Chapter 14
ATLAS
The ball tips end over pointed end, its oval shape silhouetting against the night sky.
Don’t fucking lose sight of it in the stadium floodlights.
Eyes only on the catch.
Hands up and ready.
Judging my timing, I come forward to meet it. “Mine.” As I make the call, I leap into the air, with no regard for the opposition hurtling toward me.
My shoulder collides against the other player attempting to climb into the air and secure the take, but the ball lands safely in my arms. Tucking it against my chest, I hit the ground on my feet and immediately spin away from an attempted tackle.
Murphy is yelling at me. Pointing toward the try line. The pump of adrenaline gets me moving.
“Hit it up.” Cap gives the call. “Run it to the line.” Bracing myself, I tuck the ball under one arm and turn on the speed. A tackler comes flying at me. I’m in heavy traffic, with bodies everywhere as my boots pound the turf.
With the ball secure against my left side, my right arm becomes a battering ram.
I fend off a would-be tackler before they can get a secure hold on my jersey.
My outstretched arm pushes them off, and the momentum of their body propels me forward.
Pumping my legs, they fall away and hit the dirt behind me with a heavy thud and a curse.
“Fucking gas him on the outside,” Gus yells from somewhere over my right shoulder.
When I look up, I see what he’s directing me to do. The tackler in front of me is a prop with a thick neck and legs like two redwoods. He’s a brute, but all brawn and zero finesse. This fucker isn’t quick on his feet.
As long as he doesn’t hit me with a shoulder and get a tackle in, I can take him easily in an outright footrace.
Propping off my right foot, I change angles and shift up into the next gear. Free space opens up in front of me. The path ahead clears for a split second right as I cross the halfway line, carving between the forwards who are too slow to clip my heels.
But it’s only brief. Out of the corner of my eye, their winger makes a direct line for me, coming in for the tackle. He’s off his wing, leaving space out wide.
I don’t need to hear his call. On your right.
Without even needing to look, I flick the pass backward—popping it up into thin air—just as the defender locks onto me, commits to the tackle, and can’t change course.
Renfro steams onto it at full speed. Flying like the wind out of fullback to link up and carry the ball forward.
The crowd erupts. Sniffing a possibility of a score.
We’re down close to the try line, the white chalk in sight, as I sprint after him. He’s quick, fucking quick, but their fullback is, too. He corner flags him. Cutting across the field like a heat-seeking missile and launches a flying tackle at Renfro, who’s only a foot from the sideline.
“Back inside,” I shout.
The ball spins my way. Renfro sends a perfect spiral pass to connect with me at chest height that I run onto, taking the ball cleanly at full speed.
He’s absolutely monstered in a simultaneous tackle. It won’t be called a late hit, even though it sends Renfro flying. But what he’s done is selfless. Drawing their last line of defense, it gives me a clear sprint to the line.
As I tuck the ball under the crook of my right arm, I dive in for the try, sliding on my belly across the slightly damp grass.
The ball is securely down, scored right under the crossbar of the goal posts, and the stadium launches to their feet in a riot of celebration.
Music thumps, big-ass fire cannons shoot flames and sparks high into the air, our trademark wolf howl resounds over the sound system signaling a score.
I know my face is on the giant screen at the other end of the stands.
That puts our lead five ahead.
11-3 with a conversion kick to come and a chance to add another two points.
Before I can properly get to my feet, I’m swamped on all sides by the team. Murphy is in my face, pulling me up by the front of my jersey using two hands, then wrapping me with a bear hug.
“Ace. My man!”
Someone else leaps on my shoulders from behind. I’m given slaps on the back and hair tousles.
“Fucking beauty.” Maddox grins, popping out his mouthguard. “First of the season. Lots more where that came from.” He fist-bumps me. I toss him the ball.
“Just get that conversion over. Then we pile the pressure on.”
“Cheers for making it easy. Right under the posts.”
Jogging back to halfway, the team huddles around water bottles, and our trainers flit about like sparrows relaying messages from Coach as he barks them through their headset comms.
“… hit the ruck hard.” Cap lays down the law. “Don’t give them an inch. I wanna see you all up in that defense line, get right in their faces, and keep it tight. We don’t let anything through in this half.”
We all nod. “Let’s go, Wolves.” The huddle breaks as the conversion kick sails between the uprights, the referee’s flags go up, we go again.
