Page 21

Chapter 21

Brodie

H ave I mentioned how much I hate Charlie Harrington?

Because now I know how it feels to love her. And it’s over.

And I told her it was.

I’m not the kind to stick around while she yanks me back and forth like a dog on a lead. She drove me too far.

I also acted like a dick with anger issues. So, there’s that.

Aye, she gave me reasons. Not trusting me? Not talking to me? She crossed a line there.

I fucked up, but I didn’t play. I sat there like a twat and still managed to lose her. And I let my temper get the best of me again. When I’m hurt, I lash out. A low, mean swing to cover the sting.

That was four weeks ago, and it still feels raw.

The boys are scattered around the changing room, getting patched up. Cuts, bruises, niggling injuries from a brutal first half. There’s talk, low and grim, the stink of sweat hanging in the air.

Derek, our physio, presses his thumb deep into the muscle above my spine, and pain streaks through me. I suck in a breath between clenched teeth but don’t let anyone see it on my face.

A memory hits me. Charlie, pressing an ice pack on my back, calling me a bloody masochist for battering myself like this.

I stopped looking for her in the grandstand three games ago. She’s been avoiding me for a full month. After South Africa she handed me off to Mac like a boot caked in shite – someone else’s mess to scrape off.

Probably for the best.

I’ve been avoiding thinking about her.

Because every time I do, it’s barbed wire through my ribcage.

So, I train harder and push myself. Every session. Every drill. Nonstop. The lads joke about me being possessed, but they don’t know half of it. Gotta be the best, or what’s the fucking point? If I let up, even for a second, it all floods back.

Her nose with my spaghetti sauce on it.

How her eyes sparkle when she deepthroats me like the boss she is.

Her face, her voice, the way she looked at me right before I lost her because we’re both too fucked up to make it work.

Derek mutters something about the tension in my back and asks if it’s been worse lately. I grunt. Can’t be arsed to have that conversation. Just want him to do his job and bugger off.

I’m still on the pitch every game, doing my job, dragging us to wins. But I’m playing angry. Coach knows it. The boys know it. Took off on a sniping run from our own twenty-two like I thought I was Superman. Cost us the game. Then I lost my head and smashed into a ruck like a fucking bulldozer, and Wallace tore me a new one. I just shrugged and walked it off.

What’s the worst that can happen? They bench me? Make me rest?

I’d go down swinging. Throwing myself into the mess till my lungs give out is easier than sitting still and replaying the look on her face when she flinched from me.

Derek hits a spot that makes my vision blur, and I brace my hands on my knees. If the pain cuts sharp enough, it drowns out everything else. Beating my body past its limits, grinding through the ache like I’m punishing myself for feeling anything at all.

But that’s how it’s always been. Push harder. Be better. Outwork the pain.

Derek’s done with me. The lads are rehydrating, wolfing down gels and bananas. Coach has just wrapped up his halftime speech, and the tension’s still hanging like a nasty fart. No one’s saying a word, but the side-eye glances are coming at me from every direction.

Jamie’s the first to crack. Kicks a stray water bottle across the floor, making it clatter off the wall. ‘What the actual fuck was that out there, MacRae? You trying to get yourself killed?’

I don’t answer. What’s the point?

Scottie barks out a bitter laugh. ‘Aye, well, maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s too busy trying to knock his own brains out to think about the rest of us.’

‘Fuck off,’ I mutter.

‘Naw, pal. You don’t get to sit there like the wounded warrior.’ Finn’s perched on the bench, blood streaking down his shin, eyes blazing. ‘What the fuck’s your problem, man? Charging into rucks like a demented rhino – you’re gonna snap your spine to prove your dick’s still attached? You’re not a forward, you absolute knob. You’re meant to have a brain. Gonna break your neck one of these days, and we’ll be scraping you off the pitch like roadkill.’

‘And that chip kick?’ Jamie cuts in. ‘What were you thinking? You had options, and you went for glory like a one-man army.’

‘You’re supposed to be better than that,’ Scottie growls, wiping sweat off his neck. ‘You know it, we know it. So, what the hell are you doing out there? Trying to make some point nobody’s asked you to prove?’

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. ‘I’m playing to win. You lot should try it sometime.’

‘Fuck that,’ Finn fires back. ‘You’re not playing to win, you’re playing like you’ve got a death wish. Thought you had more brains than this.’

‘You’re a headless chicken, MacRae,’ Jamie throws in, arms crossed tight over his chest. ‘You think smashing through the line like a tank makes you tough? It doesn’t. Just makes you reckless. Think.’

‘I’m doing what needs to be done,’ I grind out.

‘No, you’re acting like a twat,’ Finn says. ‘And we’re the ones paying for it. You’ve been a miserable prick for weeks now, and I’m done tiptoeing around it. Get your shite together, big man.’

‘You think we don’t see it?’ Scottie adds. ‘You think we’re blind to what’s eating at you? We get it. Heart’s fucked. Head’s gone. But dragging all of us down with you? That’s selfish.’

Heat crawls up my neck. ‘You don’t know shite about it.’

Jamie throws his towel at me. ‘You think you’re the only one who’s been fucked over? Grow up. We’ve all been burned. Difference is, we’re not trying to break every bone in our body over it. Pull your head out your arse.’

‘You’re not playing for the team,’ Finn cuts in. ‘You’re playing for your own bloody pride. And it’s costing us.’

My heart’s thumping in my ears, drowning out reason. I know they’re right. It’s like being skinned alive, every word slicing through. But I can’t swallow the rage rising up like bile.

‘If you’re gonna fall apart, do it on your own time,’ Scottie mutters. ‘We’re busting our arses out there while you’re too busy wrestling your demons. You’re not the only one who’s got stuff to deal with. We’re all carrying something. You’re the captain. Act like it.’

Silence swells. I can’t lift my head, can’t meet their eyes. Shame gnaws through the anger, twisting it into something ugly and bitter.

Finn wipes his bleeding shin with his shirt. ‘A broken heart’s no excuse to break your spine, mate. Or get us the wooden spoon.’

‘Aye,’ Scottie agrees. ‘We’re building something here. Don’t piss it away. You’ve got two choices, MacRae. Keep tearing yourself apart, or take that energy and fight for her. Your call.’

I press my palms against my knees. The fury’s burnt itself out fast, leaving nothing but nerves and a knot of guilt twisting in my ribs.

Jamie walks past, shoving my shoulder as he goes. ‘Play smart, MacRae. Or don’t play at all.’

He’s right. They all are. Doesn’t mean it stings any less.

Coach ducks back in. ‘Let’s move, lads. Second half. Two minutes. MacRae, a word.’

I’ve been getting my arse handed to me so often in the past month that I could draw it from memory.

‘One more high tackle and I bench you. You’re not just risking yourself, you’re risking the whole team. You think I’m gonna let you trash your back and our season just because your head’s fucked? Get it together!’

I nod, tight and quick.

Fine.

Coach gives me a long look, like he’s weighing up whether to poke or let it lie. Then he lets out a rough exhale and walks off.

Smart move.

I swallow down the sting, forcing my shoulders back. I thought being unbreakable would mean something. They’re sharing energy gels, cracking jokes. Jamie and Scottie huddled up, Finn smacking one of the new lads on the back. No one comes near me.

They don’t see strength. They see a loose cannon.

Proving I’m not weak shouldn’t feel this fucking hollow. I worked harder, played rougher. For what? Respect? Pride? Trying to prove I’m more than just some heartbroken loser who lost his edge?

The whistle shrieks, cutting through my thoughts.

I shove down the ache, shake out my hands, and force myself to move.