Chapter 3
Harry
Mathias Jones is already seated at the front of the classroom when I walk in.
Technically, it’s not a classroom, but it so closely resembles one with its array of desks and chairs all pointed towards a computer-powered whiteboard, that it’s officially been nicknamed “the classroom.”
I sit as far away from him as I can, taking the middle row on the right-hand side because the back seats are all occupied.
It’s not that I don’t like Mathias. Far from it. Even though he’s harder to converse with than a painted rock, it turns out he’s actually—annoyingly—a stand-up guy.
It’s more that . . . he’s Mathias Jones. A thirty-one-year-old Welsh powerhouse of a fly-half, and in the eyes of Coach Johan Eksteen and pretty much the entire world right now, Mathias can do no wrong.
They signed him the same year I moved up from the academy squad to the main team.
I’d thought I had it made. Thought that it was my time to shine.
Finally, a chance to put every single naysayer in their place.
I was living my dream, wearing the number ten shirt for Bath Centurions, representing my city across the country.
Maybe one day I’d even make it representing my country across the world . . . play for England.
But no.
Okay, my opening season might have been a little rocky.
Definitely a few missed conversions here and there.
A few moments where my brain forgot to communicate with my hands and feet quickly enough.
And sure, there was a game or two whose negative outcome may have been influenced by a microscopic Harry Ellis blunder.
But was I truly bad enough to warrant bringing in the big guns?
Signing Mathias Jones of all people? Come on.
We were six months into the season, and only three left. Honestly, was it worth it? They might as well have let me play out the whole year. Maybe I would have changed things up by then.
I’m not even saying I blame them for what they did.
I’m just gutted I didn’t get another opportunity to prove myself.
And now, coming to training every day and trying to outperform Mathias Jones and show them I deserve one more chance in that number ten shirt is .
. . well, it’s completely fucking pointless.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, can out-prove Mathias Jones.
And I’m surely doomed to play in the twenties for the rest of my career.
“How ya going, Abs?” my best mate Pi says, dropping into the chair next to me.
“Alright,” I reply.
The nickname Abs was born because when your name is Harry and your hair is ginger, people are physically incapable of exercising any creativity.
What started as “Prince Harry” soon morphed into one of its several variations—Princey, Sussex, The Spare—before eventually settling on The Abdicator. Or the shortened version: Abs.
Which honestly, I’m fine with. It’s been tough enough as it is growing up with this name and colouring. Abs feels detached enough from the primary school bullies’ chants that it doesn’t bother me any more.
One time, Mathias felt it necessary to point out that Prince Harry has never officially abdicated and is still in line to the British throne.
Occasionally, Mathias will present random facts in the middle of a conversation and then go back to stony silence.
It’s the only thing I actually like about him.
Pi’s nickname comes from his birthday being on the fourteenth of March. His real name is Aiden. Aiden Campbell. Sometimes I forget that. He’s twenty-five, two years older than me, and originally from Perth—the one in Australia, not Scotland.
It’s the usual Friday morning roster announcement, and we’re all waiting for Eksteen to tell us which number we’ll be wearing on our shirts during Sunday’s match against Gloucester. I’m silently manifesting.
Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten.
“Okay, lads? Good morning,” Eksteen says. He sets his coffee down next to his laptop.
Some of us reply with a “Morning.” Mathias doesn’t, because he’s Mathias. Not that I’m hyperfocusing on what Mathias is doing again.
Fine, I might have been staring. Just a little. And no, it’s not jealousy. It’s just that . . . I don’t get it.
What does he have—except for eight more years’ pro rugby experience, national team representation, a successful side hustle of organising big community matches, about a thousand sponsorships, millions of adoring international fans, and about three hundred millimetres in additional height—that I don’t?
Jerk face.
Eksteen continues speaking, pulling me out of my spiral. “As we all know, Bosley and Jones are getting married next weekend, so there’s no match on the first or second of May.”
Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. I guess I’m not finished whinging about Mathias.
He has this super fucking wholesome, super fucking perfect love life too. So fine, maybe I am jealous. I’m only twenty-three, there’s still plenty of time to find “the one,” but in the meantime, could I at least find . . . anyone?
