Chapter 6 #2
Sometimes I feel like our constant touching, and hair-ruffling, and buttock-squeezing has to be obvious to the rest of the team, but maybe it’s not.
Rugby lads tend to be a hands-on bunch. It’s all part of the rough and tumble, the camaraderie.
Boys will be boys and all that. But post-lice room, Pi and I will always avoid touching each other, or greeting each other as we would our other teammates. Just in case.
Eventually Pi catches my eye, and with a deadpan expression, surreptitiously pulls a middle finger from his pocket. “Alright, cunt?”
I think I’m in love with him.
It’s half-time. Eksteen and Dan are having a pitch-side discussion when Pi and I are summoned to join them.
We’re playing the Rigsborough Ravens and we’re currently leading a whopping forty-seven to seven.
“They’re new, and they’re still figuring themselves out,” Eksteen tells us again, just like he did before the start of the game. “That doesn’t mean we should go easy on them, but it gives us the opportunity to try a few things out.”
Technically, the Ravens aren’t a new team.
They were founded almost the same year as the Cents, but what our coach means is that they’ve recently had a massive overhaul of players after losing a few big hitters to transfers, injuries, and retirements, and now they have a team made up primarily of youngsters who haven’t had a lot of training or in-game time together.
It’s a charity match, and a pound from each ticket sale goes towards the Bath Centurions’ Community Fund. The score won’t have any bearing on our end of season stats, but it’s still heaps of fun to completely obliterate the competition now and then.
“I’m taking Chelford and Jones off,” Eksteen tells us.
Dan nods.
It makes sense, even to my non-tactical brain.
Dan, Gadget, and Pi are probably our three best players.
It only seems reasonable to save most of them for when it matters.
Why risk injuring our greatest assets when we’re forty points in the lead?
Next week’s game against Bristol will be a different affair; we’ll need them in top condition for that.
“So you two’re in charge now, okay?” he adds.
Pi and I look at each other and puff out a breath.
“Ripper,” Pi deadpans.
“Do you remember when we discussed the importance of cohesion?” I don’t know why, but Eksteen’s only looking at me when he says this.
I realise that if it comes down to choosing one of us over the other, it won’t be me.
Not that I’d mind in the slightest. In all honesty, Pi deserves to be the new skipper.
“Pard, I have literally thought of nothing else,” I say. Dan laughs. Eksteen doesn’t.
“I want to see you working together,” Eksteen says. We both nod. “And now would be a great time to throw out any radical ideas you might have for the second half. Like I said, they’re an inexperienced team. This gives us a bit of wiggle room. I’d like to know what you two can come up with.”
Pi sucks in a deep breath. “I . . . we’ve had a few thoughts.”
I stare at him and try to pretend I’ve been involved in these thoughts since their conception.
“What if we didn’t sub Harry for Mathias? What if we subbed Riley for fly-half instead?” Pi says.
It feels as though someone has turned the volume of the pitch right down. No one in our little cluster of four seems to be breathing.
Abs is Pi’s best friend. Abs always subs for fly-half. That’s what he’s been training for since birth. Pi would really throw his buddy under the bus like that and leave him benched for an entire game? A game in which we’re walking the win.
“Hear us out,” Pi says. Us. Not me. “Riley can kick. I know he’s young, but he’s got the potential to be the next Mathias Jones if given the chance to prove it.
I’m certain of it. And I’ve always thought Harry’s too .
. . scrappy for fly-half. Not too scrappy, that’s the wrong choice of word, but he has other talents that lend themselves better to another position. Let’s put him on, but as scrum-half.”
Eksteen raises a brow and “Hmms” to himself. He rubs his fingers over his mouth, which, for anyone who’s known him long enough, means he’s actually giving considerable thought to it. “So, we pull Darby?”
Pi doesn’t answer. He discretely elbows me.
“Uh . . . yeah. Save him for Bristol,” I add. I squeeze Pi’s hip three times in quick succession.
The movement is clocked by Dan, who catches my eye. He holds contact for a few seconds, then looks to Eksteen, who’s still massaging his chin.
“Who are we playing for Chelford?” he asks, looking at me, making it clear I’m the one who should answer.
I attempt to pick Pi’s brain through telepathy. Who would he choose? There are more forwards on the bench than backs, which is standard, and any of them could fill the slot.
“Alfie.” I try not to say it like a question, but I feel Pi heave a relieved sigh beside me. I chose correctly.
