Page 19

Alex Sebring

The sky’s a dark brooding navy above us, and the lights glare down—way too bright for a game falling apart at the seams.

Thirty-seven minutes into the first half and we’re trailing. Bad.

The scoreboard spits out the truth in neon numbers, but I don’t have to see it. I can read it in the crowd. The tension crackling through the stands, the nervous edge in their cheers. It buzzes under my skin—this sick churn in my gut that hasn’t let up since their first score.

I pace the sideline, headset pressed to one ear, heart hammering with every missed tackle, every clumsy offload, every wasted opportunity.

We’re playing Tyson’s team. Of all the fucking teams in the world. And we’re bleeding out.

I watch our fly-half take another late read, wreck the play, and get swallowed up by their line defense like he’s wearing a neon target.

He scrambles out of it. Doesn’t even notice the wing where the space opened up—where we could’ve had a breakaway if he wasn’t so far up his own ass trying to prove a point.

“Fuck’s sake,” I yell, yanking the headset down.

He jogs to the sideline for water, face red and sweat-slicked, a scowl already locked in place.

“Play to the inside on that switch. You’re hesitating—if you read the ten’s shoulder, you’d see he’s opening for the slip.”

He rips the bottle from the trainer’s hand, glares at me like I’m the problem. “You wanna run the fucking game, Sebring? Be my guest.”

I don’t move. Don’t blink. “I’m trying to help you beat these fuckers, Declan.”

He barks a bitter laugh. “You’re counting down the minutes until I’m gone.”

“You’re making it easy, mate.”

“Not your mate.” He steps in close enough that I catch the sharp rise of his chest. “Why don’t you fuck off and wait for your comeback parade?”

Then he’s gone—jogging back onto the pitch, ball tucked under his arm.

I say nothing and shove the headset back on, folding my arms across my chest to keep from putting my fist through the gear cart.

Beside me, Coach shifts, muttering to his assistant through the headset. His jaw clenches so tight it could splinter bone.

It’s unmistakable. We’re not losing this game because of injuries or bad calls. We’re crashing because the guy at the helm stopped giving a damn the second he heard I was replacing him.

I glance across the field—Tyson’s team huddled near midfield, confident and smug. Tyson himself standing loose in the pocket, stretching out his neck.

Motherfucker.

My fingers tighten around the rolled towel in my hand, knuckles popping. I want on that pitch. Every muscle in my body is screaming to move. To fix it. To fight for it.

Watching my team drown while that smug piece of shit coasts toward victory is eating me alive.

Coach folds his arms across his chest, eyes on the field. “We lose this, we’re done. Out. You know that.”

I nod once. “Well aware.”

Assistant Coach Macklin steps in closer, voice low, more direct. “We’ve cleared you. The medical team has signed off. We haven’t pulled the trigger yet—not because we’re indecisive but because we didn’t have to. But with how he’s playing, we need you out there, Sebring.”

I don’t answer right away. My eyes track Declan on the pitch, where he’s launched another kick that dies five meters short and veers wide. Tyson snags it with an ease that makes me want to snap something.

“How are you feeling?” Macklin asks.

My jaw tics. “Stronger.”

“Strong enough?”

I exhale hard. “Close but not a hundred percent. Maybe eighty-five. My head’s good, legs are decent, but I’m not back at my best yet. I’m still favoring the right.”

Coach doesn’t flinch. “Your fifty percent is better than most guys’ hundred. We’re not asking for eighty minutes. Not even forty. I just need you to drag this team out of the grave and give us a fucking heartbeat.”

The tension coils tight in my gut because I want to say yes. I want to strip off this headset and run onto the pitch like I never left.

I press a hand over my heart, over the ink that is Magnolia on my chest.

“You go in and show everyone why we built this damn team around you.”

The crowd roars, and I look up in time to see Tyson break the line. Declan flails in defense. Our fullback misses the angle. And Tyson crosses the try line like he owns it.

He turns, points straight at the sideline—at me—and grins.

Something detonates in my chest.

I rip the headset off and drop it to the ground. “Yeah, I’m going in.”

I pull off the warmup top and shove my mouthguard in. The stadium’s already buzzing, but when I jog toward the sideline ref and peel off my bib—ready to sub in—the energy shifts.

A ripple rolls through the crowd, thunder on the verge of a storm.

The announcer’s voice cracks over the speaker. “Sebring’s taking the pitch.”

The crowd goes feral.

High above the chaos, my beloved beauty stands at the glass—my anchor in the storm. Distance hides her face, but I know she’s watching. I press two fingers to my lips and stretch them toward her. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s a reckoning, and she’s the reason I’ll win.

