Page 10 of Full Tilt
Yes.
The ref’s whistle blasts, sharp and clear. Penalty. Our ball.
I drop out of the bind, staggering upright, mud streaked down my arms, thighs, caked under my nails. My lungs drag in damp air, and I can’t tell if my heart’s hammering from the adrenaline or the ghost of those sketches still rattling around in my skull.
Lachie claps a heavy hand on my back. “Nice shove, Cap. Nearly drove the poor bastard into next week.”
I nod, still catching my breath. “Wet pitch helped.”
“Sure it wasn’t tattoo dreams spurring you on?”
I glare at him, and he smirks. Bastard knows me too well. Add in that I’m a dick for even showing them to him when my head’s been a mess since meeting Brent.
“You gonna text him back?” he adds, quieter now as we jog to reset. “Or just keep brooding like a half-drowned crow?”
I grunt. “I’ll think about it.”
“Yeah. That’ll be new.”
I shove him lightly, and he stumbles just enough to make it worth it.
Rain keeps falling, steady as ever. The crowd’s a blur beyond the pitch, a wall of noise and waterproofs. We’re away at Bristol, which means less home love, more jeers, but it’s close enough not to feel hostile. Devon fans still made the drive.
We reset the play, and I shake out my arms and stretch my neck, trying to shove everything else aside. Brent’s sketches. His easy tone. That half-smile. The way he looked at me like I was worth his full attention, not just a job.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like this match. Like holding third place on the table. Like proving to myself, and to the team, that we’ve still got it with six games left.
And still… I think of the text again.
Let me know if anything in these speaks to you. No pressure. Just ideas.
I haven’t replied.
Because I’m not sure which part of that didn’t speak to me.
We’re five metres out from Bristol’s line now. The ball’s ours, and the tempo’s picking up. The lads are working like a machine—grinding forwards in brutal little surges, the kind of hard graft rugby that wins games, not headlines.
The ball snaps out from the back of the ruck and we recycle fast—clean hands, good momentum. Rafi blazes up the wing like he’s jet-propelled, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might get through.
Then the tackle comes—high, legal, but savage—and the ball pops loose.
Instinct kicks in, and I charge. It’s reflex, pure and simple. I get there first, throwing myself into the mess to secure the ball. A boot clips my thigh as I go low, and someone’s shoulder lands hard into my ribs on the way down.
I hear the crunch.
Not bone—thank God—but something pulls tight in my side, sharp and hot like a wire yanked too far. I land awkwardly, skidding a few feet in the mud, the ball tucked to my chest.
The ref’s whistle pierces the air—our penalty—and the guys cheer.
But I’m still down. Only for a second. Just one.
I roll to my knees, jaw clenched as I breathe through the white spike of pain in my side. Bones aren’t broken, the injury’s not deep, but my ribs burn like hellfire, and every inhale has me gritting my teeth.
Lachie’s beside me in a flash. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
