Chapter 81
ACE
Playoff rugby is a different beast.
The crowds are more boisterous. The tackles are extra brutal. The stakes become do-or-die.
Every step forward from here is either a win to carry us into the big dance, the cup final, or we pack up and bow out.
Lose tonight? Out of the question.
Not where Chicago is concerned.
No fucking way am I going to let them get past us. We’ve had an intense rivalry for as long as I’ve played for the Wolves. They’ve become our grudge match, and with the sort of team that they have, there’s no wonder I’m currently down on one knee being treated for blood.
“Next time that bastard goes near your eyes, it’ll be me ready to pluck his out,” our PT, Jackson, hisses. “I know an attempted eye gouge when I see one, Palamo.”
He treats the fresh cut that has opened up on my eye socket.
“There won’t be a next time,” I grunt in reply, squirting water over my mouthguard. “The asshole can watch from flat on his back while I score under the posts.”
“Good. I don’t just want us to win… I want them obliterated off the pitch and crying into their pillows tonight.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What? Just because I patch you boys up all game doesn’t mean I don’t have a bloodthirsty side.” He shrugs.
“All done?” I ask, impatient to rejoin the backline, who are huddled a few yards away, planning our next phase of attack. It’s our ball, but the referee called a timeout for the blood pouring down my face.
“It’s probably gonna need more running repairs. I’ll keep a close eye on you.” He nods. “Now get out there and kick that motherfucker’s ass. I don’t know how the ref didn’t red card him.”
I snort. “This ref? He’s always got it in for us.”
As I push to my feet, I shove my mouthguard back in and jog over to take my place in the backline. It forces me to pass their number ten, who gives me a snarl.
“I heard some rumor you’re looking to be traded, Palamo. Something about trying to get Murphy’s sister under you?” His French accent drawls over the words, and he spits a glob of saliva on the ground.
My blood spikes with fury at the mere mention of her, but I know there have been whispers on the internet with those asinine gossip sites. So I keep moving but call out over my shoulder.
“Funny that. Rumor has it your team already traded you back to France. They want a goal kicker who can actually find the posts... you know… those big things over there.” I jerk my chin in the direction of the uprights.
“Putain,” he growls with an exasperated flick of his hand.
Connor meets me, eyes lifting to the dickhead on the other team. “Everything good?”
“Yeah, just trying to get under my skin, is all.”
He dips his chin, relays the call for our backline move, then drops back into position as I do the same. Murphy gives me a quick nod, our unspoken connection to know exactly how we’ll run the play.
The forwards pack down for a scrum while the referee gives a short blast of his whistle and calls “time on” in a sharp, clipped tone.
Our scrum-half feeds the ball in, and it feels like an electric current zaps through my bloodstream.
We’re going to be the next to score.
There’s no way these assholes are going to get away with taking the win.
Blood rushes in my ears.
The sight of Connor crumpled on the ground, again, is enough to have me seeing nothing but red.
Everything about this game is off. From the way the ref isn’t penalizing blatant infringements around the ruck and maul, to the outright dirty play off the ball. It’s as if the gloves have been thrown off, and no one cares if this turns into an all-out brawl.
Coach has been blowing up, and Cap, too. Yet, we’re in an arm wrestle, sticking it out, refusing to be the team that blinks first.
I race over to Connor’s side. My worry about him keeps growing.
It’s already a big deal playing this team—having to go up against them instead of other teams that might have been an easier route to the finals—but now it’s clearer than ever before that their reputation for targeting players to purposefully try to injure them isn’t just rumor.
I can see the toll it’s taking on Connor right in front of my eyes.
“That motherfucker.” I crouch down on my haunches in front of him, as one of the PTs checks his shoulder for range of motion, rotating the socket back and forth. “How was that not called? The guy cleaned you out of the ruck with a blatant neck roll.”
“I’m good,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“No… you’re fucking not.” My jaw works.
“Let’s just get more points on the board. Get our noses out in front.” He does a quick thumbs up with the PT, who talks into their radio comms and relays the update to the coaching box.
“If that starts to pinch, let me know on the next break in play,” he barks at Connor while jogging in the direction of the sideline.
