Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
KINCAID
When the halftime whistle blows, I’m bent double, still winded from an illegal tackle. This Wednesday, we’re playing against a public high school team at the bottom of the tables and, so far, it seems they’re desperate enough to try anything.
As my breath comes easier, I stretch out my back and cross to the team benches.
“You all right?” Jared asks, sporting a shiner on his left eye that’s reduced him to monocular vision. He takes a sip from a bottle that looks suspiciously unlike water, grimacing as he swallows, chasing it with another.
“Yeah. You?”
He spits out a wad of blood onto the dirt and grins, crimson flecks sticking to his teeth. “Right as rain.” He nods to where a medic sits in the visitor’s camp, a player on the ground. “I don’t think he’ll try the same again.”
The regular lineup of girls is on the sideline, but I glance above them, disappointed that Francesca is missing. She’d waved to me at the beginning of the game and must have snuck out to the bathroom or library during play.
Any disappointment eases when I glance along the sideline, and see Coach Jenkins deep in conversation with Harlow Grant, the sports agent. Another man stands close behind, potentially the club selector. Coach points to me and all three of them look my way.
Aidan and Ezra look crestfallen.
My chest swells with pride at being singled out, then Jared chokes on his water. “Jesus, King. You’re really bleeding.”
It’s the stab wound Francesca gave me. I aggravated it again during the weekend job, and over the past few days, it’s given me a few twinges.
Nothing notable, not enough to take a painkiller, but I’ve found myself favouring my left arm a few times. Today I landed hard on it during a tackle. The mud must have plugged it for a while, but now the blood is really flowing.
“Pass me the first-aid kit, would you? I’ll chuck a few plasters on to hold it.”
Jared looks uneasy, capping his bottle and stashing it in his bag. “That’s not gonna work, man. You want me to get the nurse?”
“It looks worse than it is,” I say, then Coach Jenkins arrives. One look at me and his face turns thunderous. When warning whistle blows, two minutes to play, he gestures for the other team members to get back onto the field.
“Stay right where you are, King.” I sink back onto the bench, already scowling at the thought of a few lost minutes. “What happened here? This needs stitches.”
“It’s fine. Just strap on a cotton pad to soak up the blood.”
He puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “That your professional medical opinion, is it?”
“No, but I have eyes. It’s barely more than a scratch.”
“That’s soaked through half your jersey.” He moves closer, asking for permission before prodding gently around the injury. I try, but there’s some heat building around the wound and I can’t hold back the wince when he presses it at the wrong angle. “Get that same opinion in writing from the nurse, come back, and I’ll let you on the field.”
My mouth sags in disbelief. “You’re benching me. Over a fucking scratch?”
“Watch your language.”
My teeth grind together. Coach is all, ‘forget I’m a teacher,’ until it suits. “But isn’t that man a selector? I deserve this shot.”
“And I thought if I shared that information with you, you’d turn up raring to go.” He nods at my bruised hands. “Not spend the week accumulating injuries.”
“It’s not like a concussion. There’s nothing life-threatening. It’s a flesh wound that could’ve busted open even if I did get stitches. And I get as many fucking bruises—”
“Language.”
My jaw bunches so hard, bolts of pain shoot down my neck. “I get more bruises from practice.”
“And if you received them during practice, I would’ve sorted a treatment plan before letting you on the pitch again. But you decided to keep these injuries to yourself until we’re in the middle of play.”
He stands over me, and I grimace, spitting to the side. Resentful at being scolded like a child.
“You’re the one who dictated the timing, so don’t complain that I dragged you off-field mid-game. That’s the consequences of your decisions. I’m just doing my job.”
“But I—”
“No.” Coach’s breath is heavy, cheeks stained with colour. “You engineered this yourself, King. If your ambition is to play professionally, you need to drop this casual attitude towards injury right now. Your body is an investment to these universities or club teams. It’s not just benching you—half the contracts nowadays include clauses to recoup money if you don’t keep to their physical targets. Your body is their product.”
“Buck Shelford ripped open his scrotum, and just popped his fucking ball back in before rejoining mid-game, but you won’t let me on the pitch with a scratch?”
“He also lost teeth and got a concussion so bad he doesn’t remember the match. You really think any of that would fly these days with what we know about CTE?”
I stare at the ground, getting his point but not wanting to acknowledge it.
“Be grateful I’m not sending you onto the field so your ‘scratch’ can get a deep tissue infection that costs you an arm.”
“This is from work.” I jump to my feet, drawing up to my full height to look down on him, still feeling small. “I don’t have the luxury of sitting home, taking milk baths or whatever the fuck it is Aidan gets up to.”
“ Aidan? He has nothing to do with this.” Coach shakes his head. “No. Even now you’re not getting it. This isn’t a game of excuses or a sport where individuals excel. You need to show you’re a team player, and that you’re serious about the game. Hiding injuries isn’t the way.”
“Then why didn’t you fucking tell me earlier?”
