Page 8 of The Fly-Half

“Yeah, well, do your fucking job better and it won’t happen again.”

We were deep into scrum training and Trevor, our scrum coach, had insisted on running full scrum drills because the second row kept dropping and wobbling, making it harder for the front row to stay engaged. We’d had a few scrums collapse in our last few matches, and we couldn’t afford for it to happen again.

My job as the number eight was to bind the back of the scrum, push them forward, pick the ball up, and either run likehell or pass it out to someone who could. But I couldn’t do that if the fucking scrum collapsed. Typically in the past, I’d started low and when we’d engaged, I’d pushed upwards with my arms wrapped around Hunter’s and Gabriel’s outer thighs, but now I was trying a different tactic.

Namely, dropping down into position and hauling them up by their shorts to make sure they stayed where they were supposed to be.

I couldn’t put the fear of God into them, but I could put the fear of having underwear lodged so far up their ass they’d have to get naked to extract it.

The whistle blew and we all collapsed into a heap. I patted Hunter on the ass as I climbed to my feet and he scowled as he stood up next to me, his fingers reaching for his wedgie. “That was a dick move,” he said as I helped Gabriel up.

“Maybe, but it worked. You kept your back level.”

“No way, you just wanted to punish me for something,” Hunter said, a half smile, half grimace on his face as he pulled his shorts loose. Maybe I’d have to suggest he wore a jock underneath instead of his usual colourfully printed skintight shorts. Although I’d seen enough of his hairy ass already, and I wasn’t sure I needed to see it any more.

“Yeah, being shit,” I said teasingly. I turned to Andy, who was the openside flanker and was always on Hunter’s left in the scrum. “What did you think, Andy? Better?”

“It did feel a little more stable,” he said with a shit-eating grin. “Maybe being hauled up by your balls is good for you.”

“You leave my balls out of this!” Hunter pointed a finger at him then looked over to Trevor. “What did you think, Trevor?”

“You were definitely more level,” he said with a pleased nod. Trevor was softly spoken but we always listened to him. He knew how to get the best out of all of us, and even if we wanted to argue, we respected him too much to do so. Unless we reallydisagreed, then we’d say something knowing he’d give us the same respect we gave him. “Remember we’re looking for overall progression and to avoid a repeat of what happened against York.”

We all nodded and grimaced, a muttered chorus of agreement running around the group. The York match had been a disaster and we’d been lucky to only lose by fifteen points because it could have been so much worse. We’d taken a fucking beating and we all knew it. And if we wanted to succeed in Europe, we needed to get our damn act together, especially since we’d be starting that run of competition matches soon.

Trevor made us run the scrum a couple more times before releasing us for a water break before we regrouped with the backs for passing drills. As I grabbed a water bottle, I watched Devon talking to Neil, one of the assistant coaches who also specialised in kicking. They looked very deep in conversation and as I watched, Devon took a ball and a kicking tee and strode over to the edge of the pitch, putting the ball down at one of the steepest angles he’d ever have to kick.

He took several steps back, looking between the ball and the goal posts. His face was the picture of concentration as he smoothly moved forward and sent the ball flying with his right foot. It curved high in the air and for a moment I thought it might go wide, but I hadn’t factored in the winter breeze.

The ball dropped neatly over the bar and Devon nodded with satisfaction as I stared in awe.

“Damn,” Mason said from his spot beside me. “Does he ever miss?”

“Once,” I said. “When we were seventeen. It was that angle in pouring rain and gale-force winds. The ball went wide.”

“Seriously? That’s it?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure there’ve been other times but that’s the only one I remember. It’s practically impossible for anyone to have a perfect record, so…”

Mason clapped me on the shoulder. “You’re a true friend, Jonny. Always remembering the good stuff, never the shit.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said with a swallow, my eyes still lingering on Devon as he lined up for another kick from the other side of the pitch. “Always thinking of others.”

“Did you mention anything to Devon about Peaches?”

My head snapped around as Devon’s foot connected with the ball, the thump reverberating around the training ground. But I didn’t see if it went through the posts because I was too busy glaring at Mason. “What?”

He frowned, then raised one eyebrow like he was surprised. “Did you mention anything to Devon about Peaches being interested in him? Only Ry said he thought they’d been messaging.”

“Yeah? Where’d he hear that?”

“Peaches said something about a guy sliding into his DMs and that he might finally get to shag a hot rugby player too.” He grinned and shrugged. “I guess he knows what he’s missing out on.”

I let out a rumbling hum of acknowledgement as something snarled inside my chest and my fingers suddenly curled into an itching fist. Devon was more than a quick shag, and Peaches should know that.

Not that I really knew Peaches, but still. If he only wanted a meaningless fuck, there were plenty of other guys out there he could do that with. And while I wanted Devon to get laid and have fun, I didn’t want someone treating him like a piece of meat or a cheap toy they could throw away the next morning.

“What’s up with you?” Mason asked. “What’s with the fucking growling?”

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