Page 60 of Full Tilt
The whistle cutsthrough the damp air like a blade. My ears are ringing—partly from the effort, partly from the dull roar of a disappointed away crowd. The scoreboard glows like an accusation: Gloucester 24 – Exeter 17.
Two losses in a row.
I stare up at the night sky, still heaving for breath. The floodlights bleach the drizzle into a slow silver fall. My lungs burn. My calves twitch. My chest tightens with something more than exertion.
A fumble.
Myfumble.
It wasn’t game-ending—at least, not alone—but it shifted momentum. Killed a surge. One second, I had the ball; the next, it bounced out of my grasp like a greased-up mistake, snatched by red jerseys and sprinted fifty yards upfield. They scored three plays later.
That was the beginning of the end. And I felt it as soon as it happened. Like something broke in the pit of my stomach.
I tug my gumshield out and shove it into my wrist guard, forcing myself to stay upright as the team moves off the pitch. Some of the lads keep their heads high. Others don’t bother.There’s a heaviness in the air that clings to every boot print on the sodden turf.
“Camden! A quick word?”
I’m barely three steps towards the tunnel before a mic is thrust at my chest. A reporter in waterproofs leans into me, teeth bared in what I guess is supposed to pass as a smile.
“Captain Crawford, any comment on what went wrong out there tonight?”
Wrong? I could write her a list. The breakdowns were sloppy. Kicks poorly placed. Our defence cracked twice in the second half. But it’s my error—the fumble—they want blood for.
I wipe the rain from my brow, careful not to let it look like a flinch. “They were stronger at the breakdown. We made mistakes. I made mistakes. But we’ll regroup. That’s the job.”
She tilts her head, like she smells blood. “Some commentators are saying the team looks… flat. Unfocused. You’ve now dropped to fourth in the table. Play-off qualification is no longer in your hands. There’s even talk about your captaincy being on the line. Thoughts?”
I stare at her. No blink. Just the hum of white noise in my ears. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping away.
I hear her calling something after me—maybe a follow-up, maybe just my name. But I’m done.
Inside the tunnel, the floodlights fade behind me and the shadows stretch longer. Each footfall echoes off concrete. I brace my forearm against the wall, letting my head hang for a breath, then push forwards.
The locker room is quiet. Not silent—there’s the hiss of showers, the occasional mutter, the crack of a boot being thrown into a kit bag. But it’s missing the usual post-match rhythm: no jokes, no banter, no tension-breaking sarcasm.
Instead, the loss settles on us like wet clothes: clammy, suffocating, impossible to shrug off.
I sit, unlace my boots, and peel the sodden tape from my wrists. Across from me, Lachie’s jaw is tight as he towel-dries his hair. He meets my eyes and gives a tiny nod. I nod back. It’s the only communication that passes between us.
The scrape of a locker door slamming pulls my attention left—Jake and Marcus.
“Every bloody time,” Jake mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We lose structure because someone can’t track their runner.”
Marcus spins. “Are you talking about me?”
Jake shrugs. “If the shoe fits, mate.”
Marcus takes a step forwards. “You calling me out after you dropped two balls in the first half?”
“Yeah, and I didn’t cost us the match, did I?”
That’s it.
I stand. “Enough.”
Both of them look at me, startled.
“This isn’t helping. This isn’t who we are. We win together, and we lose together. Everyone made mistakes tonight.”
