Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
Run, run, run.
My hamstrings are tight, calves burning. A lock is already there to secure possession of the ball, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I tackle him like I’m the incredible player Coach Auclair believes me to be, not the nobody from Manchester who got lucky after years of misfortune.
The sound of the crowd swells, a living thing roaring in my ears.
We collide, my chest cracking against his ribs, air leaving my lungs in a whoosh as my shoulder drives into the turf beneath me. I land hard with a grunt.
The ball spills as planned, and we recover. It should feel good. Bloody incredible.
It doesn’t.
Not enough. Never enough. Not when my family needs me to prove my worth, to make them proud, to keep a roof over their heads. I can’t afford to have bad days.
The pressure snuffs out any spark of joy before it can form, the weight of expectation pressing harder than any tackle.
I shake the thoughts away, climbing to my feet, and we set again.
One. Two. Crash ball. Recycle.
I’m next. The pass comes. My hands sting as I take it, ignoring the opposite flanker’s glare like I’m prey locked in their sights.
Don’t you dare miss this carry.
I don’t. I lower my hips, drive forward, drag him with me three metres before I’m down. The ruck forms, and I roll away, my chest heaving with exertion. I spit, blood-tinged saliva coating my tongue.
My gaze flits around the packed stadium as I rise, the scoreboard jeering at my shortcomings. I think of last week and my missed read—a late push no one blamed me for but myself. They said it didn’t matter.
It always does.
“Great line!” someone shouts, but I can’t bask in the praise; it feels undeserved.
I see our fly half shaping for a loop, needing bodies wide. I call for it, my voice loud and clipped. “Options left!”
Don’t screw this up. Don’t overcall. Don’t think you know better.
He’s quick to throw me a signal. The ball comes out, and we’re moving, my body taking on a mind of its own, trained by years of muscle memory, and yet I still don’t trust myself.
Not enough to carry the weight of their futures on it.
On me. My heart hammers in my ears, breath catching with each pivot, a rhythm of effort and doubt I can’t quite shake.
We’re moving. I sweep left and clean a ruck, jarring an elbow out.
I second-guess every choice, every line, every cleanout.
Then it happens. Minute sixty-two.
Their scrum half darts blind and kicks in behind. It’s catchable. Our fullback hesitates, but I don’t.
I sprint ahead, getting there as fast as my feet will carry me. I arrive first, but the bounce betrays me, the ball slipping through, and they dive forward.
The stadium erupts in a chorus of cheers and boos. Sweat drips into my eyes; the air reeks of churned grass and bodies. The roar of the crowd is deafening, every sound vibrating through my bones.
And even before the ref points to the posts, I’m blaming myself.
Where were you? Should’ve covered better. Should’ve read it sooner. You hesitated.
I slump forward, my hands falling to my knees as I try to suck in a breath that just won’t come.
Coach shouts from the sidelines, but I can’t hear him.
My gaze flicks to the score, and there’s a tug deep in my chest.
We’re behind. Again.
My jersey presses on my skin, suffocating me beneath it like the hands of guilt wrapped around my throat. The same suffocation I’ll feel again, later, when something—or someone—starts to matter too much.
Ever since I arrived in Embershire to join the Wyvern Warriors, they’ve told me I am better than good enough.
That I belong here, and most of the time, I believe it.
But on days like these, when the sun hasn’t made an appearance in weeks and my spine is crumbling from sleepless nights spent on my disgusting sleeper sofa with my feet dangling over the end, second-guessing every move I make is all I can manage.
The match ends in a loss for the Wyvern Warriors, the second of only two for the entire season. A season nearing its end in the National Premiership League, and if I don’t get my shit together, I might not have a contract to fight for at all.
“Elliott!” my captain, Rafael, calls. I spin to face him, my heart in my throat as I take in his scowling expression. Not that it’s anything new, but I’d rather it not be aimed at me.
My stomach lurches as he barrels across the pitch towards me, apologies bubbling up my throat, but he slaps me on the back, tugging me against his chest in an abrupt, almost bruising hug that speaks of absolutely no affection. I’m left bleeding with confusion.
“You’re impressing everyone. I see that look on your face, and I suggest you wipe it clean because we all miss plays. This is a team sport. This loss isn’t yours to carry alone.”
I swallow hard, nodding my agreement, but can’t seem to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I certainly hadn’t been anticipating a pep talk when he came over here. As much as I try to remain optimistic, fear of failure when so much is on the line does nothing but strangle my joy.
This isn’t uni; it’s the big leagues. It’s the chance I’ve waited my whole life for. I gave up everything for my family, and that thought, more than anything, keeps me fighting even when it scares me half to death.
“Good. Now, onto the important stuff,” he grunts out, crossing his arms over his chest. I arch a brow in question, and he barrels on, putting me out of my misery.
“Coach’s daughter has a friend who needs a new flatmate, and seeing as you might as well be living inside a dumpster with the state of your flat, I’ve offered you up as a contender.
Interested?” His tone carries that familiar mix of irritation and reluctant fondness.
I baulk at him, mouth agape. He chuckles deeply, jutting an arm out and snapping my jaw shut with the flick of two fingers under my chin. “Is that a yes, or did I offend you by pointing out the obvious?”