Alfie’s the youngest, but he’s also the biggest and has spent a lot of time with Dan specifically training as a prop.
Eksteen is still humming, still working through his thoughts. “This idea is coming from both of you?”
“Of course,” Pi says, but once again Eksteen’s only looking at me, as though he can see through it all.
“No, it’s not. We’ve got to be honest here,” I reply.
Pi shoots me a “What the hell are you doing?” look.
“If it turns out good, and works out as planned, it was all my idea from the very beginning. If it all goes to shit, it was entirely Pi’s doing.”
Eksteen laughs. Humour has always been the way to crack that man. I wink at Pi, and Dan smirks to himself.
“Time to deliver your pep talks then, boys,” Dan says, slapping a hand down onto my shoulder.
Halfway through the second half, it feels like our gamble is paying off.
We’ve definitely noticed a drop in performance without Gadget or Dan, but we’ve still scored another two tries, taking Pi up to a hat trick.
We’re leading sixty-one to fourteen. Abs keeps trying to line up in the wrong place, but after he gets called a stupid wanker a few times, he picks it up.
Unsurprisingly, Harry’s already mastered the box kick, and his preternaturally combative nature is perfect for this new position.
He’s like my mum’s venomous Jack Russell, Gristle—small, aggressive, tenacious, and with something to prove.
He’ll go straight for the jugular and won’t let go until that ball is in our possession.
Riley is incredibly fast and hasn’t missed either of his conversions, and Alfie is nervous but eager, and it all feels like it’s falling into place.
There’s a Ravens knock-on, and the Cents are awarded a scrum. I fucking love a good scrum. I’m singing The Ting Tings “That’s Not My Name” as we get into position.
“Crouch!” the ref yells.
I wedge my head between Alfie and Snatch, loop one arm around Alfie’s enormous thigh and the other over Hughes, the other lock.
“Bind!”
We squeeze out any last gaps between us. Create one foreboding, infallible beast.
“Set!”
We’re pushing against Rigsborough, pouring every ounce of muscle and strength into driving them back.
Abs throws the ball under the scrum, angling it towards Snatch, and then he’s immediately at the rear of the pack, hopping from foot to foot behind the number eight ready to collect it and pass to Riley the second the opportunity opens up.
We’re stronger than the Ravens. Our many extra combined years of experience, training, and grit moves them forward, freeing the ball. Abs is right there. He swipes it from the grass and passes it back to Riley.
Riley sidesteps the Rigsborough scrum-half and dodges a flying tackle from their number eight, but ahead of him the Ravens are building their defensive wall.
“Get rid of it!” I yell.
Riley dummy passes it to the right, slaloms around their hooker, then tosses it to the left, to Pi, who’s open enough for everyone to know that the second the ball lands in his grasp, the Cents have won another try.
The crowd erupts into cheers, and Pi hotfoots it over the try line. He’s so blasé about the whole thing, and Rigsborough are so slow to respond, that he walks the ball between the posts before grounding it.
I’m on him in an instant, wrapping my arms around him, kissing his forehead. “Fuck yeah.”
“Do you think we’ve done it?!” he yells over the cheering. “Have we done enough to prove it?”
“Time will tell, pard,” I say, moving out of the way so the others can congratulate him.
Riley converts the try, and the Ravens score another before the full-time whistle. They don’t convert theirs—a tricky corner shot—but the noise the crowd makes for the opposition’s try, if anything, is louder than any cheering we’ve heard for the home team all afternoon.
Pi’s awarded player of the match.
After the game, Pi and I report to the principal’s office—the section of the locker room where the coaches are hanging around—for feedback. One of my favourite things about Eksteen is that he’s not shy with dishing out praise, but you have to work for it.
We’re rewarded with a “Good job, boys.”
Pi low-fives me.
Eksteen turns to the rest of the Cents. “Fellas, that was an absolute joy to watch. You should all be very proud of how you conducted yourselves. Especially Riley and Alfie. Nice work. Ellis, next season we’ll get you in for more specialised scrum-half training.
Very impressed with how you handled that. ”
“Oh my god,” Abs says, the second Eksteen leaves us. “I need to tell Lan.” He’s already digging through his bag for his phone.
“I reckon that was enough to secure it for us,” I say to Pi.
He nods. “But I think we should do it your way as well. Do a dance routine thing. Honestly, it would show that we’re able to coordinate everyone and get them working towards the same outcome.”
My mouth hangs open.
“I have one teeny suggestion, though . . .” he says, crowding right up into my space to tell me his idea.