I step onto the grass. Tyson’s already watching me, standing near centerfield with his hands on his hips, that grin painted on.

“Look what the physio dragged in.” He laughs. “Come to limp your way through one last humiliation?”

I crack my neck and drop into a crouch. “Not limping yet.”

“You will be.” His smile turns vicious. “I’m taking you out for good this time.”

I don’t blink. “Try me.”

He looks up—right past me—toward the suite where the wives are. Where Magnolia is. Where he knows she is. And the bastard blows a kiss.

Motherfucker.

“I will never give her up, Sebring. She will be mine,” he says.

And then he’s on me before the whistle even screeches. Shoulder check. Cheap shot. Every move is dirty as always.

He’s not playing rugby. He’s playing me.

Trying to drag me into his head game, bait me into losing mine. But he doesn’t know—I don’t play for blood anymore. I play for fire. And tonight, every flame in me burns for her.

“You sure you want to do this?” he says, low enough the ref can’t hear. “When I take you out this time, you won’t get back up.”

I stay silent. Jaw tight, heart hammering. My vision narrows, sharp and honed, adrenaline coiled in every muscle. This is fight-or-flight—but I’ve trained too long not to fight smart.

He wants chaos. He wants anger. I’ll give him ice.

The ball hits my hands on the second phase—snapped out of the ruck clean and fast. But Tyson’s on me, reading the play before it’s formed.

I sidestep, and he follows. I feint left, and he takes the bait, allowing me to cut through the gap right behind him.

The crowd erupts. My lungs burn. My legs scream, but they hold.

I hit contact hard, spin through one tackle, offload before the second—and our winger takes the ball straight down the line. Open space. Try zone dead ahead.

Tyson’s still scrambling behind me when the whistle screams and the points go up.

Coach shouts behind me. Macklin slaps the sideline board like a war drum. And all around us, the stadium pulses back to life. But I don’t celebrate. I turn and walk back to the reset.

Tyson meets me at center again, face twisted, his cockiness unraveling fast.

“Fluke,” he spits.

I tilt my head. “Blink and you’ll miss the next one, too.”

“You’re favoring that right.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I bark a bitter laugh. “You think I haven’t built a whole new game around protection?”

He sneers. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still breakable.”

My voice drops. “So are you, motherfucker.”

His eyes flash, and for a split second, there’s nothing between us but pure, undiluted hate. Then the whistle splits the air. I take a step back. The game resumes—and this time, it’s just him and me.

I’m reading the pitch like it’s wired into my bloodstream—every shift, every shoulder turn, every hesitation.

No, I’m not at a hundred percent, but I don’t need to be. I’ve played broken before and I’ve played angry. But never this way—with Magnolia in my blood.

The whistle shrieks, and the scrum sets. I drop into position as if I never left. Ball in, and we break. I move fast, clean, with precision.

I fake the carry, drag two defenders—including Tyson—and pop a no-look pass off my hip to Jonathan sprinting the blindside. He’s already in full stride when it hits his chest.

Their defense is too late, and the crowd detonates. But I don’t let myself enjoy it. No celebration. No grin. Not even a nod. Because this isn’t a victory. Not yet. This is a war.

We line up again. Tyson keeps barking at me, at the ref, at his own team. He’s unraveling, and he doesn’t even see it.

“You’re still limping.” Sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

“And you’re still swinging and missing.”

He charges me midway through the second half—late. Desperate. Dirty. Tries to clip me on the pivot, take out the left same as last time. But I’ve been expecting it.

I drop my shoulder and sidestep—fast enough he misses by inches and eats turf.

The crowd loses it. Gasps. Shouts. Cheers like thunder crashing off the grandstands.

Even Coach is grinning now. And then it happens––we draw a penalty and reset fast.

Ball comes to me on the switch. I dummy wide, flick inside to Bradley who is tearing through the pocket, but he doesn’t stop––straight through the line past the fullback under the posts.

Tie game.

And suddenly this team—my team—is alive again. Hungry. Feral.

I walk back to the line, breathing hard, blood buzzing through my body as it remembers what it means to live for this.

The crowd’s a living roar, but under it, everything goes quiet. Too quiet.

Something shifts in Tyson’s stance—an extra coil of muscle, a second too long eyeing the gap. It’s not strategy. It’s intent.

He’s not going for the ball. He’s coming for me.

I see it before it happens. The angle, the lean, the look in his eye. This is the play he’s been waiting for. His last shot to break me a last time.