Rugby is a team game.
It’s gonna take shiteloads of effort, edge, and physicality. And even more shiteloads of trust.
Whatever our potential is, we can keep stretching that.
The water pressure drops as someone else starts their shower. Finn’s voice carries over the hiss, singing some awful pop song. Scottie joins in, deliberately off-key. Their laughter bounces off the walls.
A month ago, I’d have told them to shut it. Now? The corner of my mouth tugs upward.
Their words echo in my skull. Not their teasing. The other bit.
About Charlie.
Her face flashes behind my closed eyes. The way she marched onto that pitch. She’s fierce. Doesn’t take my shite, just flips it back at me with interest.
We’ve worked together for almost a month now. And one thing I’ve learned: she’s not some annoying PR lady pushing her agenda, holding my hand through image rehabilitation. If I didn’t know any better, I’d even say she’s seriously invested in my career.
Still have to figure out how she was involved in the whole leaking lies to the press thing, though. Makes less sense every day.
I rake my hands through wet hair, steam rising around me. My back hurts, but not just from training. Carrying anger around this long has worn me down to the bone.
I don’t think I hate her guts anymore. Not as much.
Water runs cold. I stay under it, letting the chill shock my system. But it doesn’t clear my head the way it usually does. And it doesn’t stop me picturing the way her eyes gleam when she’s challenging me. How her voice dips low when she’s proving a point. The curve of her mouth when she’s about to demolish my defences. Worst of all, the sway of her hips when she walks away. Like she knows I’d watch. Knows I’d want to. Knows I have, every single time.
‘Oi!’ Finn’s voice punches through my thoughts, and thank fuck for that. Last thing I need is a raging boner in the team shower. ‘You drowning in there, Cap?’
I slam the tap off. ‘Mind your own business, Lennox.’ But there’s no bite to it. And that’s new too.
I drip onto the tiles. That’s the thing, isn’t it? No one wins alone. Not in this sport. Not in this team. We have to bleed together.
I haven’t felt this…awake since before the scandal. Since before I started with the Rebels. Since before I forgot what it’s like to want something beyond the next win. Despite the crap session, despite everything, I feel…almost hopeful.
I put on fresh clothes. Joggers, black tee, trainers. Same as always. Then I fish my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls and one text from Charlie.
(CHARLIE 18:12) Giddy up, cowboy. We’re going on a road trip.
Jesus. Suffering. Fuck.
Chapter8
Charlie
The ferry engine thrums through my soles as I grip the rust-speckled railing. A fine drizzle mists the deck and seeps through my Burberry trench. The sea churns slate-grey, same as the sky. Early September and Scotland is already showing its autumn colours.
Brodie leans against the starboard side, arms crossed over his Rebels training jacket. Rain clings to his ridiculously long lashes.
‘You must be aware this is pure shite.’ His voice carries over the wind.
I shrug, watching a cormorant dive into the foam. ‘Management wants you playing nice with whisky folks and rich tossers. Consider it an extension of your captaincy duties.’
‘Captaincy duties don’t include prancing around with crystal glasses while my team drills set pieces without me.’
God, the drama. He’s missing a strength block, a skills drill, one tactical, and a match sim. Survivable. Otherwise, Wallace wouldn’t have let him go.
The ferry lurches, and my hip bumps into the railing. His hand shoots out, palm catching my elbow. I jolt away, but the heat lingers.
‘They’ll manage three and a half days without your divine guidance,’ I say. ‘Might even enjoy the break from your charming leadership.’
