The team cackled at his expense. “You’re utterly fucked in the head, man,” Nate grumbled next to me.
I looked around the room then. At the scuffed boots. The taped limbs. The mix of nerves and belief finally evening out.
“They’re going to come for us,” I said, keeping it simple. “That’s fine. Let them.”
A few heads lifted.
“We’re solid today, lads. It’s ours.”
We filed out a minute later, the concrete under our boots cool as the noise from outside swelled. The tunnel narrowed us in, shoulder to shoulder, breaths syncing. This buzz was unmatched. I fucking loved the game. I knew that much. Yet, there was still something lingering just out of reach in my mind, begging me to think harder about it.
The first time I’d ever walked through a tunnel like this, I’d been small enough that my hand disappeared inside my grandad’s. I barely remembered the match itself, just the way everything made me feel alive and so small in a world that was big. When the light had opened up in front of us, he squeezed my hand once, firm and proud, like he was passing something to me as my heart raced.
My grandad had leaned down as we walked, his mouth close to my ear so I could hear him over the noise building ahead of us.
“This is the part you remember, boyo.”
Now, years later, the tunnel felt narrower. Emptier too. My hand curled uselessly at my side, remembering a weight that wasn’t there anymore. Back then, walking out had felt like stepping into purpose. Like everything pointed forward. Now I caught myself thinking, not for the first time, about what I would remember from this season when it was over. The wins would fade. The losses too. The noise would collapse into a highlight reel I’d barely watch. What lingered lately were smaller things. Moments without an audience. Being looked at not for what I could deliver, but for what I could pass on.
I still walked. I always would. But my grandad’s words followed me now in a different way.This is the part you remember.And for the first time, I wasn’t sure he’d meant the tunnel at all. Because standing there, with my team, was everything. The big moments and the small, and the impact we had on future generations. Just like my grandad had on me.
We moved as one as we re-entered the green. There were voices shouting, banners being held up for us, and then they came into view. The Valkyries all in their own training kits in the stands above us. Lola cupped her mouth and yelled, “Come on, boys!”
“Pick up those thick thighs, Ledger.”
Jake whirled around, slapping said thighs with a wink. “I got you, darlin’.”
A few of the others with them whispered something and broke out into cackles that echoed around us as we all watched in awe.
“Go on now,” Evie said, shooing us away. “And if you embarrass us out here, we’ll never let you hear the end of it.”
Lola blew a kiss in Jake’s direction. “Run fast, boys.”
The laughter rolled easily between us, loose and loud, bleeding into the stands. People were filming now, catching the overlap of our teams doing what they usually do—giving each other crap, but with love.
I shook my head, laughing under my breath, and then I found Teddy.
She stood just behind the rail, arms folded, cheeks pink, clearly debating whether to disown the team publicly or not. When Lola leaned in to say something in her ear, Teddy swatted her away without looking. Then she gave me an unmistakable wink that lit me up inside, and Nate appeared next to me. “Did she just wink at you, Cap?”
“Pretty sure she did,” I said, still watching her.
Nate followed my line of sight, lips twitching. “Huh. That’s new.”
Coach’s voice carried across the green, loud enough to cut through the chaos. That was our cue.
We turned with even more whistles and yells behind us and set up, ready to win this fucking game.
***
The try came late and ugly from the opposite team.
A busted tackle out wide, a scramble that had turned into bodies on the turf, and then the ref’s arm went up as their winger slid over the line. The stadium had groaned as one, the scoreboard ticking over while we dragged ourselves back into position, chests heaving, sweat stinging our eyes.
The second half had been a grind—missed passes, bruising contact, momentum swinging back and forth and more cuts and scrapes than necessary. It wasn’t pretty rugby. It was rough.
The restart had come fast. We locked in, burned the final minutes down with stubborn carries and clean exits, boots thudding, lungs screaming. We kept the ball out of their hands as best we could, and when the whistle finally blew, sharp and final, it cut through everything.
Game over. Thank fuck.
