‘Come on, MacRae!’ Cameron Wallace barks from the sidelines. Our coach is pacing like a caged wolf, eyes blazing. He’s been behind me from the start. Can’t fucking let him down.
Focus. I need to fucking focus.
I take the next pass – perfect spiral, straight to me – and surge forward. Someone’s on my right – Jamie, ready for the handoff – but I see an opening and go for it. Lower my shoulder, break through a gap, but there’s too much fucking pressure. I’m caught, as three of them swarm me, dragging me down. I hit the ground hard, ball tucked tight, no backup. Before I can place it, they’ve snatched it clean.
I hear the ref’s whistle, sharp and merciless, and it’s done. Ball’s theirs. Another fucking turnover.
Time’s running out. We need one good play. Just one more.
But it never comes.
The whistle blasts, slicing through the noise. 14-16. Close loss. Closer than anyone thought we’d get in our first game.
Should feel like a victory. It doesn’t. Not to me.
Because it’s not the team that let it slip. It’s me. I wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t sharp enough. Didn’t read the pitch right. If I’d been faster, better, more tuned in, we’d have won.
The lads are on their knees, breathing rough, slapping each other’s backs like they’re proud of what we did. They should be. They fought like beasts.
But I didn’t lead them the way I should’ve.
I hang back, shoulders tense, teeth set like I’m trying to keep the whole damn day from spilling out.
There’s no pride in today. A loss is a loss.
My lungs are burning, sweat running down my back. My ribs ache, back’s sore, and my thighs are cramping up. I scrub my hand across my skin, wiping sweat from my eyebrows. My forearms are streaked with dried mud.
They’re waving me over to the improvised media tent by the touchline. I want to tell them to fuck off. Not happening. Captain’s duty, can’t dodge this one. I take a resigned breath and slog over. My legs are dead weight. Everything fucking hurts.
Coach is already there, leaning on the rail with that stoic look of his. Gives me a nod. He knows I’d rather be anywhere else. I wipe the sweat off again, roll both hands into fists to keep them from shaking, and step up to the mic.
I look for her. She’s not here. Just cameras and nothing I give a shite about. Right. She’s probably still up in VIP, doing her job. Keeping the journos onside, pushing the narrative. Makes sense.
Even if I don’t see what the hell there is to spin after that performance.
I know I’m talented as fuck. I just need more focus. More bite.
The first reporter doesn’t waste time. ‘Respectable start for a new side, Brodie. How are you feeling about the result?’
I nod and keep my tone even. ‘Aye, a score like that hurts. But in the end, the Chargers had the upper hand. The lads gave everything. It was a close contest. We had our moments. Plenty to build on. We’ll keep pushing.’
Another voice jumps in, fast. ‘Plenty of eyes on you today, Brodie. How does it feel stepping back onto the pitch with all that…controversy ?’
Honestly? Like getting punched in the nuts and told to smile. I knew it was coming. Knew someone would bring it up. And if Charlie hadn’t made me sit through those extra media sessions – hours of pacing, reframing – I’d probably be throwing fists instead of sound bites.
I was pissed with her for it at the time. But that’s the only reason that guy isn’t picking up his teeth from the turf right now.
I square my stance, meet their eyes. ‘Feels right. Feels like home. I’m here to play rugby. Nothing else.’
Someone else calls out, ‘What’s your take on the team’s potential this season?’
I keep my expression neutral. ‘We’ve got talent. Grit. You saw it. Still a few things to tidy up, but the effort’s there. The belief’s there. And we’re only just getting started.’
Cameron steps in before the next question can land. ‘That’s all for now. Brodie’s got recovery to do.’
I slap his hand low as I pass, shoulder past the reporters, and make for the tunnel.
It’s calmer there. But that doesn’t stop the thudding between my temples. The lads will be gassed up, riding the high of a decent debut. And aye, it could’ve been worse, overall. And yet… It doesn’t sit right with me. I could’ve done more. I should’ve done better.