13-3 Wolves are ahead.
It’s a decent enough cushion. A strike straight away after halftime is what we needed after a jittery first half. Missouri will have to score at least twice to claw back to make it even.
As I jog back into position, I catch sight of Renfro. He’s got a fresh cut just below his left eye.
“You good?” I hate that he got injured in that tackle, while I ended up with my name up in lights and on the scoreboard. He set that try up and took the big hit literally on the chin to make the play happen.
But that’s this sport we bleed for. The brutal beauty of it. The adrenaline rush we’re all suckers for and chase after. Because we love this fucking game, even if it doesn’t always give us that same love back in return.
“Same again.” He points at the spot on the wing where we were racing to score only moments ago.
“Their winger keeps flying up early. Massive fucking hole there each time. Hit it hard, Ace. I’ll be on your shoulder.
” He pops his mouthguard back in, then turns to drop back close to our goal posts and guard our try line.
I’m feeling super focused. Dialed in. Connor Renfro is the type of teammate you dream of having your back.
Granted, he’s a little shit off the field, but on it?
The guy is cool as ice. He’s all business.
A switch goddamn flips in his brain, and he’s a lethal weapon out there.
Able to take down opposing players at full speed, making tackles that seem impossible for him to cover as much dirt as fast as he does.
He can track and hunt the speediest players, chopping them down, while hardly looking as though he breaks a sweat doing it.
Then, in the next breath, he’s running in tries at the other end of the pitch.
He’s the person you can trust.
He’s someone I can trust.
That shit doesn’t come easily, or naturally, where I’m concerned.
Play restarts, and Maddox gives us the signal.
The other team has the ball on halfway and they’re gonna kick long.
It’s up to me and Murphy to haul ass to get back there and try to make a run forward that will get us out of our own half.
Murphy claims the kick damn close to our line, shapes to pass, and side steps the defender rushing up to try and stop him.
We want to push them back into their own half, and if we can win a penalty while we’re there, that’s a heap of pressure taken off us, but piled on them.
Murphy offloads to the forwards, who rumble up the field.
Eventually, the ball spins out wide. A move we’ve already planned for this area of the field.
We flick it through the hands, going across sideways, and this time, my job is to run a decoy line.
As Maddox goes to throw a long pass, it skips over me, and I plow forward, causing a distraction.
Their defensive line pinches in to close the hole I just hit, and that opens up space out wide for our winger.
Heath has boots that catch fire if he sniffs an unmarked blade of grass.
The guy is like lightning. A motherfucking pain in the ass to tackle at training.
I hate being partnered up with him while running drills; it feels like two hours of chasing shadows.
Except his quick feet aren’t quite fast enough this time. Their defense slides across, they close that channel down, and the tacklers pile in. He’s driven over the sideline just on the opposition’s side of halfway.
“All good boys,” Cap shouts, clapping his hands to hurry us up. “Good yards. Set for D.”
One of the tacklers needs attention on the sideline, getting up from that heap of limbs, clutching his shoulder, which means the referee calls time off while the medics rush in. Our trainers run water out for us, as well as some additional instructions relayed from the coaching box in the stands.
As I reach down to grab a bottle, I get the feeling I’m being watched. Not in the way it feels to have tens of thousands of eyes on you, to know you’re on camera, no… this is a different sensation.
Popping my mouthguard out, I squirt the bottle down my throat, and as I take a gulp, my eyes lift to the crowd.
Right there, a few feet above our reserves bench.
Blue eyes. Sweetheart face. Blond hair.
She’s here.
From all this way across the field, our gazes connect, and she immediately snaps hers away.
That has me scowling to myself. Another squirt of water is used this time to rinse my mouthguard, then I dump more in my mouth before spitting the residue on the ground.
Fuck.
Of course, she turned up. Of course, she came. Of course, those tickets her helpful goddamn brother secured were sideline tickets.
She’s been in and around my life for so long because of Finch Murphy. But everyone knows… you don’t touch your best friend’s sister.
Especially not an Omega little sister.
Yet, despite those cardinal rules of teammates and friendship, she’s someone I can never avoid. I can’t damn well shake her, and tonight is just one more occasion. Another night among countless nights where I have to shove all thoughts of that girl from my mind.
Wren Murphy means nothing to me.