40
The energy on the field was electric before a single whistle blew.
It wasn’t match-day tension, sharp and coiled. This was lighter, more exciting. Music thumped faintly from someone’s speaker near the gear bags. Boots thudded against damp grass as players jogged loose, laughing, shoving, calling out names they didn’t usually hear at training.
Fresh bodies. New combinations.
The visiting side filtered onto the pitch in mismatched kits.
Some were wearing university colors, some provincial logos, some plain black training tops.
They looked wide-eyed and eager, the kind of athletes who were trying to make a name for themselves, and playing mixed with a professional team was their dream.
Coach Reynolds and Coach Tama stood together at midfield, arms crossed, watching it all with measured approval.
“Let’s do it,” Reynolds said finally.
Tama nodded. “No comfort zones.”
They started splitting the teams deliberately – forwards and backs interwoven, Crusaders peeled off and dropped into the practice side, the visitors absorbed into the red ranks. It felt almost playful at first. Teammates pointing at each other.
“You? Over there.”
“Oi, traitor.”“Don’t go soft on us now.”
Shirts and skins made it official. Jerseys came off. Tossed aside. Identity reduced to sweat and muscle and instinct.
Noah was shirtless, skin already flushed from warm-ups.
His build was functional power: thick through the chest and shoulders, lats flaring when he moved.
There was nothing decorative about him except for the tattoos covering his chest and arms. Old scars mapped his ribs and shoulder line, faint white lines against tanned skin, evidence of seasons stacked on seasons.
When he rolled his neck, the muscles there tightened like cables.
Toby stood out immediately. At 6’6”, shirtless, he looked carved from mass alone. His torso was broad and solid, not defined in neat lines but in sheer density. Thick chest, powerful core, thighs like pillars. The kind of body built for tackling other men into submission.
Miko peeled his jersey off with a grin, tossing it aside. He was leaner, explosive – muscle packed tight along his arms and shoulders, everything about him built for speed and sudden violence. His calves were absurd, stretching his socks high over his shins even before the whistle.
Liam, in a shirt, was all rangy limbs and coiled strength. Long lines, powerful hips, deceptively light on his feet for his size. He still had that stupid mustache, refusing to get rid of it. His back flexed under his tight uniform when he jogged, shoulder blades moving like wings under skin.
Kelsey stayed in a shirt, sleeves already rolled up, but even through the fabric his athleticism showed – wide waist, broad shoulders, the effortless balance of someone who was made for brute force and a strong defensive line.
Claire noticed Jack, on the shirt's side. She remembered how eager he was to take his shirt off before. She wondered which one he would have preferred, knowing about what had happened between them.
Around them, the visiting players looked younger. Less worn. Their muscles were impressive, yes, but cleaner with fewer scars, fewer signs of attrition. You could tell who was still early in their careers by the way they bounced, by the way their bodies hadn’t yet learned restraint.
Claire stood near the medical table, tablet tucked under her arm, watching the chaos with a small smile.
She liked days like this.
There was something honest about scrimmages. There was no ceremony, no cameras, no script. Just rugby stripped down to its bones. She ran through her mental checklist automatically:
● Wraps - check
● Antiseptic - check
● Water - check
● Band-Aids - check
She told herself that despite the uneasiness, she was ready for anything.
She watched a shirtless Noah jog past, loose and focused, rolling his neck, teeth clenched but eyes clear. He didn’t look at her.
Jack passed on the opposite side, already keyed in, intensity humming under his skin. All he did was look at Claire.
Claire exhaled slowly.
This is good, she told herself.
Movement.
Structure.
Normalcy.
Tania comes up behind her, “It’ll be fine… what's the worst that can happen?”
“Famous last words,” Claire responded, not taking her eyes off the pitch.
The whistle lifted to the coach’s lips as the two sides got into positions for kick off.
Claire had the sudden, inexplicable urge to look away.
The skins side, led by Noah, set the tone immediately.
Toby took the first carry off right out of the gate, massive legs pumping as he smashed into contact and dragged two bodies with him before going to ground.
Miko was on him instantly, low and feral over the ball, shoulders hunched, daring anyone to try him.
The shirts answered just as hard.
Liam cleared the next ruck with surgical precision, folding a collegiate flanker backward with a legal but punishing hit. Kelsey called the line calmly, voice steady even as bodies flew, pulling Jack wide on the next phase to exploit space.
The collisions echoed.
This wasn’t drill-speed. This was match-intensity without match restraint.
Noah ran straight lines, no finesse, no sidestep, choosing contact every time.
It was like he wanted to get hurt, and hurt people.
It was like he just wanted to feel something.
He hit shoulders, absorbed arms around his torso, and drove anyway, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
Jack met him once, cleanly, chest-to-shoulder, and the impact rattled through both of them as Noah dropped the ball.
Neither looked away afterward.
Jack played like a man trying to prove control.
His timing was perfect, his breakdown work: ruthless.
He side swiped twice in a row, hands lightning-fast, forcing turnovers that drew approving nods from the coaches.
But every time Noah carried, Jack was there.
And every time Jack touched the ball, Noah tackled him.
The two sides felt it.
Fed off it.
They started hitting harder. Finishing tackles longer. Making each side earn every inch.
“What the fuck got into them?” Tama said to Coach, watching the battle playing out before them.
A shoulder caught Noah’s eyebrow. Blood welled instantly, streaking down the bridge of his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and didn’t slow.
Claire expected Noah to get off the field to tend to the blood, but he didn’t waver.
