I tighten my grip around the handle of my sports bag, knuckles going white as I try to ignore the strain in my chest. Avoiding the press during the off season was relatively easy, and I thought—I hoped—by now,the issues from last year would be old news, but that was a fool’s wish. The media feeds on this sort of thing; thinking I could get into the stadium unscathed was idiotic. They’re all sharks, and I’m chum in the water as they circle me.
“Last year was disappointing, but we’re back and going to give it our all on the pitch.” Some of them pipe up to ask more questions, but I interrupt them with a hand up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a team meeting starting in a few minutes, and Coach will hang me up by my jewels if I’m late.”
I can hear the clicks of the cameras as I walk away into Knightsbridge Stadium. The false smile falls the second I’m behind the solid metal doors to the private tunnels meant only for players and staff, but tension in my shoulders remains.
Reveling in the public’s attention used to be easy. Press and media would lap up whatever I was willing to give them, and there wasn’t much off the table in that respect. I was built for the public eye—loved it, even. Interviews, press junkets, brand deals—being the face of our team was an honor I shrouded myself in like a robe.
Until it all came crumbling down.
Now, every camera in my face, every reporter asking questions feels like I’m drowning under a frozen lake, banging on a three inch slab of ice I can’t crack. The only way to cope is to hide behind sunglasses and fake bravado, and I’ve become so good at it, no one has even noticed me slipping further under the surface.
I trace my hand along the maroon-and-white-painted stripes lining our brightly lit hallways, making my way toward the men’s locker room and staff offices. It’s the first day back, which means Coach Ballard will want a solid thirty minutes to scold us into submission for the season ahead after introducing us to the new owner of the club. A real hard ass, from what limited information I’ve gleaned. All details have been kept under strict lock and key by administration, and it’s done nothing to ease my anxieties.
A new owner—especially one who holds the majority share of the team—has the power to do just about anything they want, going as far as to overrule the other shareholders if they choose. And with my piss poor performance last season, I wouldn’t be surprised if this new bloke wanted to sack me on the spot.
As captain, I was primed to lead our team to victory for the Premiership Rugby Cup, according to every sportscaster across ITV1, SkySports, and the BBC. The rugby world’s eyes were on me and I failed. Failed my team and coach, the fans and my family—myself too, I suppose, though I don’t feel I’m entitled to a self-imposed pity party.
Everything was going well until halfway through the season, when an aggressive case of the yips struck, and suddenly, things that used to come second nature to me felt as foreign as intercontinental trade affairs. I couldn’t make a tactical decision to save my life, and every play I did make on the pitch ended up being the wrong one. With every failed attack based on my call, every collapsed defence strategy I orchestrated, I sank further into self-doubt. I started overthinking everything, and living in my head was like weeding through a bog. It cost useverymatch. I went to bed every night wondering if I was even capable of being their fly-half, let alone their captain, when I kept failing them.
The press ate it up, touting headlines that haunt me to this day. Things like, ‘Rugby’s Golden Star Falls from Grace’and‘Say Goodbye to the Olympic Team’.It’s the truth behind the words that torments me most about those clickbait articles. What chance did I really have to catch the National Team’s attention now?
I reach the door into the wing that houses the locker room as well as the offices for Coach and the owners, pausing before stepping over the threshold, and attempting to school my face from one of pathetic despondency to self-assurance.
Breathing deeply, I burst through the double doors. “Hello fellas! I know you all missed me while on holiday, but I fear the time for suntanning your cheeks in Ibiza—” I point to our resident grump, “I’m looking at you, Cav—is over. Time to get back to work.”
Cavan Darcey, our team’s inside center and one of my best friends, grunts while pulling his headphones back over his ears as a few of my teammates greet me with slaps on the back.
Most of them are already here, scattered throughout the large room next to their personalized cabinets, changing into their gear for practice. I pass Harry, our equipment manager, and pull him in for a quick hug, though he remains stiff as a board, before I head toward my locker.
Myles Shepard, the Legends outside center and my other best friend, is sitting on the bench at his locker next to mine. He’s lacing up his boots by the time I reach him, dark blond head dipped low.
“How’s your mum doing?” I ask, sitting next to him and pulling my gear out of my bag.
He cocks his head slightly to the side, and I can see a weariness etched into every line on his face. “All tests so far have been inconclusive. The doctors have no idea what’s going on.”
“Everything will be alright.”At least I hope it will be.I clap him on the shoulder hoping to bring him comfort, even knowing nothing will make him feel better outside of Louise being okay.
I get changed into my training uniform, pulling on a kit and shorts. I’m lacing up my boots when Coach Ballard comes in, his signature scowl marring his face.
“Conference room. Ten minutes. If you’re late, you’re running laps until you spew on the pitch.” He turns and walks out.
“Is it just me, or has Ballard become meaner since last season? Bet it’s because he’s been wanking himself since the divorce.” Connor Davies joined the Legends last year as our left lock. Wickedly good on the pitch, but he’syoung and brash and doesn’t know when to shut the hell up.
I’m about to reprimand him as his captain, but Cavan beats me to it. “You’d do well to show some fucking respect.” His deep voice is low, laced with warning, as he stands and heads out the door.
“Jesus, even my gran has more of a personality than him, and she’s not been able to speak for a decade.” He looks around, seeing a couple of guys smirking. It’s enough to keep him from heeding any advice.
“Cav’s right, Connor. Have some manners.” He’s about to argue, but I hold up a hand. “Get to the conference room before Coach makes good on his promise.”
“Oh,nowhe wants to lead.” He slinks off toward the meeting, but his words land their intended blow.
The churning in my gut intensifies as I turn and stare into my locker.
“Don’t let it get to you. He’s just being reactive. You know he’s a prat who thrives off attention,” Myles says from my side.
I plaster on my best charming smile. “Part of the territory. Let’s go.” Grabbing his shoulder, I steer us toward the conference room to see what fate awaits the team, wondering if I’ll leave here without a job.
The conference room is filled with noise as voices buzz loudly while everyone tries to guess what’s in store for the club. We know nothing about the new owner or what kind of changes they might implement. The previous administration didn’t seem to care all too much about our well-being, only doing the bare minimum to meet regulations. In my experience, the people that high up in power don’t usually care about the people making them money, just about how they can spend as little as possible for the most lucrative outcome for themselves. I’m a littlesurprised Lawrence Chapman, one of the two other shareholders, didn’t try to buy out the rest of the shares for himself. He’s always been a greedy little twat, and I can’t help but feel slightly relieved he doesn’t have more power over us.
