Each part of me has been crafted, sculpted, shaped by my own willpower to be the best. To reach my full potential. Especially my brain. I’m twenty-two—my birthday was three days ago—and I’ve turned myself into a rugby machine: six-five, strong, instinctive, and fast. So fucking fast. Ain’t nobody in that stadium today, Bath or Cardiff, faster than me, that’s for sure. And I can aim well. I’ll be wearing the number ten soon. That much I know. I just need to prove it to a few people first.
Half-time is the usual “get your shit together lads” and then we’re back on the pitch.
“Dylan, Stevens, Gregory, Jones, I want you to warm up,” Coach Campbell informs us.
I’m already on my feet.
Finally my shot. My chance to show the world I have what it takes to play rugby at pro level. Like all the greats before me.
That could be me. That will be me.
I’ve held those thoughts in my head. Repeated them over and over. Never let a shred of doubt or worry worm its way in. But as the clock ticks over into its seventieth minute, seventy-fifth, and I’m still dancing around like a tit on the side of the pitch, my confidence wanes a little.
Not my confidence in myself—that doesn’t falter—but my confidence in what Coach thinks of me, what my teammates think of me. I need them to like me. I need them to be in awe of my abilities. I want my name bouncedaround people’s homes accompanied by things like,“Can you believe last year he was playing for the under twenties?”
Or,“He’s the fastest player in Bengals’ history.”
Or,“Youngest player ever to reach one hundred caps.”
Bengals’ tactic for the past ten minutes has been to keep the ball as close to the Bengals’ white line as possible, and shut out any try attempts from the Cents. They’ve had a few breakouts, but whatever magic Coach sprinkled over us during half-time is paying off, and Bath haven’t been able to even out the score.
They need a try plus the conversion to snatch the win from us, and with three minutes left on the clock, it doesn’t look likely to happen. It’s gonna take a miracle.
The Cardiff fans are already celebrating the victory.
“Jones, you’re going in,” Campbell says. “You have one job, and one job only—do not let Bath score. Under any circumstance.”
“Got it,” I reply.
And just like that, I’m on the pitch with my Bengals teammates—official teammates now—and some of the most formidable opposition I’ll ever face.
The Centurions are a big team, both in reputation and in physical, measurable size. They’re very heavy—pun a happy coincidence—on forwards, and much lighter on backs. The hits pack a punch, but they’re not as quick on their feet as they could be.
I’m playing fullback, and I’m eager, so fucking eager to prove to everyone and their nans that I belong here.
We’re fanned out near the Bengals’ goal posts when out of nowhere Owen Bosley makes a break for it. He’s wide open on the right side of the pitch. He knows this, and he sprints, his legs punching the turf, propelling him towards Bath’s half.
The crowd explodes with noise, shaking the entire stadium to the point where it feels like even the sky could collapse in on us.
The Bengals boys pivot like a switchblade—razor reflexes—and chase Bosley, but the hooker has nothing but green in front of him.For the win they’ll need the try and the conversion, but the Cents’ kicker is useless. Bosley’s going to get as close to the centre as possible. That way his teammate won’t have to work as hard.
I spot the moment he realises this. The moment his brain switches gears and he curves his trajectory inwards. I’m fresh on the pitch, I’m young, I’m fast, and I’m fucking eager, and Bosley’s nearly on his eightieth minute. We’ll cross paths. He’s going down.
I run, feet slamming onto the grass, driven by pure adrenaline and desperation. I don’t think about the poster I had of Bosley on my wall when I was younger. I don’t let doubts creep in. No what-ifs. No might nots. He’s mine.
Less than a quarter of the pitch to go. The gap between us closes. He’s fast. I’m faster.
I have this.
He’s right there.
I’m two metres from him. He’s four from the try line.
Bosley’s head ticks to the side. He knows I’m there, knows he’s been beat, but it’s too late. He’s not agile enough to shift his weight, not more agile than me. But he attempts to anyway.
It’s all too late for him. I launch myself, catch one last glance at his face before I wrap my arms around his waist and we both go down. He’s an antelope and I’m the wildcat.
We crash into the ground. The ball bounces off left. He doesn’t cling to it.
