Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
KINCAID
On the ref’s whistle, the first five eighth takes the drop kick, and the ball touches a hair’s breadth past the ten-metre mark. The opposition takes hold, but our forward prop wrangles possession soon after an aggressive tackle, sending it back along the line.
A pass comes my way. The play turns to slow motion as I claim the ball and scoop it under my arm. Cleats digging deep into the mud. Thighs pumping.
An opponent blocks and I dodge, my body working like a machine, driving me forward. The other players—teammates, opposition—turn into nothing more than the flash of colour on their shirts.
I dodge and duck and push my hand against the back of a player who leapt too soon into a tackle, earning himself a face full of mud instead. A last-ditch effort to knock me flat fails, it fails miserably, because I’m in control, taking another step, manoeuvring closer to the posts.
Another player sweeps my legs, but they’re too late. I fall on the ball, driving it into the ground, then leap to my feet, hands clenched, roaring with the glory, the accomplishment.
Fuck, yes.
This is how rugby is meant to feel.
“Fantastic effort,” Coach Jenkins calls, clapping his hands while the ref blows his whistle for the conversion. “Keep up the pressure.”
I barely hear the words, standing back, waiting, watching as Coxey kicks the conversion. A groan erupts from our side as it hits the left-side post and bounces away instead of through.
“Nice attempt,” I yell in support. “Your lift’s fantastic.”
He grins at the compliment, raising his chin in an eyebrow flash.
The early high keeps me steady for the remainder of the game. Even when I fumble an easy catch, I recover quickly enough to tackle it from my opponent, passing it behind.
By the time the ref blows the whistle for halftime, I’m exhausted and ecstatic.
“Great game so far, King,” a girl calls from the sidelines, encouraged by the wolf whistles from her friends. “Would you like some company afterwards, while you shower?”
“Or get your kit off here,” another hollers. “Show us if your little king is all he’s cracked up to be.”
“Ladies,” I say in a wounded voice, drifting closer. “Am I nothing but a piece of meat to you?”
Their gabbled answers fade into shocked gasps as I stretch my arms over my head, letting the shirt pull away from my waistband and angle my hips to the side so the fabric of my shorts—already slim fitting—pulls tighter. When I casually reach down to adjust myself, I slide my fingers along the entire relaxed length, knowing the material will continue to cling once I let go.
“Holy shit,” a curly-headed brunette says, biting her lip and raising her eyes to mine in a shy gesture.
I love the shy ones. Once they’re behind closed doors, they fuck like demons.
This game-day analysis of my dick has been a highlight ever since joining the squad, but right now, I’m not feeling it. When the tall blonde nearest me raises her eyebrows, I shake my head. “Believe me, girls, you don’t want to get too close. I’m all sweaty.”
To their vocal dismay, I return to the team benches. Maybe when we win, I’ll change my mind.
“Have you seen the selector?” Aidan asks.
The boy is a recent addition to our starting lineup. My cousin Ezra pushed for his inclusion, a reason to dislike him on sight, but he’s actually good.
“If our opposition stops churning out penalties,” he continues, “we might get a shot to impress him.”
“For real?” I raise my eyebrows, and he nods, with another few players backing up his assessment.
“Halfway down the field.” He points at a small group in front of the stands. “Nice suit. Hasn’t missed a single play.”
I glance across the pitch, taking note of the man. Mid-thirties, snazzy dresser. Although his attire is completely at odds with the muddy field, he shows no sign of discomfort.
A selector maybe, but not anyone local. Any self-respecting New Zealand sporting scout would turn up in a tracksuit or shorts, wearing old sneakers or gumboots instead of what look like hand-stitched Italian loafers on their feet.
“Coach is heading across to talk to him now,” my friend Jared comments, and I check on my cousin, unsurprised to see him locked on the target.
Ezra wants to turn professional so badly he can taste it. And he’s in with a good shot; he’s an excellent player, second best on the team behind me. Coach points my way and the selector nods. My cousin catches the gesture and grimaces while I smile.
Game on, motherfucker.
The ref blows his warning whistle, and we run back onto the pitch, taking our positions with a lot of glances towards the man on the sidelines. A few of the team are openly grinning as we stretch and shake out our limbs, readying ourselves to go in hard on the second half.
My eyes scan the stands again, this time looking for a cute little redhead who often watches the mid-week games. There’s a subtle movement in the shadows that could be her.
No surprise if she wants to stay hidden.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned her in passing, and something—my tone, my voice, my posture—communicated more than I meant it to. Last week, Ezra sent me a video of him cramming his substandard cock in her mouth.
Ruining her the same way that, as kids, he used to spit in my food.
The girl could be the most boring person alive. Someone who’d waffle on about social equality and dwindling Maui dolphin numbers, or be vegan, ready to pull a face if I turn up to a date with bloodstains on my cuffs.
I don’t know because we’ve never exchanged a word, and that’s not the point. Her hair is the first bright thing to spark real joy in me for years now, and Ezra couldn’t help himself.
In retaliation, I forwarded a copy of the video to his girlfriend Alice before the game, hoping for fireworks.