Toby was a wrecking ball at line-out time, hauling down possession and crashing it up again and again. Miko scavenged like a demon, arms scratched raw, lungs burning. Noah was everywhere – carrying, tackling, cleaning rucks with reckless commitment.
On the other side, Liam made a break that split the line clean open.
Kelsey was ice-cold under pressure, hands soft, feet quick, distributing with precision even as bodies closed around him.
Jack smashed through a gap off his shoulder, fended once, twice, then Noah brought him down in a tackle that felt personal.
The whistle blew for halftime.
No one moved.
Noah and Jack stood chest to chest near midfield, breathing hard, salt from sweat and blood mixing, eyes locked.
Noah marched over to Jack and pushed him, right in his chest. “You don’t get to say that shit,” Noah said low, voice shaking with restraint.
“This has nothing to do with you.” Jack stepped forward. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“That’s the problem. You should have told me before you went on national television and aired your business.”
Jack pushed Noah back. “I had to say something! I couldn’t handle it anymore. I love her, man.”
“She doesn’t even love you back, Skid,” Noah said, shoving Jack.
“You don’t know that,” Jack replied with a push.
Before it could escalate or Noah could respond, Kelsey was there – hands out, physically putting space between them.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Both of you.”
Jack tried to speak, but Kelsey cut him off, eyes blazing now. “No. You don’t get to justify it. What you did was fucked up, mate.”
Jack stared at him, stunned.
“You didn’t even stop to think,” Kelsey continued, voice rising, “about whether Doc had a boyfriend. About whether she wanted that. You just–” He shook his head. “You made it about you.”
Silence fell heavy.
“Guys, come on,” Liam interjected, “let’s set a good example.”
“She’s not a headline, dude,” Kelsey ignored. “She’s a person.”
Jack looked towards Claire standing on the sideline, watching intently, unable to hear what the argument was about.
Kelsey turned to both of them. “This ends now. We’re professionals. We play rugby. We don’t bleed our personal crap all over the pitch, in front of fucking Rookies too. For fucks sake.”
Tama’s voice cut in sharply. “Second half. Reset or sit.”
“Let it go,” Toby said.
“Let’s play some footy,” Miko added.
They reset.
The second half was worse.
Noah’s side surged ahead early, momentum brutal and relentless. Toby flattened two defenders in one carry. Miko stole ball after ball, grin gone now, eyes wild. Noah carried again and again, absorbing punishment like it was penance.
The hits kept coming.
High-low tackles. Shoulders into ribs. Arms wrapping tight and dragging them down just a second too long. Noah’s face was a mess now – eyebrow split wide, cheek swelling, lip cracked. Purple bloomed across his ribs and shoulder.
He never came off.
With five minutes left, Noah took the ball on a short line and drove through contact, legs pumping, body screaming. He went down inches from the line and placed the ball back clean.
Try.
The whistle blew moments later.
Noah’s side had won.
But as the field emptied and voices softened, the cost was obvious.
Noah stood near the touchline, hands on his knees, blood dripping onto the grass, chest heaving. Victory sat heavy in his body.
Jack watched from across the field, but there was no guilt, no regret, just rage.
This wasn’t rugby anymore.
It was the fragments of a damaged team.
And everyone knew it.
Claire had never been this busy in her life.
The med bay was a whirlwind of bandages and icepacks. Players were arriving in waves. Some with scraped limbs, head bumps, bruises, swelling. It was chaos. She moved from bed to bed, efficient and steady, keeping her mind sharp and her hands faster than thought.
The moment she saw Noah, she took in the full damage: the split eyebrow, the swelling over his cheekbone, nose already tender, and the beginnings of rib bruising. He looked like a storm bottled up in human form. His skin glistened with sweat and traces of dried blood.
“Alright, Captain,” she said lightly, as if this were routine, because it had to be. “Let’s get you sorted.”
She set up an IV drip first, for hydration, keeping him tethered to the medical bed.
Noah kept his gaze forward, not making a sound.
She wiped the blood from his nose and eyebrow, applied antiseptic, then carefully taped both the eyebrow and the bridge of his nose to minimize further swelling.
Ice packs were placed strategically along ribs and shoulders, and she adjusted them without comment, just like any other patient.
“Feeling okay?” she asked casually.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice low but steady. He wasn’t fine.
In the next bed, Jack sat scowling, still flushed from exertion. His injuries were minor by comparison – shoulder bruise, a few grazed knuckles, the usual scrapes – but he was tense, as though the memory of the scrimmage still pulsed through him.
Claire moved between them like clockwork.
Friendly enough to ease tension, professional enough to prevent any emotional spillover.
“You’ll be fine, Jack. Cleaned up and taped,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
She applied the microbial and bandages, adjusted his shoulder, all with deft hands and calm eyes.
Neither man spoke about the confessions, the feelings, or the chaos on the field. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to fix bodies, not hearts… as much as she wanted to do both.
“You two done for the day?” she asked lightly, making sure everyone had water and ice where needed.
Noah gave a short nod. Jack winced.
“Good. Then rest. No running, no scrums,” she instructed. “No activity. No fighting.” Then looking at Jack, “Feel free to leave when you’re ready.” Looking at Noah, “I will need you for a little longer until the drip is done.”
They both obeyed, silently acknowledging her authority. Claire left them side by side – battered, bruised, but under her care. Their tension hung faintly between the beds, unspoken, and unresolved. Claire exhaled and moved on to the next player.
Noah was obviously still there, and the silence was almost unbearable for Claire. She didn’t even bother trying to make conversation. She knew he wouldn’t respond. So, she patched him up like a dutiful doctor, and let him storm out of the Med Box, brooding and angry.