Jesus, literally anybody will do.
Dating apps are useless. Finding someone IRL in a club or a bar or even a park is a total no-go, and I rarely meet any new people outside of my teammates and my family.
For once in my life, I just want to be someone’s first choice. I want to be Eksteen’s first choice, the team’s first choice, the fans’ . . . Just one single individual person’s first choice.
At the wedding announcement, Dan Chelford, the Cents’ captain, slaps Mathias on the back. It ignites a chorus of cheers and “Oi-oi!”
We’re all invited. Some of us have even been asked to be in the wedding party. Not me, though. Of course not me. It’s not like Mathias and I train together every single day because we play the same position. It’s not like—
Oh, fuck off, Harry.
I’m even boring myself with my little pity party.
“Sunday is our last fixture for a few weeks, and we need to show Gloucester what we’re made of.
So . . . here’s the roster.” Eksteen reels off positions followed by the player filling that spot.
It’s the same as it is most weeks. Occasionally—very occasionally—he’ll mix it up because he wants to try something new, or he has to substitute someone because of injury.
“Doyle number one. Williams two. Chelford three. Harris four. Eggington five.”
The guys who’ve been summoned simply nod their acknowledgments. Honestly, I’d probably cry if he called my name any lower than sixteen.
Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten. Ellis number ten.
If I chant it often enough in my head, eventually I’m gonna hear those words being spoken, right?
I’ve been practicing kicking. I’m so much better than I was two years ago. Soooo much better. Just give me a chance. Come on.
“Number ten is Jones.”
“Fuck!” I say, hopefully not out loud.
Pi’s hand shoots out to tap my leg. “Mate,” he whispers.
“Campbell eleven.”
I don’t miss the way Pi’s fist curls into an excited air punch. He deserves it. We play different positions, and he’s earned the right. I’m not going to be the twat who’s jealous of his best friend, but I do have to wait until the final spot to hear my name.
“And last but not least,” Eksteen says peering up over his clipboard at me and twisting the knife even deeper. “Ellis, twenty-three.”
I should be happy. I am happy, and I have nobody to blame but myself.
Obviously, I haven’t worked hard enough.
I need to push myself more. At least I’m not one of the six lads fidgeting in the back row whose names haven’t been called.
They’ve only just moved up from the academy squad, but it must feel like such a kick in the bollocks to get overlooked every week.
“Before we kit up and get to training, Dan has a little announcement,” Eksteen says.
“You retiring?” Snatch shouts from the front.
“Ha ha ha,” Dan deadpans. “You wish, mate. Right, I’ll keep this brief.”
We’re all so used to Dan’s pre- and mid-game pep talks that none of us even bother to contradict him any longer.
Every single one of his speeches begins with those same famous few words—“I’ll keep this brief.
” Not once in my two years of playing for the Cents has he ever followed his own directive and kept it brief.
A few of the other lads side-eye each other. This has also become a custom.
“As many of you probably already know,” Dan begins. “This is my last season as captain. Don’t get too excited, I’m not going anywhere—”
“Boooo!” someone calls out.
Dan flips them off. “I’m just handing over captaincy duties to some other poor unsuspecting fucker.
I’ve been captain for three years now, and it’s about time I just didn’t do that any more.
I carry this team—” Everyone laughs. “I’ve always said that.
You lazy bastards have been relying on my excellence for far too long.
It’s time you pulled your clumsy fucking fingers out of your assholes and started pulling your weight.
” More laughter. “Eksteen and I will be choosing the new captain together, so it really could be any—”
“You might as well just hand the C band to Gadget now and save us all time,” Eggo—a.k.a. Finn—yells, play-slapping Mathias Jones on the back.
Mathias, who bears the nickname Gadget, smiles, all shy and coy and like butter wouldn’t melt. It’s infuriating. Without looking over, Pi nudges his trainer against mine.
“Okay, but in all fairness, guys, it could be anyone.” And then Dan makes eye contact with me, and my heart jumps into my mouth.
It’s over in less than a second as he glances off at someone else, but seriously, did he just look straight at me after saying the new captain could be anyone? Did he mean to? Had there been any weight behind that look?
Or am I overthinking once again?