“Both,” I blurt out, a grin tugging despite myself, humour bubbling past exhaustion. “You dropped me off at home one time, but you’re right, and I am absolutely saying yes.”
“Once was enough,” he grumbles under his breath. “Someone pounded on my window before I got out of there, and I’m not sure if they were trying to offer me drugs, a blowy, or steal my car, but there’s zero reason you should be living in that part of town.”
My cheeks heat, the urge to scratch at my skin overwhelming me. He never needs to know it’s an improvement from where I grew up.
The studio flat I’ve been renting since Coach Auclair first offered me a spot on the team at the start of the season is an absolute dump, but it was all I could afford before my sign-on bonus landed in my account.
Besides, maintaining one home was expensive enough as it was; I couldn’t very well splurge on something nicer until I was sure I could truly afford double the expenses.
“Thanks for thinking of me,” I tell him, hoping to steer the conversation into safer territory. “What’s the best way to contact—” I wrinkle my brow. “Sorry, what was their name?”
“Adhira, and don’t worry about it. I’ll send you her number tonight.”
“A woman?” I ask, disappointment blooming behind my sternum that this might not work after all. “I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
“She’s not worried about it. Says she just wants someone quiet who’ll stay out of her space.”
“And you’re certain she’s okay living with a bloke?” I clarify for good measure, running a shaky hand through my sweat-soaked roots.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, dumbass,” he mutters.
“She can handle herself, and Adhira wouldn’t have agreed to the suggestion if she weren’t really okay with it.
” His tone is tense and low, his already limited patience rapidly dwindling, but the fact he ran it by her before speaking with me sets my anxiety at ease.
Clearly done with the conversation, he takes off towards the lockers, and I hurry to jog along the sidelines, keeping pace with him as he storms across the pitch.
“Alright, thanks. I appreciate you helping me get this set up.” I also appreciate the opportunity to not have to live alone anymore.
He stops to yank open the door. A cool blast of air thick with the scent of sweat and man musk slaps me in the face as he claps me on the shoulder, squeezing my rigid muscles.
“Don’t mention it.” He grunts, turning away and leaving me gaping as the door swings towards me, nearly smacking me in the face.
I regain use of my limbs, throwing a hand out to catch it.
Following him inside, I go through the motions of stripping and hopping in the shower before dragging my arse to the parking lot, with the familiar heaviness of bone-deep exhaustion weighing on me as I make the trip to my flat.
I toss open the car door, climb out, and am quickly reminded of how much I need to move.
The stench of old piss and rotten rubbish wafts from the poorly lit street.
The streetlight meant to illuminate the walkway to the front entrance is flickering again, and I already know that my landlord hasn’t fixed the door lock like he promised while I was away for our match.
Somewhere behind me, footsteps scrape, faint and quick. The flickering light hums louder, and I can’t tell if it’s real or just the exhaustion messing with my head.
I sprint down the three stone steps of the sunken entrance, clutching my duffel bag to my side. A shiver rolls down my spine with awareness. I’m being watched. I ignore it, jiggling the door handle, finding I was right. The lock isn’t fixed.
I push inside, flicking on the lights, and slump against the door. My shoulders sag with fatigue, mildew-sodden air coating my nostrils like smoke.
My gaze flicks to the living room, and a loud groan escapes me. “For fuck's sake,” I whine. They took the TV but couldn’t be bothered to remove the wall mount while they were at it? I’ll add it to the list of shite I need to do before I move out of this hellhole.
I drop my bag onto the grimy laminate, the faded floral pattern—once new, like lipstick on this pig of a flat—now nearly scrubbed to nothing.
I grab the second-hand wooden chair from my makeshift dining area, wedge it under the door handle, then trudge into the living room. It’s quiet. Always so damn quiet.
My phone rings in my pocket, and a quick, knowing smile tugs on my lips as I answer. I angle the forward-facing camera to hide my messy blond waves and place it on the edge of the small sleeper sofa.
I’m accosted with a view of my own face, bright-green eyes clashing against a weary expression, dark circles a telltale sign of my exhaustion.
But my sisters are young and, thankfully, still unaware of the many stressors constantly threatening to rock the foundation of their lives.
I’m determined to delay the day when they realise it isn’t just a physically demanding career that causes me to look so tired.
Even through the blur of the screen, I straighten my shoulders, forcing brightness into my eyes the way I do before a game. They deserve the best version of me, even when it’s a lie.
“Good evening, little ladies. How was your day?” I chirp into the line, and I’m met with giggling laughter and bright eyes.
“Mummy took us to feed the ducks!” Ellie’s voice chimes with her excitement.
Some of the weight of my loneliness lifts from my shoulders as I latch onto her every jovial word.
She and Lyla tell me all about their day while I pack, cleaning up after my latest burglar and preparing to flee the confines of this wasteland my landlord calls a safe living environment.
I might have premiership money now, but I sure as shite hadn’t when I first got here.
And with Mum unable to work until recently, fatigue and the strain of her treatments weighing her down, this was the best I could do.
The memory of her soft, “We’ll be alright, love,” echoes through me, grounding me as I glance around the trashed flat.
That little reminder sends a spark of pride through my chest at just how far I’ve come.
My captain knowing someone in need of a flatmate is like a kiss on my cheek from the sun herself—the break I’ve been begging for—and I can’t bloody wait.