The Fly-Half (Lincoln Knights #2)

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Jonny

The shrill blast of the referee’s whistle cut through the air as Worcester’s fly-half kicked their penalty neatly through the posts to the sound of excited applause from the away fans. I exhaled deeply as I looked up at the scoreboard and watched their lead extend by another three points, and while the five-point lead wasn’t insurmountable, it was annoying.

Then again, every fucking thing was annoying me today.

It was like there was an itch under my skin I couldn’t shake and it was only getting more painful and irritating. And the more I tried not to think about it, the worse it got. I kept trying to tell myself this was just another day and just another game, but it didn’t help that I’d been up since four in the bloody morning because I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

I’d already had enough caffeine to stun a horse today, and it still didn’t feel like enough.

“All right, lads,” Charlie called as we jogged back across the pitch towards the halfway line. “Let’s get it done.”

“Fucking move yourselves,” Hunter added.

I just focused on getting back into position. I wasn’t in the mood for pep talks, nagging, cajoling, or words of encouragement. The thought of it was like nails on a damn chalkboard. All I wanted was to get on with the game and steamroll these assholes into the ground so I could go home and stew.

The whistle blew again and play resumed, as full-on as it had been before the penalty had been awarded—which, if you asked me, had been a dodgy-as-fuck call to begin with. Worcester quickly got hold of the ball and began to charge towards us. Their passing skills were fast and accurate but not perfect. There were a couple of them who were arrogant enough to think they could go through us, and while they’d done it a couple of times, I wasn’t prepared for it to happen again.

I watched the ball flying through the air and straight into the arms of their winger, who I’d already seen tear through our defences twice. I set off after him, legs pumping as I focused every ounce of my will on chasing him down. He was already about to hit a line of defenders and I didn’t think he was foolish enough to go through Bailey, so I looked for his nearest passing option. Sure enough, one of their fullbacks was already open and waiting.

And as he tried to plough through me, I slammed into him, grabbing him around the chest, heaving him off his feet, and pushing him to the floor, sprawling half on top of him and smirking as the ball went spinning out of his arms.

Take that, fucker.

The sharp sound of the whistle burst in my ears, evaporating my joy as I climbed to my feet to see the referee jogging towards me. But it couldn’t be me because I hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Number eight, a word,” the referee said. He didn’t look that much older than me, and irritation flared in my gut as he gestured to Matty. “Number nine, you too, please.”

What the fuck? Why was he summoning our captain over? This was bollocks.

“Everything okay, sir?” Matty asked with a frown as he stopped beside me, his ginger hair sticking out from under his scrum cap.

“No, unfortunately not.” The referee levelled me with a hard stare. The man barely came up to my chest but in that moment I felt about six inches tall and it only added to my anger and humiliation. “You spiked number eleven and you could have seriously injured him.”

“I grabbed his waist, sir.”

“His waist is down here, not up around his shoulders.” The referee pointed to his own body as I fought back the urge to argue with him. I was already in deep shit and arguing with the ref was only going to make it worse. “You lifted him up and dropped him on his shoulder, and that is unacceptable conduct. I know it’s a hard game and you’re getting frustrated, but that is no excuse.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow card to flash at me, pointing towards the sin bin bench. “Ten minutes, please. And I don’t want to hear any arguments.”

“Oh, come on,” I muttered, throwing my hands into the air as the ref jotted my number down.

“Can it,” Matty said as he glared at me. “Go and sit down. And calm the fuck down while you’re at it.”

“I am calm.”

“Yeah, and I’m the fucking Prime Minister. Get your ass off the pitch.” He turned back to the referee and nodded. “Very sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

I turned away and rolled my eyes as I walked off the pitch, the tacky mud clinging to my boots as I went to take my seat on the naughty step. Ten minutes in the sin bin for a perfectly harmless tackle was ridiculous, and I wasn’t going to pretend I was grateful it wasn’t a red card. It was another totally wrong call by the referee, and I wished they’d check it because then I wouldn’t be being sent off.

I could practically feel Clive’s eyes boring into my head from his seat in the coach’s box and I knew I was in for a proper bollocking later. I’d add that to the list of things I didn’t deserve.

There was a bottle of water waiting for me as I sat down, the frosty air nipping at my skin. I glanced at the play clock as I pulled mud off the bottom of my boots and realised there were only four minutes left in the first half, which was just the fucking cherry on top. Since I’d be finishing the half in the sin bin, I’d be starting the second half in there too, leaving the team a man down until I was released. And we were already struggling enough as it was.

My emotions compounded in my chest, filling me with a potent mixture of shame, anger, guilt, and frustration.

I still didn’t think the tackle had been that bad. Maybe a little higher than it should have been, but that wasn’t unusual. I’d been grabbed around the shoulders before. And the neck. It didn’t mean anything. The other guy had walked away fine, just a little muddier than before. I definitely hadn’t dropped him.

At least, not deliberately.

I took a long drink of water as I watched play resume, gritting my teeth as I watched the other team’s fullback tackle Devon while my hand balled into a fist in my lap. Getting tackled might have been part of the game, but that didn’t mean I liked watching my best friend getting flattened by men twice his size. And Devon wasn’t exactly small either.

“Come on,” I muttered to myself. “Stop fucking around.”

