Page 4 of Pitch Prince

There were pictures of him playing rugby, out with friends, and — most recently — pictures of the cast on his arm and reassurances to family, fans and friends that he was recovering as quickly as possible. I remembered watching the match where he injured his dominant arm and winced just thinking about the unnatural way his arm had bent, how clear the agony had been on his face before the cameras cut away. I’d thought at the time that could be a career-ending injury for him. To see he was back after just four months was a shock to me, and it seemed it was to everyone else too. There were hundreds of comments under his most recent photo, him training with Cardiff and the announcement that he’d been declared fit to play.

I scrolled idly for a second. I had played against Rhys before, of course. But that was before, when everything seemed easy. Before I had confronted the truth of my own situation.

Before it had all come out in a horrible rush to Sarah and flipped our lives upside down.

Before I had told her I was gay, and effectively ended our marriage then and there.

I felt like a guilty old pervert as I looked through Rhys’ account. Just twenty-five and absolutely gorgeous. All that tanned skin and blonde hair that immediately set him apart on any Celtic rugby field, so often filled with stern dark-haired and thick-browed men that looked like they lived and breathed the stuff.

Rhys was…lighter, somehow. Maybe the first in a new breed of players that would take us old timers out altogether. My stomach flipped as I scrolled and stopped at a photo he’d quite clearly taken in the rugby showers. He was holding just his muddy blue rugby shirt to cover any modesty. The rest of him was beautiful golden tanned skin and clearly defined abs. His blonde hair and face were dirtied with mud as were his lower arms and legs, but his smooth chest and stomach were almost dirt-free, planes of sculpted but subtle muscle that screamed fast.

In rugby, there were spaces for people like me, and for people like him. Goliaths and Davids. Tanks and missiles.

I was so jealous of him, so young, with everything ahead of him. Happily, openly gay in the world of rugby. Nothing to hold him back from being whoever he wanted to be. And with those baby blue eyes and that body, as well as his sporting prowess, there was no way the men weren’t falling at his feet.

I put my phone away quickly. I didn’t need this, not now. I did not need to go down that rabbit-hole. I had to focus on the game and nothing else.

3

Chapter Three - Rhys

It was game day. It wasfuckinggame day. And I wanted to scream with excitement. I was finally back in the squad, and being played as a starting player. I was ready to show everyone what it looked like to really come back from the dumps. I’d been staying with my mum for a couple of weeks and commuting into Cardiff because I couldn’t bear watching the games from my flat, which overlooked the stadium.

My arm twinged just a tiny bit as I pulled up the handbrake in my car. The doctors had told me that might keep happening for a long time, but my physical assessment had shown a full range of movement and almost full strength. Enough to get me back on the field.

I pulled my kit bag over my shoulder, though it was only my lucky boots and gum-shield. Everything else was in there, waiting for me.

In the Arms Park, the scrappy little stadium that sat literally in the shadow of Wales’ Millennium Stadium. That was the most painful thing about playing for Cardiff, sitting in the shadow of the colossus, that mighty 70,000 seat stadium and knowing that stars were made in that place. I had watched so many matches there, imagining my name being called out in Welsh and English by the announcers, feeling pyrotechnic flames scorch my face and the roar of the crowd.

I got out of my car and walked into the player’s end of the Arms Park. It was one of the older rugby stadiums in the world and had faced demolition when the bigger and grander Millennium was built. But the owners and team had stood firm, and the Millennium had to adjust its plans to fit the scrappy little place next to it.

I walked into the changing room. The whole team had already gathered and was talking noisily when I got in. A cheer came from somewhere and I waved in its general direction before taking my place next to Finn, an older and wilder player than I who’d been playing for Wales for years. He was as renowned for his antics off the pitch as he was on, legendary for his post match binges and for pulling singers and supermodels. Anyone else with his party attitude would be a liability, but Finn was special. His try-scoring was unmatched and he could push his big bulk through almost any defensive line.

“Feeling better, Princess?” he asked. There was no malice in the insult and he grinned down at me as he stripped off his vest to start getting into kit.

“Worse now I’ve seen you, Flipper,” I replied. He snorted. I started dressing quickly. The room smelled like sport and sweat, and the boys were all chatting absolute crap, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Nowhere was as good a home as this place.

I looked around the room for a second. At six foot, I was actually pretty small for a rugby player. The room was full of big, hulking bastards like the one who had taken me down and caused me injury. I just had to be more careful about not getting stuck under one of them.

“Right boys, we’ve got a big game today!” Garrett, our coach had stepped into the room and shouted get our attention. “Some of you…” his eyes swept over me and to Finn, “will want to be playing your best game. Some of Wales’ coaching staff will be in attendance and will be watching to see whether you deserve a spot this Six Nations.”

I felt a thrill go through the room. We had some regular Wales players — Fin among them — but there was always a chance someone would get picked out of the pack for training with the Welsh squad. I knew after my injury my chances were slim, but that wasn’tnone. I had a chance. I just had to grab it with both hands.

Well, my good hand.

***

We’d already been out on the pitch for training and warm ups but we all took our place in the player tunnel to wait for the announcer to call our names. Some stadiums would have us walking out on the other side of the pitch to the opposition. In the Arms Park, we stood shoulder to shoulder and waited.

Even with only six thousand fans, the Arms Park was a roar from where we stood in the tunnel beneath the crowd.

“Announcing….” The announcer started, and called the Edinburgh visiting team’s names out one by one. Fifteen players and eight replacements. As number fifteen, the one player I was most interested in seeing was called out last. I watched as Callum Anderson jogged out in front of me. The crowd clapped politely for each player, with a few shouts from the Scots who had made the long trip down to Cardiff.

I stood in the middle of the line up as the announcer audibly cleared his throat over the microphone. “And now…the home team…Cardiff Navy!”

He called out names in turn, and the crowd went wild as we started our movement toward the pitch. I still felt the same thrill as the very first time he called my name. “And returning…Rhys Prince!”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I jogged out into the brightly floodlit pitch and the crowd went wild. It had started sluicing it down with rain. Perfect rugby weather. It was time to get messy.

---