Chapter 7
Logan
There’s nothing better than the high of a game.
The crowds, the camaraderie, the endorphins.
And the Thunder are only nine points behind this time, which is a far cry better than our last match where we were thoroughly trounced.
With the ball currently in our possession, we have a chance at earning a second win of the season.
But only if everyone plays their part.
As the forwards set up for a scrum, I look down the line of backs to make sure everyone is ready, making eye contact with Moxie before continuing down the line and groaning at what I see.
As always, Bean’s head is down, like he forgot we’re in the middle of a match.
If he wasn’t clear on the other side of the pitch, I’d whack him in the back of the head and tell him to concentrate.
He already fumbled once tonight, giving the KC Renegades an unnecessary chance to score, and if I had my way, he would be on the bench for that.
My eyes catch Moxie’s again, and he scowls at me. Likely reading my thoughts. I clench my jaw and get into position, ready to run as soon as the ball passes through the scrum.
It shouldn’t matter to me whether the Thunder win as long as I’m playing my best. This isn’t my team, and a win in MLR means nothing for my career.
I’m just here to keep up my skills. And yet the fact that we’ve only won a single match so far sits heavier on my chest than Savannah’s cat, and I can’t shake it. I’m not used to losing.
I don’t like it, especially because the Thunder has the talent. They’re just forgetting to use it.
The scrum starts, both teams fighting to gain ground.
Freddie, the scrum-half, rolls the ball inside, then grabs it when it gets kicked to the back.
He tosses it to Moxie as the rest of us start running.
Moxie throws to a center, who throws to the other center, who throws to Bean, who only gets a few steps in before he’s tackled.
Thankfully he keeps hold of the ball this time.
Freddie has the ball again, getting it to Moxie who feints a throw but kicks instead.
My turn.
I burst forward, barreling through a defender and dodging another as the ball hits the ground, bouncing right.
I pick up speed, scooping the ball into my arm and ramming into a Renegade to continue on my way.
Easy. The try zone comes fast, and there’s no one close enough to stop me from going straight between the goal posts and planting the ball down right in the center.
“And that’s the third try of the night for the Thunder’s Logan Callahan, bringing the score to twenty-four to twenty, Renegades!
” the announcer says amid a mixture of cheers and boos.
Thunder teammates clap me on the back as we return to center pitch for Moxie’s conversion kick, but my focus is on Bean. More specifically his glare.
“You ever get sick of being a hero?” he grumbles as I pass him. “No one wants you here, Callahan.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, surprised by the sting his comment leaves behind. “Start pulling your weight, and I won’t have to be a hero.” My eyes travel over his thin frame. “It’s not like you have much to pull, so it shouldn’t be hard.”
As soon as those frustrated words leave my mouth, I regret them.
For some reason, I can never say the right thing to Bean, which is only making the overall tension in the team worse.
Knowing Bean won’t believe any apology I make, I shift to an empty part of the pitch to watch Moxie kick the conversion.
Unfortunately, another player joins me. French Roast, as the team calls him, is Bean’s best friend, and I have no doubt he’s here to call me out for my tactless comment. “He’s going through some stuff,” French says, keeping his voice low. “Do you have to be so harsh?”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off. I am being harsh, but it’s not on purpose.
I’m trying to help Bean get out of his own way, but I’ve never been the motivational type.
The best I can do is stick to the truth and hope he sees my attempts at helping him for what they are.
“You all coddle him,” I mutter. “It’s holding him back. ”
French rolls his eyes, clearly not a fan of my assessment.
He’s one of the softest men on the pitch, full of Kiwi charm, and yet, like everyone else, he only hears my comments as conceited insults.
I don’t need him to be my friend, but these matches would be a lot easier to win if my teammates would work with me.
Give me a chance to pass on what I’ve learned over the years.
“He’s giving the best he can,” French says.
“He’s not.” I shut up and hold my breath as Moxie steps back, ready to make the conversion. As is often the case, it’s a perfect kick, and the Thunder half of the crowd—more than I expected at an away match—erupts into cheers as we jump to only two points behind the Renegades.
