Page 62 of Full Tilt
I rub a hand down my face. We should’ve won the game. Hell, we should’ve won both. But a couple of errors, a few missteps…and now we’ve gone from third in the league to fourth. One more screw-up and we’ll be watching the play-offs from the couch.
And me? I fumbled the goddamn ball.
The same thoughts keep circling my mind, and I suspect they will continue to until we win the next game. Wehaveto win it.
My jaw clenches as I drag my phone out of my pocket, half expecting silence there too. But there’s a message.
Brent: That looked like a brutal game. Hope you’re holding up.
Just that.
No “chin up.” No “you’ve got this.” No hollow cheerleading bullshit.
It’s… perfect. Exactly what I need. No noise. No pressure. Just him, checking in.
I stare at the words for a beat. Then my thumbs move.
Me: Brutal’s one word for it. Could’ve done with a few fewer fumbles. Namely mine.
The three dots appear.
Brent: So you made a mistake. Happens. Anyone pointing fingers clearly doesn’t play a contact sport for a living.
I huff out a laugh. It’s barely a sound, more an exhale. I shift in the seat and rest my head back against the cold window.
Me: Tell that to the tabloids.
That’s the thing. There’s no waiting for tomorrow’s headline, not anymore. Everything is instant and splashed online for everyone to search up and read.
Brent: Tabloids eat their own. Don’t let them decide your worth. You’re more than the headline they’re hoping to print.
The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. His words don’t try to fix anything. But they don’t ignore it either. It’s grounding.
But then the doubt creeps in—ugly, insidious.
I stare at the screen. I haven’t told him yet how much I need to keep this separate from the rest of my life. From rugby. From the weight I carry on this bus every week. And I start to wonder…
Is this the distraction they’re talking about?
Is Brent the reason I fumbled that ball?
No.
No, fuck that.
This isn’t about him.
But the thought lingers. Quiet. Dangerous. Shadowed and unspoken.
I lock the phone and tuck it away.
Outside, the lights blur into long, streaking lines across the windows. Inside, the silence remains heavy and tight. I feel every missed pass like a bruise beneath my ribs. Every misstep like a fracture I can’t reset. And deep down, beneath all the adrenaline and self-reproach, there’s something colder. More uncertain. Not about the game, but about me.
About who I am when I’m not winning.
And whether I deserve someone like Brent if I can’t even hold my own on the pitch.
Because if I can’t lead this team, if I can’t be the captain they need… what the hell am I even doing? And what happens when he realises I’m not as solid as I pretend to be?
