Page 7

Chapter 7

Brodie

W e just fucked that session. Turned it into a shite fart. No class to it at all. Yesterday was grand, but we’re inconsistent. And we can’t afford that.

Finn – Scotland’s most annoying flanker – shoves his kit bag into his cubby hard enough to rattle the bench. James stares at the floor, silent as a corpse. My kit reeks of sweat, mud, and failure, clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame.

Finn pulls his shirt off and leans back against the wall. His pink hair sticks up in damp tufts, sweat turning the tips neon. Tattoos crawl down his arms and over his ribs. Mismatched ink and bad decisions. He tears into a protein bar with his teeth. ‘Well, that was a clusterfuck.’

‘Aye,’ Scottie mutters beside him, throwing his boots into his bag with the heavy sigh of a man who knows he’s too strong for his own good. Built like a monster. Thick shoulders. Wide chest. I’ve seen him squatting 240, two times his weight. Sweat drips from his furrowed brow onto the bench. But even now he looks too nice for this shamble of a team. ‘Under-twelves could’ve skinned us.’

‘Aye, but whose fault’s that?’ Finn’s stare burns into my shoulder.

I shuck my shirt off, the fabric catching on my ears. ‘I know there’s lots of pressure, but we must be more precise. You lot are playing like you’ve never held a ball. How’s that my fault?’

Finn steps closer. His breath smells like cheap energy gels. ‘Maybe if you didn’t hold the ball like it’s your baby, we’d get somewhere.’

The room freezes. Scottie stops packing. James lifts his head. My knuckles ache, tendons tight as bowstrings.

‘Pass earlier?’ I grunt. ‘You couldn’t even catch a cold in February, Lennox. How did you learn to play rugby – by wrestling sheep?’

‘Enough!’ James slams his hand against the side of the cubbies. The sharp thud silences everything. ‘Stop acting like twats. We’re bad because we’re not a team. Grow up.’ He snatches his towel, turns around, and walks out. The door slams behind him.

His outburst leaves the room tense and quiet.

Finn spits in the sink. ‘Now that’s an exit. Who knew stoic Jamie had so much drama in him?’

Scottie zips his bag and laughs. Even I feel it tug at my mouth.

It’s getting closer to game day. The pressure’s on. People are losing their shite with each other. Rugby requires an aggressive mindset. It’s primal, bone to bone. Of course, it boils over sometimes.

I’m doing everything I can, grafting my arse off to find my best form, to get us going. It’s frustrating. I’m getting pissed off with myself. Before that scandal, I had an edge to me. I need to get that back to win the physical battle. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing here?

I wipe sweat from my face. ‘James is not wrong. We have to get it together.’

Scottie’s face drops like I’ve just sprouted wings. ‘Stop the press. MacRae admits fault? That’s a first.’

‘Shut up.’

‘No, seriously.’ Scottie slaps a hand to his chest. ‘Have to mark this day on my calendar and print it on a T-shirt.’

‘The apocalypse is coming,’ Finn agrees.

I try ignoring them. They’re both twenty-three, little more than boys. But Scottie keeps staring at me, his head tilted like a confused puppy.

‘What?’ I bite out.

‘You almost smiled, pal.’ Scottie points at my face. ‘Right there. I saw it.’

‘I did not . You’re delusional.’

‘You did! For a second, you weren’t scowling like an angry troll.’

Finn barks out a laugh. ‘Careful, Scottie. You’ll scare it away.’

‘Piss off, both of you.’

Finn tugs off his boots, grinning as he tosses one into his kit bag. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about this new softer side of our captain. First, that cooking show—’

‘We are not talking about that.’

‘Oh, but we are.’ Finn’s grin widens. ‘Ailsa’s Kitchen! With special guest Brodie MacRae, who’s going to show us how to make…what was it again? Beans on toast?’

‘Spaghetti,’ Scottie supplies helpfully.

Shame pricks the back of my neck like a swarm of midges. ‘My agent made me do it.’

‘Aye, that blonde one’s got you leashed good.’ Finn winks. ‘How she waltzed onto the pitch and put you in your place. Fucking beautiful, big man.’

I chuck my sweaty shirt at his head. He catches it one-handed, still smirking, and tosses it into the laundry bin. ‘You try to act like a block of ice, MacRae, but even I can see it.’

‘See what?’ I ask. ‘My fist coming towards your face?’

Scottie snorts. ‘You ever thought of not looking at her like you wanna fight her or shag her?’

The words hit like a boot to the ribs. I scrub my towel over my face to hide whatever the fuck my expression’s doing. ‘Leave it, or I’ll rearrange your pretty features.’