It doesn’t matter. The clock has nearly run out and, barring some miracle, there’s not enough time for us to get the ball back and secure a win. Another loss for the Thunder.
“I know you’re keen to win,” French says as we start spreading out for the kickoff to finish the last few minutes of the match, “but there’s more to life than rugby, mate. Ease up, yeah?”
More to life than rugby? At the moment, that’s all I have. Rugby, and a tightness in my chest that gets worse with every week I’m no closer to a conversation with Lola.
By the time we wrap up the match and get back to the hotel, I’m exhausted. Most of the lads head to the restaurant to refuel, but I go straight to my room and huck some protein powder into a shaker bottle with some water, drinking it as fast as I can.
I thought these drinks were bad before, but now that I’ve had almost a month of Savannah Blair’s cooking, the thing is barely palatable.
Anything was going to be better than protein shakes, but that woman’s meals are…
insane. They’re incredible. I actually look forward to popping one in my oven (which I learned the hard way heats unevenly and requires rotating the food halfway through), and it’s been a long time since something made me want to leave the training facility at a reasonable hour.
At some point I should tell her as much, but I figure the several hundred dollars I send her each week says enough about how much I like eating her food.
Downing a bottle of water to rinse the protein taste from my mouth, I grab my phone and plop onto the bed, unsurprised to see texts from my parents.
It doesn’t matter what time of day I’m playing; they’ll be watching.
At least with the time difference between here and Sydney, it’s mid-Sunday afternoon for them.
I’ve played matches around the world in the middle of the night for them, and they’ve never missed one.
Mum:
That was such a close game, Logie!
Dad:
Nice tackle at the start of the second half.
Mum:
It looks like you’re starting to mesh well with your new teammates.
Dad:
How’s the search going?
I haven’t told them that I found Lola, which means I haven’t had a phone call with them in over a month, since I’m incapable of lying to them and they would undoubtedly ask.
I’m sure they’d be thrilled to know I have a name and address, but if Mum knew Lola refuses to talk to me, she’d likely start making plans to come talk to the woman herself.
Typing out a few different responses, I settle on the vaguest one.
Logan:
Thunder’s getting better, yeah. No contact yet, but I have some connections.
I snort out a laugh. Connections. Skilled as she is at making ripper meals to rival my mum’s cooking back home, Savannah has been pretty useless when it comes to getting me in contact with Lola.
She says she hasn’t had a proper conversation with my birth mother since we struck our deal, but she’s spent hours at the Shafer house.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s even trying; she’s been jumpy about the whole thing from the start.
I’m not sure I can ask her about it again without making things worse. Our bare-bones text conversations thus far have all been variations on the same thing, with Savannah’s responses progressively getting more annoyed:
Logan:
Talked to her yet?
Savannah:
Nope. I’ll tell you when I do.
Tonight, however, I choose a different tactic in the hopes she might respond differently.
Logan:
What would you say to adding road food to my menu going forward?
It’s late in Kansas City, and though California is two hours behind, I’m not expecting her to reply tonight, much as I want her to.
It’s Saturday night, and a woman like her is bound to be out with someone.
She may not be Moxie’s type, but the spitfire would appeal to any other straight hot-blooded male.
It’s as much her sparky personality as it is her looks, and unlike a lot of women in Los Angeles, she doesn’t look like she’ll snap in half in a stiff breeze.
She has substance. Something for a man to hold on to.
Not that any muppets out there deserve to hold on to her. In fact, I’d rather she wasn’t on a date. She’s better off on her own, with that beast of a cat who likes me more than she does.
I tap my fingers on my knee, waiting for the text to switch to ‘read’ because I have nothing else to do tonight than send out a silent prayer that she’s busy making meals and not making out with some bloke.
I should take up a hobby so I can avoid down time like this.
Now that I’ve found Lola, I don’t have anything to occupy myself outside practice.
Back home, my life is rugby all day, every day.
Here… I rub a tight spot in my chest, trying not to think about how the only other thing to take up space in my life here is Savannah.
Which is a problem.