But so far, nothing.
The ref raises his hand, and I crouch, cleats hard in the mud, tensing my thigh muscles ready for action. The moment the shrill bite of his whistle sounds, we launch into play, my hands being first to claim the ball.
For the forty minutes remaining, I show off every talent I possess, running down the field like I’m powered by a jet engine, tackling challengers to the ground, elbowing the opposition out of the way so our team maintains possession for two-thirds of the match.
The team works together like a slickly oiled machine and best of all, Ezra is completely missing from the action.
His face soon grows red with frustration and, on the one occasion he gets his chance to show his skill, he flubs the pass, leaving the props fighting to regain what he lost.
“Great work, King,” Jared says, clapping me on the shoulder before he’s lifted off the ground by Ferdinand, our largest prop.
“Same to you.”
I grab a water bottle from the cooler and spray it over my face. The droplets fly as I shake my head from side to side, basking in the exhilaration of winning. Then I collapse onto the team bench, letting my head fall forward, spraying what’s left of the water onto the back of my neck.
“King,” Coach yells, gesturing me to join him and the man we saw earlier. He lowers his voice when I’m closer, saying, “This is Harlow Grant. He’s a sports agent.”
Not as helpful as a selector, but still an opportunity.
The man has a firm grip and meets my eye as we shake, a change from most of the students and teachers here at Westlake.
“And what exactly does an agent do?” I ask. “I heard you guys were leeches.”
Coach gives me a warning frown, but Harlow laughs. “Make you as much money from your talent as I can, then take fifteen percent.”
His accent has an American twang that fills my mind with images of cowboys and cattle ranches, and his straightforward manner is appealing.
“And how much money do you think you can make from me?”
“Depends how important the game is to you and where you want to travel. Have you thought about tertiary studies? We have some colleges might be interested.”
I stifle a laugh.
My uncle’s demands already make heavy inroads into my school hours. He’d probably gut me if I headed overseas for a couple of years. I’m lucky to still be in his graces, considering I’m from the black sheep side of the family.
With a shrug, I say, “It’s expensive,” like my family fortune isn’t obscene.
“It is, but rugby is gaining traction at the varsity level. If you can maintain the standard I saw today, I can pull together a decent package. Not just a full-ride scholarship, but game bonuses, even private sponsorship if the college allows.”
“Yeah?”
“We can also handle your transition from college to private clubs. A decent amount of my stable earn high six, low seven figures.”
It’s less than I earn working odd jobs for my uncle, but still more than I’d spend.
The conversation is what I’ve dreamed about for years, a chance to earn serious money doing something I love. I should be ecstatic.
Instead, it’s hard work to force a smile. “That sounds good.”
“Here’s my card.” Harlow hands it across. “And your coach already has my details. If you’re keen, I’ll start fielding offers to find the best fit.”
“And that’s all part of the fifteen percent?”
He offers a toothy grin. “Definitely. Does that mean I should go ahead?”
I stare at the gold lettering on the thick white card. A bit flashy, like the man himself. “Sure. Why not?”
Back at the team bench, I wait for the warm sense of accomplishment to fill me. Instead, there’s nothing but the physical aftermath of a demanding game.
It’s the shock. You’ll have a response later.
“You want to come out with me after school?” Jared asks. “There’s a new tavern opened near the riverside. Roaring fires, small batch beers.”
“Dude, it’s Wednesday afternoon.” The gentle chastisement doesn’t appear to have any effect. “I’m gonna hit the showers, then cart the gear back to my car. Ask me again Friday.”
“Sure.”
Halfway to the gym, I glance back at the two men. Harlow is deep in conversation with Coach, oblivious to the opposition players still messing about on the pitch.
And finally, I have a reaction. Satisfaction that he’s not talking to anyone else.
Not today.
Ezra emerges from the locker room and stares at the pair with open longing. I clap him on the shoulder and move past. Most of the team have already showered and changed, a few still hanging around, chatting.
I grab my caddy and head into the showers, cranking the heat up as high as it can go.
There’s a cleaning cart in the corner, not unusual for this time of day, but my gaze keeps snagging on it. I let my eyes defocus as the water sluices over my body, giving my mind room to figure out what’s wrong.
As I finish and grab my towel, I work out the canvas bag to the side of the cart is heavier than usual, pulling at the hooks. I keep it in sight as I dry and return to my locker to grab my clothes, a white t-shirt, and grey sweatpants.
The last bell rings and the changing room empties, leaving me alone. I finish dressing and grab a flick-knife from my locker. With it in my pocket, I open the exit door and slam it closed while remaining inside the room.
As silently as possible, I sit on the bench near the door and wait.
After fifteen minutes, the canvas bag moves, the excess weight inside shifting. I’m amused as a slim hand curls over the edge, shortly followed by a mess of shining red locks and there’s only one girl I know of with hair that riotous colour.
I shift my fingers away from the knife in my pocket, and move to stand beside the cart, heart beating faster with anticipation.
“Do you need a hand to get out of there, Francesca?”