Page 61 of Full Tilt
Jake opens his mouth, but I don’t give him the chance. “Everyone.”
The air shifts, and Jake backs down. Marcus scowls but sits.
I breathe slowly. My voice is firm. “We’ve got two games left. One more loss and we’re out of the running. I know that. You know that. But if we start imploding now, we’re already done.”
Silence.
Behind me, someone mutters, “We’re already done anyway.”
I don’t turn to see who it is.
Instead, I lower onto the bench and lean forwards, elbows on knees. The ache in my shoulders spreads to my chest. I feel it. The captaincy—not the title but the weight. The sense that every dropped ball, every missed lineout, every angry teammate is another stone on my back.
I run a hand through my wet hair and glance towards the corner where Lachie’s getting changed. He’s quiet, focused, avoiding eye contact with everyone. That tells me more than anything.
He’s angry. And worse, he’s worried.
If we lose again next week, we won’t even qualify for play-offs. It’ll be the first time in five years. And I’m the one they’ll blame. Because I’m thirty-one. Because I’ve got seventy-two caps and they think that makes me tired. Because when I fumbled that ball tonight, I looked human.
I stare down at my calloused palms, the blisters just beginning to reform beneath the tape.
The door to the physio room opens and Joyce steps out. He looks around, assesses the mood, and doesn’t say a word, just nods once, slowly.
A couple of the lads head towards the showers. One or two don’t bother. Just change and go, like they want to escape the stink of failure still clinging to the walls.
Lachie passes me, towel over one shoulder, kit bag in hand. He stops. “You good?” he asks quietly.
I nod and lie, “Yeah.”
He slows as he reaches my bench, keeping his voice low—just for me. “You seeing Brent tonight?” he murmurs, gaze steady.
Things are still new between me and Brent, but I’ve told Lachie enough. He knows I’ve been spending a lot of time with him. That the last month has been a whirlwind of incredible sex, quiet nights, and—for the first time in a long time—me not feeling completely alone.
I hesitate. “Dunno. Maybe.” It comes out gruff, but he doesn’t push. He just nods, like he’s handing me a small lifeline and hoping I’ll take it.
“See you on the bus,” he says, and keeps walking.
“Yeah.”
He’s gone, and I sit there a bit longer.
The room thins out. The silence gets louder. My thoughts crowd tighter in my chest.
The media will be waiting. Twitter—as hell no will I call it anything else—already has clips of my fumble, I’m sure. The armchair experts are probably dissecting my footwork. My grip. My age. My attitude. And none of them know me. Not really. But that doesn’t mean their words won’t stick.
By the time I get to the team bus, I’m the last one.
There are flashes everywhere. Cameras in my face. Microphones being waved like knives. The press are a pack of wolves tonight—hungry, loud, circling for blood. I keep my head down. Shoulders squared. I don’t give them the soundbite they’re aching for.
A reporter calls my name like we’re mates. Another shouts something about leadership, about pressure. I hear my surname tossed out like it’s up for auction.
I grit my teeth and keep moving.
The bus door hisses open, and I climb the steps, breath tight in my chest. I’m wet from the drizzle, collar clinging to the back of my neck, my kit bag dragging heavier than usual behind me. My fingers twitch with the need to punch something. Not someone—just… something solid. Something that’ll crack.
Inside, the atmosphere is dead quiet. Heads are down. A few guys have their earbuds in. One or two scroll their phones with the thousand-yard stare of post-loss burnout. No one is joking. No one is even whispering. It’s all just heavy silence, broken only by the dull thud of the doors closing behind me.
I spot an open seat midway back. Not beside anyone. Thank fuck. I slide into it and sag against the headrest, letting my body slump, knees spread wide, elbows braced on thighs.
