Page 27

Colin

T he atmosphere inside the changing rooms thrums with electric suspense as my teammates change into their kit and pump themselves up.

I barely notice any of it and that’s entirely by choice.

Wonderful Life by Black plays through my noise-cancelling headphones as I read the words in front of me again.

‘Devotion is, in fact, the perfect word to describe Colin.

It shines through, not just in his actions on the field or his love for the game, but also in the way in which he lives his life. He carries himself with humility and constantly strives to improve. He’s driven by a sense of personal honour and a desire to always be at his best, both on and off the field. Rugby is a part of him, but it isn’t everything he is. So much more is hidden beneath the surface, making him stand out from the rest. He’s devoted to his team, to his family, his friends and to the people he loves the most and we should all aim to hold ourselves to that same incredible standard.’

My hand tightens, gripping my phone so hard the screen is probably close to cracking. Yesterday when Professor Garrick emailed me the final post-print of the article to get my approval before it went live this morning, I immediately read it and I haven’t stopped reading it since.

It’s perfect .

Every picture Ellie took and every word she wrote speaks volumes in a way I didn’t think would be possible. Not that I’m surprised.

No one knows me better than her.

No one else cares like she does.

Maybe it’s presumptuous to think like that after the last few weeks and the living hell they’ve been, but every time I read the article, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what she’s trying to tell me. That, despite everything, I shouldn’t give up on her – on us just yet. The thought invades my mind like sunlight spilling through cracks in a crumbling wall and I smile, a feeling of hope swamping my insides.

She cares.

I know she does.

We aren’t done yet. Not if I have anything to say about it .

Slipping my headphones off, I swipe out of the article, reopening my chat thread with her again. I want to tell her that I love what she wrote. That it’s the best thing she’s written to date, not because it’s about me, but because she saw and understood me, the real me, the way no one else ever has or could. I want to tell her that I love her, with every fibre of my being and that I would give up everything if I had to, that I would do in a heartbeat just to have her back in my life again, but my thumbs turn stiff and I hesitate.

No.

Not now.

I have a plan and as soon as I’m done here, I’m going to set it in motion and see it through regardless of what happens tonight. Right now, I need to concentrate. Not only does my future depend on the next eighty minutes, but I owe it to the lads to make sure this will be a day worth remembering .

This is our moment and I won’t fail them now.

“How are you feeling?”

I peer up, finding my father hovering over me. He’s dressed in a simple grey suit, black shoes and a maroon button-down for today’s game. Like mine, his blue eyes are steely, focused. Most people would think he’s asking me that question out of concern, but I know better. He’s been watching me like a hawk ever since I was attacked, personally overseeing my recovery in PT and handling my training after I was cleared to play. My physical injuries have all but healed, you can barely see the bruises anymore and my knee feels good. Strong even, but what he’s really asking is if I’m ready for this.

Is my head in the game?

Am I going to let him down or am I finally going to make him proud?

“Are you asking me that as my father or as my coach?”

He sighs warily but doesn’t say anything.

Neither do I.

I’m tired of being angry at him. I’m tired of being pissed off and feeling let down all the time, and I’m tired of waiting for him to realise that, as much as I appreciate his guidance as a coach, being a father is all I’ve ever wanted and needed him to be. Maybe today will be the day he’ll figure that out, but as usual, he just stands there, silent and stoic and expectant. Same as always .

Nothing has changed.

Nothing ever will .

I sigh dejectedly, clicking off my phone and slipping it and my headphones into my cubby behind me before I stand, looking him directly in the eye.

“Don’t worry, coach. I’ll try not to disappoint you. ”

I push my way past him and don’t look back.

I t’s an unspoken rule that finals are meant to be hard, but even I couldn’t have predicted how difficult this one would be.

The match has been tight, rough and exhausting from the moment the starting whistle blew. Every tackle I’ve made and have taken in return has felt a lot like what I imagine it would feel like to be hit by a truck. Thankfully, even with all of that abuse, my knee hasn’t given up on me yet.

We’ve run our hardest and played with everything we have. We’ve been disciplined, defending our line at every turn and attacking theirs with all our might, but Bancroft took their defeat against us at the beginning of the season personally.

They came here for revenge.

They came for blood.

But we came prepared for that and after a full eighty minutes, one converted try, two kicked penalties on both sides and a missed penalty from me (which I’m still reeling over), the score is sitting level at; 13:13. The match went into sudden death after that with an extra twenty minutes being added to the clock to ultimately decide the winner. However, despite a gruelling amount of effort, the first ten-minute half draws to a close with neither team having scored another point.

That won’t be the case for much longer though.

The ball flies down the line, passing from Kai’s hands and into mine. I tuck it in close and race forward, slipping through a small, but opportunistic gap in Bancroft’s defensive line. The field opens ahead of me and my heart pounds as I gallop towards their try-line. The crowd roars around me and sweat pours down my spine. I can feel eyes on me everywhere, keenly aware that every Bancroft player on the field has only one goal in mind now; stopping me. I kick up my legs, increasing my speed when I see Wayne Yeoman hurtling towards me at a lethal pace, but I push off my left foot as he draws closer, slipping passed him on the right. The crowd goes wild again and I keep going. There’s nothing ahead of me now.