Finn slaps my shoulder, laughing. ‘Aye, you’re done for, mate. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Hear that suspicious silence?’ Scottie’s voice drips with mock awe. ‘He’s not denying it.’

Finn sprawls on the bench, legs stretched out. There’s something else in his tone this time. ‘Naw, but for real, pal. You’re different. Less of a raging cunt. It’s a bit unsettling, to be honest.’

I flip them both off, knuckles white around the fabric. ‘Fuck. Off.’

Finn mimics a swoon, clutching his chest. ‘Careful, lads. Our captain’s got feelings.’

I shove past him towards the showers. ‘I’ll show you feelings when I boot your arse into next week.’

Their guffaws follow me.

The shower spray pounds against my shoulders, hot enough to scald. Steam rises thick, clouding my vision until the world narrows to just water and white tile and the thoughts I can’t outrun.

The usual post-training ritual – scrub away the sweat, the mistakes, the fucking noise. But today? It’s not working.

Muscles strain. Not from the drills. From the itch. That clawing need to prove, to dominate, to make every fucker in a ten-mile radius bend.

Memories surface through the steam. My dad drilling passes in the back garden. My brothers tackling me into mud. Always competing. Always fighting to prove myself worthy. Dad’s voice rattles through me, clear as yesterday. ‘ If you’re not first, you’re last. ’

The shower can’t wash away over two decades of that mindset. I tilt my head back, let water fill my mouth, spit it down the drain. Tastes like rust and regret. It’s not healthy, going ’round being angry at everyone. I know that. Knowing doesn’t make it easier to change. But something’s shifting. The fury that used to consume me is dulling to a throbbing ache. I press my palms against the tile, letting hot water sluice down my spine.

Finn’s laughter still rings in my ears. Scottie’s shite-eating grin. James’s outburst. All of it burrows under my skin. The lads were taking the piss, sure. But they weren’t wrong about everything being inconsistent. We’re all new here. All finding our feet. That granite-faced arse James had a point. We’re not a proper team yet. Just individual players colliding, trying to out-muscle each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move towards trust. Admitting it feels like chewing on glass.

The team’s struggling, but we’re learning. You have to go through pain sometimes to get where you want to be.

Rugby is a team game.

It’s gonna take shiteloads of effort, edge, and physicality. And even more shiteloads of trust.

Whatever our potential is, we can keep stretching that.

The water pressure drops as someone else starts their shower. Finn’s voice carries over the hiss, singing some awful pop song. Scottie joins in, deliberately off-key. Their laughter bounces off the walls.

A month ago, I’d have told them to shut it. Now? The corner of my mouth tugs upward.

Their words echo in my skull. Not their teasing. The other bit.

About Charlie.

Her face flashes behind my closed eyes. The way she marched onto that pitch. She’s fierce. Doesn’t take my shite, just flips it back at me with interest.

We’ve worked together for almost a month now. And one thing I’ve learned: she’s not some annoying PR lady pushing her agenda, holding my hand through image rehabilitation. If I didn’t know any better, I’d even say she’s seriously invested in my career.

Still have to figure out how she was involved in the whole leaking lies to the press thing, though. Makes less sense every day.

I rake my hands through wet hair, steam rising around me. My back hurts, but not just from training. Carrying anger around this long has worn me down to the bone.

I don’t think I hate her guts anymore. Not as much.

Water runs cold. I stay under it, letting the chill shock my system. But it doesn’t clear my head the way it usually does. And it doesn’t stop me picturing the way her eyes gleam when she’s challenging me. How her voice dips low when she’s proving a point. The curve of her mouth when she’s about to demolish my defences. Worst of all, the sway of her hips when she walks away. Like she knows I’d watch. Knows I’d want to. Knows I have, every single time.

‘Oi!’ Finn’s voice punches through my thoughts, and thank fuck for that. Last thing I need is a raging boner in the team shower. ‘You drowning in there, Cap?’

I slam the tap off. ‘Mind your own business, Lennox.’ But there’s no bite to it. And that’s new too.

I drip onto the tiles. That’s the thing, isn’t it? No one wins alone. Not in this sport. Not in this team. We have to bleed together.

I haven’t felt this…awake since before the scandal. Since before I started with the Rebels. Since before I forgot what it’s like to want something beyond the next win. Despite the crap session, despite everything, I feel…almost hopeful.

I put on fresh clothes. Joggers, black tee, trainers. Same as always. Then I fish my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls and one text from Charlie.

(CHARLIE 18:12) Giddy up, cowboy. We’re going on a road trip.

Jesus. Suffering. Fuck.