“Renfro, you good?” Murphy comes over, also looking worse for wear after taking some brutal hits in the game so far. His knee is heavily strapped, and I know his ribs will be screaming.
“Will be when we take them down.” Connor does his best to hide the wince in his expression while getting to his feet. But I see it.
“That prick doesn’t deserve to wear the Team USA jersey.
” Murphy shakes his head as we wait for another player who is down getting treatment on their hamstring.
“He might be lining up opposite you for a spot in the national squad, Ace, but the Alpha is nothing but a piece of shit asshole. If only the selectors would look past the flashy sponsorships and publicity sharks.”
Don’t I know it. The guy I’m fighting with for a spot in the national squad is known to have a reputation for dirty play and bullying.
Not to mention his scandals with off-field rumors that he broke up a pack when he cheated with their Omega.
Of course, he’s hired himself every top lawyer and publicist to squash the whispers, but there’s no hiding some of the shit he’s been caught on a hot mic saying.
The guy has been outspoken in his criticism and dismissal of Omegas.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that the rest of the alleged accusations are completely truthful.
I lean in close to Connor. “He dares touch you again, and I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”
“Not worth the risk,” he grunts. “I need you on the field with me. Not sidelined with disciplinary hearings and game suspensions.”
Play restarts with a lineout to us and it’s like every single team member of the Wolves finds another level to get up for the contest. The ball swings wide, and Murphy does what he’s so very good at. He props off the right foot, keeping possession, and carries hard.
His absolute power as he hits the line at speed makes it difficult for the defenders to contain him.
Murphy drives his legs, keeps his body position low, and easily gains several feet beyond the gain line.
There are players everywhere attempting to bind onto him, to grip his jersey and pull him to ground, but he busts through the first line and digs in.
The momentum builds in our favor as the home crowd surges in a rowdy chant. Pressure continues to build with each subsequent shift of the ball back and forth across the field. This is a game of attrition, as we work to control the game and keep the ball in our possession.
The blitz we’ve sent their way pays off, and as I run onto the ball at speed, I see a gap open up to my right. Connor looms in my peripheral vision, popping up just at the right moment as we work our planned attack play.
It’s a move we’ve run through thousands of times at training.
He knows precisely where to be and to hit the line with that surgical Connor Renfro precision.
Seeing him right there, I flick the pass to him, without needing to look.
The crowd bellows as they sense a score coming. We’re inside the 22, close to their try line, and there is only a matter of feet left between Connor and the white chalk. He makes it across the line, dotting the ball down to score a crucial five-point lead for us.
While the cannon flares shoot into the night sky, and the referee’s whistle signals the score, music booms around the packed stadium.
Yet, celebrations don’t have a chance to begin.
Out of nowhere, Connor is taken out from the side by a clothesline tackle.
The asshole number thirteen on their team grabs the collar of his jersey and carelessly slams him to the ground by the back of his head.
My blood turns to ice as I turn at the last minute—what was supposed to be a run over to wrap him up in a bear hug—instead, I’m helpless, seeing it unfold in slow motion, while being too far away to do anything else.
Both teams erupt, piling in from all sides, while Connor lies prone on the grass.
I’m in there within a blink, joining the mass of bodies shouting in each other’s faces, everyone has grabbed a fistful of the front of someone else’s jersey. My sights are set on the bastard who wears a slimy grin, knowing he’ll likely get away with a fucking dangerous move.
“I was in the motion of the tackle.” He pretends to play innocent. Yelling above the swearing and insults flying between the two teams.
“Just because you can’t match him, doesn’t mean you get to injure him,” I growl in his face. It’s so fucking tempting to headbutt him and break his goddamn nose, but I stay as calm as possible in the face of wanting to leave this motherfucker bleeding in the dirt.
The referee and the sideline refs order everyone to break apart.
Conner is checked over carefully by the PTs, and it’s a close call for whether to send him for an HIA.
Ultimately, the referee watches a replay on the big screen to decide whether there should be any further consequences, and the stadium erupts into vocal boos when he simply awards the try but decides to play on without repercussions.