I’m nearly there.

That’s when I spot him.

Marco sprints towards me, his eyes zeroed in, focused. He hasn’t held back tonight. He’s been quick, vicious and unpredictable, but so have I. With none of my teammates around to offload the ball too, I think quickly and I drop it down onto my foot, chipping it high into the air and racing after it as quickly as I can. I keep my eyes on it, knowing that Marco has his fixed on it too by now. It’s just a matter of who’s faster. I steel my jaw, pumping my legs harder.

I have to get it first. I will.

The ball comes down, heading straight for my hands, but someone smashes into my side before I can catch it and I’m pummelled into the grass hard and without any warning. The whistle blows, immediately stopping the game, and my eyes pop open, seeing Marco sprawled out on top of me, smirking like a fucking asshole.

“Whoops. Didn’t see you there, Hunt.” He taunts.

Red mists over my vision.

“You fucking piece of shit!”

An uproar erupts around the stadium as Armitage and Bancroft players start pushing and arguing with each other, but I barely notice any of it as I shove Marco off me roughly and get to my feet. He laugh s, his eyes gleaming with delight as I charge towards him, ready to have it out with him now. He wants a fucking fight, then he’ll fucking get one, but someone grabs my arms from behind and Kai and Mace step into my path, pushing me back.

“Col, stop! It’s not fucking worth it!” Mace yells.

“Like fuck it isn’t!” I shout, trying to move around him, “He tackled me without the ball and stopped us from scoring a try!”

Before I can advance again though, the referee blows his whistle, ending the scuffle on the field before he calls Marco and his captain over, announcing that the tackle was deliberately early and that it intentionally stopped me from scoring a try. He reaches into his pocket and produces a yellow card, sending Marco off for the next ten minutes. The grating sound of the Bancroft fans booing hits my ears and it only gets louder when the ref runs over to Bancroft’s line, stands beneath their posts, blows his whistle and holds up his arm, awarding us a penalty try.

The scoreboard changes to 13 – 20 and my teammates start to celebrate, but my eyes stay trained on Marco as he jogs off towards the Sin-Bin.

Why would he do that?

Tackling someone without the ball is strictly prohibited in rugby, especially when they’re about to score a try. Depending on the circumstances, it almost always ends with the person who committed the offence being sent off the field (which will only weaken their side and make it easier for their opponents to attack) and with a penalty try being awarded to the opposing team which, in this case, means that Bancroft would need to score twice to win now. Receiving that yellow card also means he won’t play in the second half of sudden death either.

He must’ve known that, right?

He had to have known that his actions would have consequences. That he would let his teammates down when they needed him the most.

But Marco turns his head, catching my eye and that’s when I see the look on his face. There’s no shame. No anger or self-deprecation like there would be when a player who just committed a blatant offense. He almost looks…proud of himself. He doesn’t care about how his absence will affect his team or whether they’ll be able to win this game without him.

This was about me.

He’s happy because he got under my skin and stopped me from scoring that try.

I shake my head disbelievingly. I may be competitive, but not to the extent that I’d willingly hurt my team’s chances of winning a final just to one-up someone.

More seconds of the first half slowly bleed away and we’re gifted another opportunity to score after a penalty is awarded to us and we choose to go for the throat, opting for a lineout right in our opponent's twenty-two. If we win it, then all we need to do is form a maul, push the ball over their line and score. Something we’ve done countless times in the past. Even so, I decide to hang back near the halfway line, just in case something goes wrong and we need to defend in a hurry. Unfortunately, it’s a good call, because when we throw the ball in, Bancroft’s lock manages to steal it cleanly in the air. Our players immediately scramble to get it back, but he passes it out to his flyhalf who boots it down the field to clear it and find touch, but the kick is way off target nor is it nearly long enough.

I smirk.

It’s a rookie mistake; one that I’ll happily use to my advantage.

If we can regain possession then there’s still a chance. We can run it in for another try or maybe even force a penalty. Either way, this could be the moment that changes everything. They won’t be able to score twice in ten minutes. Not with the way we’re defending tonight. If we can avoid giving away any more penalties, we’ll win.

We can do it.

We will.

The ball propels towards the ground and I leap high, letting it slide perfectly into the cradle of my arms. That’s when I feel it, a powerful force smashing right into my legs while I’m still in the air. Arms wrap around the lower half of my body and then I’m being tipped over, falling backwards and tumbling helplessly towards the ground underneath me. I twist my body, trying to control my descent, but it’s already too late. My shoulder smashes into dirt and the last thing I feel is the excruciating pain that explodes all over my body.

The last thing I see is her.

Her beautiful face. Her soft smile. Her gorgeous, warm eyes.

Then I see nothing at all.