Page 13 of Pitch Prince

But the minutes ticked by, and we were at a stalemate. If Scotland could maintain this lead we would be victorious. We just had hold out for another few minutes…but Wales had possession of the ball, and as long as they did they were dangerous.

I was stood slightly back from the defensive line. As number fifteen, I was big and fast and the very last line of defence.

And then I saw him. And he caught the ball. And suddenly, Rhys Prince was the target I needed to take down. One of my teammates reached for him from behind and Rhys twisted out of his grip like an eel and ran through the rest of the defensive line like it was nothing. So it was just me.

In environments like these, the world seemed to fall into slow motion. And all those eighty-thousand fans, their roars faded to nothing. I had one thing in my vision. And that thing was Rhys Prince.

I remembered our conversation in the Cardiff club. He said he wasn’t playing aggressively because of his arm injury, seeking out gaps rather than running into tackles. Was that still true? Was it fair to use that against him?

All is fair in love and rugby.

I committed to the tackle, charging him even as he tried to sidestep. But then he was offloading the ball, throwing it to another player I hadn’t seen because Rhys Prince was all I saw in my tunnel vision. It was too late for me to stop, and if I tried to pull up now I’d cause even more damage to the both of us.

So our bodies slammed together and I wrapped my arms around his middle. We hit the ground hard, Rhys directly underneath me even as I did my best to stop him from getting too hurt.

The home crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and boos. Rhys’ pass had obviously resulted in a try, and my tackle had looked like vindictive behaviour of the worst kind. It was illegal to tackle a player not in possession of the ball and if I’d been doing my job and looking out for the other player I would have been prepared for the possibility. But I hadn’t. Because when he was on the pitch, my eyes could only be on Rhys.

I clambered awkwardly to my feet, pulling my hands out from under Rhys to make the task easier. I reached out one hand to help him up, but he glared at me and didn’t take it. The second he was on his feet his face was inches from mine, mud splattered and splotchy red with anger.

“What the fuck was that?” he put two hands on my chest and pushed me backward. I was the bigger of us by far but the force surprised me. I took another step back but he kept coming. “Gentleman of rugby trying to foul me is it? Fuck up my arm so that I’m easier to play against next time?”

Before he could continue, teammates from both sides were pulling us back. “What the fuck was that?” asked Lucian, one of our flankers, in his thick Glaswegian accent. “We’ve lost the fucking game because of your piss-poor tackling.”

He was right. Even if they hadn’t got the try in, they would have been awarded at the very least a penalty by the referee for my poor tackling. As it was, they’d won by two points even after a poor kick from their kicker. The Millennium Stadium crowd was going wild, but I was just feeling like crap for hurting Rhys. A man I’d really come to see as a friend.

The whole Wales team were celebrating their first match win like loons. I could see them all on the other side of the pitch, arms linked and singing along with the crowd. Every time I caught Rhys’ eye, his expression soured before he turned away. I felt worse about that than I did losing the match.

Later in the changing room, where we all sat and spoke like we were at a funeral as we stripped off our kit, and then later in the shower as we washed the grime out of our hair and skin, I couldn’t stop thinking of the hurt I’d caused him. I’d gone into the tackle with the aim of winning the game for my country. Well, I’d lost that and the respect of someone I genuinely liked.

Once we were safely back at the hotel and Steve was snoring in the bed next to me, I reached for my phone to send him a text.

Callum: I really, really am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

7

Chapter Seven - Rhys

Despite the win that should have made us ecstatic, I was in a foul mood. So I’d excused myself from the celebrations at the Cardiff Hilton and walked myself home, hood over my head so that no-one could recognise me in the street. Being mobbed by drunken supporters might have been my dream in a better mood. But not tonight.

The only person I’d told where I was going was Finn, and he’d promised to come and drag me out if the celebrations carried on into town. I doubted Wesley would let that happen so I felt pretty safe in my little flat.

I switched on the sports news, but images of the match and the dirty hit that Callum had gotten on me were the highlights of the night. My attitude afterwards had made some small headlines too, and I my stomach ached as I rubbed one hand over it. I switched over to some Welsh soap opera and browsed my phone. But the algorithm on every social media was shoving the dirty tackle in my face.

I’d read and received Callum’s text but hadn’t bothered replying. It was obvious that I was going to offload the ball to Alf Thomas to score the try, anyone could have seen that. But apparently he hadn’t. And had crashed head-first into my stomach.

After an hour of mindless TV watching and phone browsing I gathered that I was probably safe from Finn attempting to come and get me. So I headed to the bedroom, grabbed a pair of pyjama trousers and got dressed in just those instead. We would be staying at the training camp hotel a few miles away throughout the Six Nations, but nothing was stopping me enjoying my one night by myself.

That night could also include a bit ofme time, which I’d been sorely missing since we’d been training in such close quarters. It was lucky I was so used to the nudity in the changing rooms because that much male nudity and homoerotic camaraderie could have made stronger-willed men than I hard. Finn enjoyed pulling me and others into the showers butt-naked just a little bit too much for my liking. But that was all part of the lads’ rugby experience.

I laid down on my bed and pulled my pyjama bottoms down just a little bit. My cock didn’t take much effort to get up, I’d had so much pent up energy and now anger that it was more eager than my brain. I fumbled with one hand on my phone to find something to help me get off, quick and dirty.

I found a video I’d gotten off to hundreds of times, and just as I had started stroking my hard cock there came a knock at my front door.

“Fuck off!” I shouted at…Finn, I presumed, willing myself to get soft.Think of Margaret Thatcher, think of Margaret Thatcher.

The next knock came and I pulled up my trousers over my slowly shrinking member. I didn’t care, anyway. If Finn saw I had a semi through the thin pyjama fabric, he might have second thoughts about making me go out on the town.Fuck it.

A further knock just as I reached the door. “Fucking hell, I’ll be there now…”

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