The current score, seven to twelve, made it look a lot closer than it felt. I hoped that half-time would give us a chance to regroup, get our act together, and come up with a plan. Matty would probably try and say something inspiring, but I wasn’t sure I was in the mood to listen.

The whistle blew as Devon booted the ball into touch, signalling the end of the first half, and I climbed to my feet to make my way back to the changing room with everyone else.

“Jesus Christ, mate,” Mason said as he fell into step alongside me. “What the hell was that?”

“Just made a mistake,” I said, shrugging off his arm as he tried to put it around my shoulders. “We all make them.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you.”

“Back off,” I said with a growl.

“Hey!” Mason prodded my chest. “Calm down. I was just asking.”

“Yeah, well, I’m telling.”

“What the hell has gotten into you lately?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’ve been a right mardy arse lately,” he said pointedly as we entered the dressing room. I grabbed a piece of fruit and a drink and made my way to my spot on the benches to sit down. Unfortunately, Mason followed me. And to make things worse, Devon came and sat down on my other side.

I still couldn’t look him in the eye, not after last night. I couldn’t remember all of my dreams but I could remember enough, especially how they’d ended.

The whole thing was a confusing mess I didn’t want to think about. I’d never considered the idea I might be attracted to men, so maybe it would be easier to simply chalk it up to a weird night and move on, especially since I’d never had a sex dream like that before.

Fuck, if I was being honest, I’d never really had many sex dreams before.

Unless you counted that really weird one from when I was sixteen involving Kristen Stewart and Daniel Radcliffe.

“What the hell happened out there?” Devon asked as he sat down, banana in hand. Because that was all I fucking needed right now—dick fruit. “Why’d you get sent off?”

“Bad tackle,” I said, looking down at the pear I’d grabbed before taking a huge bite. I didn’t even like pears. Devon raised an eyebrow at me, his confusion evident. Dammit, why the fuck did he have to know me so well?

“Ref said you spiked him,” Mason added.

“What? There must have been a mistake. You’re always so careful,” Devon said with a wide-eyed frown of disbelief.

“Yeah, well, shit happens,” I said with a grunt as I swallowed, trying not to shudder at the taste of this cursed fruit. “Now I’ve gotta do another, what, five minutes in the bin?”

“You’ll be fine.” Devon smiled at me encouragingly and patted my knee, sending sparks shooting through my muscles. My foot twitched and I fought the urge to jerk away because it wasn’t Devon’s fault I’d been having fucked-up dreams about us.

“Sorry,” I said, giving him the best smile I could manage, which was barely more than a grimace. “It’s my fault you’re a man down, and they’re not going easy on us.”

“Better behave next time then.”

Fuck, why did he have to phrase it like that? Now all I could think about was him whispering that in my ear as my focus zeroed in to the feel of his hand on my knee. It wasn’t soft, but it was warm and—

“Right,” Clive said as he walked into the middle of the dressing room, giving us all his customary once-over. He was a shorter man with a piercing gaze and grey hair, who’d once caused an all-out brawl between England and Australia just by smirking at the wrong guy. His attitude had been legendary and I had vague memories of my dad cursing his name whenever anyone played Australia because he knew just how to get through the gaps on the pitch and under people’s skin. He was a phenomenal coach, the best I’d ever played for, and while he never took any shit, he also knew how to help us find our feet when we were having a bad day and practically itching for a fight.

“Not our best, but not our worst,” he said to a general round of murmured agreement. “You’re letting them get in your heads. Letting them convince you that they’re walking all over you but it’s only five bloody points, boys. You’re better than this. I know it, you know it, so why are you letting them get to you? You’re doing all the right things, so keep pushing, keep it clean, and it’ll come.”

He had a point and the way he reminded us of all the good things instead of only the bad soothed some of the raw hurt. I’d always hated it when coaches only talked about our flaws, highlighting all the negatives and breaking us down until we felt two inches tall. Yeah, I’d made a mistake today—a bloody careless one too—but it was one mistake and I didn’t need to be reminded of it over and over until I wanted to scream.

Clive finished up with a final few points and then Matty added a few things while I sat there with the remnants of the pear in my hand and Devon’s fingers burning a hole in my knee. At last, Matty finished talking and I was able to make a break for the bin, shaking my head as I tried to get my mind back on the second half and not the constant, irritating buzz of the thoughts needling away inside me.

“Jonny,” Clive said, catching me as I dumped the pear into the bin and wiped my hand on my shorts. His voice was quiet and his expression was soft, and it was only afterwards I realised he was trying not to spook me or rile me up. “You all right? You seem a bit out of it today. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said with another shake of my head. “Just… didn’t sleep well and I’m getting in my own head. I know that tackle was bad but I got frustrated and didn’t think. I didn’t mean to spike him.”

“Happens to us all.”

“I’m sorry, though. It shouldn’t have happened. I could’ve hurt him.”

“And that’s how I know it won’t happen again,” he said softly. “You’re a good lad, Jonny. You’ll get it right. Serve your penalty then forget about it, okay? Don’t hold it against yourself. Or anyone else.”

“I’ll try,” I said, because that was all I could do.

Clive nodded. “Gonna substitute Asher on in the second half. Just giving you a heads-up now—I want to give you time to get your head together. There’s a busy period coming up and I need you focused.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I get it.”

And I did. After my behaviour today and the way I was playing, it made sense to take me off and put Asher on.

So why did it make me feel like I wanted to punch a hole in the wall?