Chapter 14
Connor
I sucked today.
By the time we moved from sled pushes to handling work, the sun had lifted high enough to warm the turf, leaving a faint shimmer across the pitch. Not that California was often cold, but the heat was rising all the same.
Coach had split us into pods of four for the passing sequences: Bobby anchoring the base, Jake and I staggered at the arms of the Y, with one of the younger backs running the pointed line through the cones.
It was the kind of drill we’d done a thousand times, basic repetition designed to sharpen hands, timing, and communication.
Normally, it settled me. Today, it felt like being asked to stand still inside my own head.
Bobby fed the first ball with his usual precision, the pass heavy enough that I had to absorb the weight before redirecting it quickly to Jake.
He took it clean and returned it to me with enough spin to test my grip.
I sent it forward to Ramirez, who accelerated through the marker, popped it back, then looped wide to start again.
We fell into rhythm almost immediately: catch, transfer, support, recycle. Feet light. Shoulders squared.
Jake glanced over as he caught one of my passes, eyebrows lifting slightly as he felt the extra force behind it. “Easy,” he muttered, not a complaint but a check-in.
I didn’t respond, instead sending the next ball toward Ramirez with a smoother, more controlled weight. He ran onto it perfectly, feeding Bobby again before looping back to his marker.
The sequence repeated—over ten meters, then twenty, then back again—and by the third cycle, the tempo had lifted, the ball traveling faster than before. Sweat gathered at my temples, sliding down my jawline, the heat of exertion grounding me in the kind of clarity only physical work ever offered.
But every time the ball left my hands, my mind edged back to that conversation with my agent yesterday.
“They’re formally asking about your availability for the summer tour. They want to bring you into the wider training squad, and they’re prepared to move quickly if you’re open to it.”
I hadn’t even started my own season, yet and the pressure to change was right there.
The expectation that I would want it—that I would drop everything here without hesitation.
I knew my family wanted this. I should too.
All I wanted to do was shove the thought aside, bury it under the rhythm of the drill, but it stayed stubbornly in the periphery of my mind.
Bobby sent me another ball, slightly low. I adjusted quickly, flicking it up and pushing it toward Jake. He moved into it, caught, and held it a second longer than the drill required—long enough to look directly at me.
“You’re throwing like someone who hasn’t slept,” he said, keeping his tone light enough that Ramirez wouldn’t notice.
“I’m throwing fine,” I snapped.
Jake didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. He sent the ball back with a clean, fluid motion, and I redirected it up field, trying to lose myself in the familiar cadence: catch, guide, step, release.
Coach blew the whistle from the sideline and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Timing on the last loop needs work! And O’Riley—stop throwing hospital passes, or I’m stealing your boots!”
I almost smiled.
We reset again, settling into formation. Bobby’s pass hit my palms with the kind of certainty I trusted, and as I turned it across the line, something inside me steadied, even if only for a moment.
This was where I belonged. On this pitch with these players.
Building something I wasn’t ready to walk away from.
But the thought of saying that out loud—to my agent, to Ireland, to my family—tightened under my ribs like a stitch.
“Let’s run it again,” I said, more sharply.
Jake nodded, reading everything I didn’t say.
We ran it again.
And again.
And again, until my lungs burned and my legs shook and the noise in my head dulled enough that I could pretend that the decision waiting for me wasn’t the reason my chest felt so tight.
***
Some of the guys were already in physical therapy after the extended session on the pitch.
My therapy had been the thirty-minute shower with scalding water beating over my shoulders, letting it burn through the knots and the noise while I ran through every possible scenario in my head. None of them settled right.
By the time I pulled on a hoodie and stepped out into the hallway, my muscles ached in that satisfying, heavy way, but the tightness in my chest hadn’t budged.
Coach’s office door was cracked open, and even though a sane person would’ve walked straight past it and pretended everything was fine, my feet took me there before my brain could veto the decision.
He looked up as I knocked lightly and leaned into the doorway.
“You got a minute?” I asked.
“For you? Always,” he said, motioning me in.
I sank into the chair opposite his desk. He watched me for a moment, elbows propped, hands clasped, waiting me out like he always did. Only today, I didn’t want to start the conversation. Despite me walking in here, I needed him to take the lead.
“What was going on with you in training this morning?” he asked eventually. “Your handling was solid, but you weren’t settled.”
I exhaled slowly. “My agent called yesterday.”
He nodded once. “About Ireland.”
“Yeah.” The word felt heavy leaving my mouth. “They’re moving forward with roster discussions. Apparently, there’s serious interest.”
Nothing was off limits here, and as much as I appreciated that from my coach, I was ready to start thinking for myself and making my own decisions when it came to my life and my career.
I knew he understood that. His dad was a big shot in ice hockey, and Coach Knox took a different route to him and managed to be successful.
“And how do you feel about that?” he asked.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “I feel… conflicted,” I admitted. “Everyone assumes it’s the dream. Family, the union, my agent—they all think it’s the thing I’ve been waiting for. But I don’t know if it is anymore.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Conflicted usually means something’s changed,” he said finally. “So tell me what’s changed.”
Leaning back in the chair, my eyes tracked the slow turn of the ceiling fan.
“Timing, for one. If I go over there, it’s not a short stint.
They’re talking about committing to a full season, maybe more.
That takes me away from this team. Different league, different expectations.
” I paused, jaw tightening. “It means I’m not here. ”
He nodded slowly. “You’re thinking about continuity.”
“I’m thinking about everything,” I said as frustration crept in.
“Everyone talks about Europe like it’s the final stamp of legitimacy.
Like if you don’t go, you’re leaving something unfinished.
But I’ve built something here.” My hands flexed on the armrests.
“And I don’t know if chasing the next rung is worth stepping away from all of that. ”
Knox leaned back, considering me the way he always did when he was deciding whether to coach or just listen.
“You know going over there has to be your choice, and you should be sure,” he said with certainty.
“I watched my dad do it,” he added, not unkindly.
“Every opportunity was the opportunity. Bigger league, bigger spotlight. He kept moving the finish line and wondering why nothing ever felt settled.”
I swallowed. “That’s what scares me. I don’t want to wake up a year from now somewhere else, playing good rugby, and realize I left the right thing behind.”
He leaned forward again. “Here’s the part people won’t tell you... Hell, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said. “Ireland will still be there. European rugby isn’t disappearing. But the life you’re building now? The role you have here? That only exists in this window.”
I nodded slowly, the tightness in my chest shifting.
“You don’t have to decide today.” He continued. “But don’t let other people’s definitions of success rush you into a version of your career that doesn’t fit anymore. If you stay, make it a choice. If you go, make it a choice. Just don’t drift into it because it looks good on paper.”
I stood a few minutes later, calmer than when I’d walked in, even if the answer was still out of reach. At the door, I paused.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Knox gave me a small, knowing smile. “That’s what I’m here for, Connor. Rugby will always ask for more. The trick is deciding what you’re willing to give—and what you’re not.”