’s the chance I’ve waited my whole life for. I gave up everything for my family, and that thought, more than anything, keeps me fighting even when it scares me half to death.
“Good. Now, onto the important stuff,” he grunts out, crossing his arms over his chest. I arch a brow in question, and he barrels on, putting me out of my misery. “Coach’s daughter has a friend who needs a new flatmate, and seeing as you might as well be living inside a dumpster with the state of your flat, I’ve offered you up as a contender. Interested?” His tone carries that familiar mix of irritation and reluctant fondness.