“Don’t swear at me. Go shower, then get your wound checked and be grateful I’m not benching you for what remains of the season. You’ll have another shot to impress the agent and selectors next week…” He holds up a warning finger. “But only if you keep that temper under control and get a medical certificate clearing you for play.”
“And does everyone have to do that?”
“Everyone isn’t sitting here with blood streaming down their arm. But yes, King. You’re all held to the same standards. Now go shower and get that arm seen to in the sick bay, then bring the treatment plan back to me.”
I haul arse away from the benches before my temper gets me into more trouble.
In the sick bay, the school nurse is thorough, disinfecting and cleansing the wound, then pinching the edges together and applying three layers of Dermabond, securing butterfly plasters once it’s dried as added protection.
She talks me through a treatment plan, and I scarcely hear a word beyond keeping it clean and dry, my head still caught in the argument with Coach. When she sends a link to the summary, I forward it to his email.
There’s no reason to stay in the sick bay, but I feign dizziness and ask to rest until I’m recovered.
“Should I call someone for you?” When I decline, she says, “You’re welcome to stay here until the final bell.”
Coach sends a reply, telling me we’ll talk again on Monday. I don’t think he’ll cut me from the team but, given our heated exchange, my captaincy is on thin ice, and I don’t try to kid myself. The loss would be far less about enjoying the mana of the position and far more about keeping it free of Ezra and Aidan’s clutches.
The volume outside increases as the game finishes and the crowds disperse. Twenty minutes after the final whistle, I leave the sick bay, nodding to the nurse, and cross to the changing rooms to grab my bag, using the rear door so I don’t have to walk past coach’s office.
When I push inside, the lights are off. After school hours, they don’t automatically turn on, and the only illumination is from the frosted shower windows, dim at the best of times. I pause in the doorway to let my eyes adjust and hear a loud grunt.
Softly letting the door close, I pad across the room, ignoring the lockers. The noise comes from the shower room, smacking lips followed by a low groan. “Fuck, yeah. Swallow me all the way.”
Not a voice I recognise, but that won’t stop me teasing them, or the entire team once I share the images. Whoever’s in here deserves to get a ribbing for using the changing room when there’s a perfectly acceptable—and lockable—equipment shed two doors along the hall.
Shielding my phone screen, I click into the camera app, setting the video to record in dim light, then creep closer. Another groan sounds, the timbre low and rough.
My senses start tingling.
I stay in the shadows and carefully extend the phone until an image appears on screen.
Even on his knees, mouth fully occupied, I recognise Aidan. The man shoving his cock deep into his throat is the selector.
The fucking selector. I can’t believe my luck.
Someone hollers outside, the sound muffled, but clear enough for Aidan pull away, saliva dangling like strands of a dew-dusted cobweb, tilting his head to track the noise. When it doesn’t recur, he gets back to work, and I’ve got enough.
I grab my bag and pad out of the room on tiptoe, getting a few metres clear before I check the footage and send it to the cloud. Once I get the saved confirmation, I tuck my phone away, more energised than if I’d won a victory during the game.
In minutes, I’ve gone to thinking my potential career was in tatters to having ammunition to get into the try-outs for any club I want.
Blackmail is very much a last resort but fuck it. Just because I have the career-ending recording doesn’t mean I need to use it.
I’m grinning as I leave the gym.
“Kincaid?” Francesca stands nearby; hands twisting in front of her. She checks over her shoulder before she takes a step closer. “When you didn’t come back on the field, I asked Jared, and he—” She pauses, sniffing, then clears her throat. “He said you were bleeding really badly, and I just wanted to check you were okay.”
Her eyes dance towards my face, then flit away, snagging on the bandage.
“Oh, your arm!” She rushes towards me. “Is that from me? God, I’m sorry. I never wanted… You said it was an important match.”
“It’s fine. Coach overreacted.”
I hold out my good arm and she rushes forward, tucking herself into my side. “Did you lose your chance with the selector? Jared said someone from NZ Rugby was here.”
My body shakes with emotion, the warmth of her concern everything I ever needed. “If he didn’t see enough today, I’m sure he’ll come back. There’re still months left in the season.” I bury my face in her hair, cupping her head with my good hand.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Just lightheaded.”
“From blood loss?”
“From touching you. But I guess that counts as blood loss since it’s all heading south.”
Her light giggle makes me feel like I have wings attached to my feet. When we walk towards the car park, Jared waves to us.
“Glad to see you’re okay,” the girl beside him says, hooking her arm through his.
“I’m fine, but do you need your head examined, Hailey? I can’t believe you’re giving this reprobate another go.”
Jared punches my good arm while Hailey introduces herself to Francesca, then tells me, “Bring her to Zeke’s party on Friday so we can get to know her.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It would be good for Francesca to make new friends. Better friends. “You wanna go?”
She nods. “It sounds fun.”
“Then we’ll be there.”
Satisfied, Hailey drags Jared away, and we continue to the new car.
“Can I ask a favour?” Francesca tilts her face up to mine, eyes catching the colours of the early sunset, and I pass her the keys. “Could you drive us home?”