My heart’s thumping in my ears, drowning out reason. I know they’re right. It’s like being skinned alive, every word slicing through. But I can’t swallow the rage rising up like bile.
‘If you’re gonna fall apart, do it on your own time,’ Scottie mutters. ‘We’re busting our arses out there while you’re too busy wrestling your demons. You’re not the only one who’s got stuff to deal with. We’re all carrying something. You’re the captain. Act like it.’
Silence swells. I can’t lift my head, can’t meet their eyes. Shame gnaws through the anger, twisting it into something ugly and bitter.
Finn wipes his bleeding shin with his shirt. ‘A broken heart’s no excuse to break your spine, mate. Or get us the wooden spoon.’
‘Aye,’ Scottie agrees. ‘We’re building something here. Don’t piss it away. You’ve got two choices, MacRae. Keep tearing yourself apart, or take that energy and fight for her. Your call.’
I press my palms against my knees. The fury’s burnt itself out fast, leaving nothing but nerves and a knot of guilt twisting in my ribs.
Jamie walks past, shoving my shoulder as he goes. ‘Play smart, MacRae. Or don’t play at all.’
He’s right. They all are. Doesn’t mean it stings any less.
Coach ducks back in. ‘Let’s move, lads. Second half. Two minutes. MacRae, a word.’
I’ve been getting my arse handed to me so often in the past month that I could draw it from memory.
‘One more high tackle and I bench you. You’re not just risking yourself, you’re risking the whole team. You think I’m gonna let you trash your backandour season just because your head’s fucked? Get it together!’
I nod, tight and quick.
Fine.
Coach gives me a long look, like he’s weighing up whether to poke or let it lie. Then he lets out a rough exhale and walks off.
Smart move.
I swallow down the sting, forcing my shoulders back. I thought being unbreakable would mean something. They’re sharing energy gels, cracking jokes. Jamie and Scottie huddled up, Finn smacking one of the new lads on the back. No one comes near me.
They don’t see strength. They see a loose cannon.
Proving I’m not weak shouldn’t feel this fucking hollow. I worked harder, played rougher. For what? Respect? Pride? Trying to prove I’m more than just some heartbroken loser who lost his edge?
The whistle shrieks, cutting through my thoughts.
I shove down the ache, shake out my hands, and force myself to move.
Chapter22
Charlie
The succulent’s dying. Brodie gave it to me before everything went to hell, and I’ve not managed to keep it alive, not even for over a month.
Cruel symbolism.
It doesn’t even need much. Just enough light, a bit of water.
I hate how much I want to call him. How I wake up at three in the morning with my phone in my hand. Or how I’ve scrolled through his socials like a goddamn addict – yes, @PlantDaddy, too – desperate for any hint that he’s as miserable as I am. But he’s out there, clawing his way back to the top one game after the other.
I should throw that plant out. Let it die like the rest of whatever’s left of me. But I kept watering it, as if keeping it alive meant I didn’t mess everything up beyond repair.
Well, I fucked that up. And there’s no one to blame but myself.
A memory slips through the cracks. Brodie in his kitchen, frying bacon at 3 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep, wearing nothing but boxers and a lazy grin.
I keep telling myself it’s better this way. Better for him to be free of me. And vice versa. We’re too much alike. Too ambitious, too stubborn, too broken.
