Page 1 of Pitch Prince

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Chapter One - Rhys

I took my place in the scrum - right at the back, on the blindside, closest to the edge of the pitch. So close I could hear the individual members of the crowd shouting for us. In a typical play, we wouldn’t expect the ball to come this way. I was just the fallback in case play came this way unexpectedly.

Opposite me, Leicester’s blindside flanker grinned and winked as he took his place in their scrum. There was no glamour in rugby. Cheek to arse-cheek and hands locked around muddy, slippery thighs.

The Leicester Titans were a formidable team, but we were already one try — five points — ahead of them. If we weren’t stuck with our reserve kicker, we’d be another two points up. But it wasn’t worth focusing on that now. If Leicester were successful in the scrum they might score to draw level, or pull ahead. And we couldn’t have that.

As the referee called for us to crouch I caught the eye of Leicester’s number eight at the very back centre of the scrum. Like the flanker opposite he winked. But then he mouthed the wordprincessand I saw red.

I knew rugby was all about rough and tumble, jibes and physicality to rile up the opposition. But I hated it when people used my last name —Prince— to feminise me. Since I’d come out, one of the few professional rugby players to do so, it had been used relentlessly by opposition teams. Like my sexuality was some kind of fair game. And it really fucking wasn’t.That number eight better be watching out for me for the rest of the game.

I locked my eyes on him.

“Bind!” shouted the referee. And we all locked into formation, arms around one another and gripping the backs of shirts, shorts, whatever we could get our hands on.

“Set!” shouted the ref, and the scrum met in the middle with a bang, shoulders straining against shoulder as we each pushed our combined weight toward the opposing team. It was like a practised dance, each team trying to establish dominance over the other in the precious few seconds before Leicester’s player fed the ball into the centre of the scrum.

And then it was a desperate scrabble of legs to get the ball before the scrum could collapse under the weight of sixteen men holding themselves up through pure willpower and sweat.

Leicester had found the advantage and the ball made its way back through their ranks and to their number eight. He took a second’s hesitation before picking it up and I thought I saw his eyes flicker to my left. It seemed he might come my way then. If he was going to play stupid games, he was going to win stupid prizes. And these big bastards needed to learn that if they were gonna mess with me because I was leaner and shorter than them. Then they’d go down like Goliath.

Rather than pass to the expectant scrum half behind him, number eight feinted right and then ran left. He broke through our quickly forming defensive line like it was nothing, then swerved to avoid me. But I was smaller and faster than the big beardy brute.

I snaked one arm around his thighs as he passed, relying on his own momentum to bring him down. And it did. I felt my own feet leave the floor as he fell, and then all twenty-stone of the bastard landed right on me and pain lanced through me and I heard a pop as my elbow twisted.

I was vaguely aware of the ball being taken from the number eight by a member of his own team, and of him scrambling to his feet like nothing had happened. In rugby, people get lost in the scramble. And I didn’t know how long it was before someone finally noticed that I was injured. All I knew was the agony, all I could do was use my good arm to hold on to my bad arm and hope it didn’t get trampled.

It felt like the world slowed around me, cheers of the crowd nearest to me dulling to a steady mutter as I waited for the ref to blow the whistle and to stop play.

Our team physios rushed the pitch to attend to me, and both of their faces told me it wasn’t good as they painfully poked and prodded at me.

They helped me into a sitting position and I risked a look down. The mottled bruising from wrist to shoulder was most concentrated around my elbow and turning a deep, ugly purple.

“Come on, you’re off for the rest of the match…at least,” said Bernie, our head physio. He was a young, pretty man of twenty-six who pecked around us like a mother hen with more love and care than I’d ever known from a rugby physio. A quick glance at one of the team medics told me that perhaps he had reason to be worried. They were already looking at me like it was my own funeral.

They escorted me from the pitch as our supporters respectfully clapped me off. As soon as I was to the sidelines, play resumed. I saw a few Leicester Titans stand still without clapping, but there was no booing. And that was the nature of rugby. A barbarian’s game played — and supported, for the most part — by gentlemen.

***

The handsome doctor glanced down at my chart before looking back up at me with a wary smile. “Well, you certainly have a tolerance for pain,” he said.

“Shall I put that on my Tinder profile?” I asked him. He grimaced back, so it seemed my weak attempt at flirtation had fallen on deaf ears.

“Well, you may need online dating to fill the time over the next couple of months at least. Your arm is going to need quite some time to heal,” he said. “You’ve torn the tendon in your bicep. We’ll have you taken in for surgery and book you in for rehabilitation, but you’re usually looking at around three months of healing for someone your age. With exercise to get yourself back up to strength, I can see you returning to play in four months or so if you’re careful about how you rehabilitate.”

“Fuck.” It wasn’t me who spoke, but my mother. “Are you sure it’s that bad?” She was sitting on the side of the fancy private hospital bed, clutching my good hand.

“That’s an optimistic prediction, Mrs Prince. Rest assured we’ll have Mr Prince up and ready as soon as is possible. If you’re willing, we’ll have you in surgery in the next few days. There’s no reason to delay.”

I nodded mutely and the doctor left the room. I hadn’t even bothered getting his name.

“Are you OK, love?” My mum rubbed at my good arm reassuringly as I felt the stupid tears starting to gather at the edge of my eyes.

“I feel…ahh, shit.” The tears had started to leak down my face. “I feel like I’m just getting started, I want to…I need to get better. I can’t miss out again.”

There were so many rugby prodigies in the country. Every generation, a flash new nineteen year old would make it into the Wales squad and take the country by storm. I hadn’t been so lucky, playing professional club rugby at a decent level, but never making the national team.

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