Coach doesn’t give me the chance to respond before he continues. “First and foremost, understand that whatever the hell just happened out there with Banes, it’s not happening again. I don’t give second chances. Beinghereis your second chance. The only chance you get. I don’t baby my players, I’m not hand-holding, and I run a tight program. I know you’ve had a problem with aggression off the pitch. Fighting.”
My shoulder dips. “Here and there.”
Not exactly the full truth, but he’s got the file in front of him, and I know he’s read it.
We both know exactly what put me here. And it wasn’t just my aggression.
“If you want to stay on this team, you walk the straight and narrow. No fighting. No drugs. No illegal activities. No fucking your way through the cheerleading team. No creating tension with your teammates. You’re not the only one with something at stake here. This program operates on private funding. Boosters who expect a championship win this year, which means that we can’t afford a fuckup. Of any nature.”
“Understood,” I retort, my jaw hardening again as we stare off over the desk.
He nods. “Good. We’re on the same page then. Look, I’ve reviewed your tapes, Cairney… You’re a damn good player. Naturally talented in ways that some guys work their entire life to be and never achieve. Don’t waste it.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. From my coach back in London, from scouts, from my teammates, my sister. From the voice in my head telling me not to end up like my father, who’s never been anything but an alcoholic fuckup with a temper that puts mine to shame.
Truthfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like myself. The guy I used to be before Mum died. I’ve spent the last two years fighting to make it back to that person, and I’ve got the scars to show it. On every inch of me, inside and out. I spiraled so far down that sometimes I feel like I’ll never make it out alive.
What I want more than anything is to leave the mess I made in London behind and start over. To take the opportunity I’ve beengiven even if it means moving to a new country and playing for a team of blokes who don’t want me here. I can deal with it if it means that I’ll have a chance at playing professionally and making sure that Aisling is taken care of.
“I have no plans to,” I respond in a clipped tone. “I’m here to play rugby. That’s it. I’m not going to cause any trouble. I know that doesn’t mean much right now, and I get it—I haven’t exactly shown anyone that my word means much, but I want to change that. Starting here. Starting now.”
“All right then.” Lifting his wrist, Coach glances down at his watch before looking back at me. “I’ve got to head to practice, but we can talk a bit more later. There’s one thing I want to say before I go. You’re walking on halfway through a season, Cairney. There’s inevitably going to be some challenges. These guys have been playing together for years. There’s a dynamic in place, and I know that it’s going to take some time for everyone to adjust. And not only that… these guys have a lot on the line, and they know it. Doesn’t help that they’re feeling the pressure of expectation. I just need your assurance that you’re going to give fitting in and becoming a member of this team everything you’ve got.” His voice is low and solemn as he says exactly what I’ve been thinking since I got the transfer confirmation.
I already have a fairly good grasp on what it is I’m walking into, especially after the confrontation that happened a few minutes ago, but if anything, it’s only making me more determined. To show not only Coach that I’m going to follow through, but also the arseholes who think they’ll get rid of me as easily as I came here.
I nod, raking a hand through my hair. “I understand. You’re not going to have any issues out of me. I’ll make an effort.”
“Good. Let’s head down to the pitch and you can observe for a bit and meet Matthews, our assistant coach.” Standing, he rounds the desk toward his door, and I rise, following behind him. “You’ll officially meet the team tomorrow, before practice.”
The pitch is a short walk from Coach’s office and when we arrive, the team has already started their training session. He doesn’t attempt to bring me out there to introduce me to everyone, and honestly I’m thankful for it. I’d rather observe from the touchlines and see how they operate as a team from the outside.
Coach St. James introduces me to a short, lean guy with red hair that’s so bright it looks unnatural, and I almost wonder if the bloke dyes it.
“Cairney, this is Assistant Coach Matthews. I need to get out there, but I’ll leave you two to it and I’ll see you tomorrow before practice.” He brushes past us onto the pitch, leaving us alone.
Coach Matthews turns to me and offers his hand. “Good to have you, Cairney. I’ve seen you on the pitch, and I’m impressed. I wanna see you adapt and do the same thing here,” he says as he drops my hand, then shoves his back into his pocket.
“I plan on it.”
“Got a good team this year,” he says, nodding toward the pitch as they run a phase of play. “Powerful. A solid defense, disciplined. And that makes it hard to break through the line. Some fast guys that focus on moving the ball and exploiting gaps in defense.”
I nod along but keep my eyes trained on the pitch, watching as they go for a try. He’s not wrong; they’re bloody good. Their bond is evident in the way they work together and execute plays. These guys are powerful and skilled playmakers. That’s the bestyou could ask for in a team, and it’s not just about being talented. It’s all about communication and how it plays out on the pitch.
“And I think you’ll be the perfect addition to the team if you can keep your head on straight.” He adds, “Conditioning at least once a week, two sessions on the pitch until spring games start. I expect you at all of them, putting in the work just like everyone else.”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers and nod. “I’ll be there.”
A long, hard whistle blows down the touchlines, and we both turn to see a girl stomping out onto the pitch over to one of the blokes, her long espresso braid swishing behind her. From our position, I can make out the delicate slope of her nose, the high cheekbones, plump pink lips, pale, creamy skin, and a blazing fire in her eyes.
She’spissed. And proper fit. But who the hell is she?
When she makes it to the pitch she stops in front of the tallest bloke on the team and shakes her head while sporting a fierce scowl. “Soccer tryouts are in two weeks. If you’re not gonna commit to a tackle maybe you should try out.”
“But I—” he sputters.
“But I? But I? Drive with your legs and make the damn tackle,Williams. Jesus, are we playing rugby or ballet out here?” She does a mock twirl, which would be rather comical if she didn’tactuallylook a little scary taking on a guy who’s at least a foot taller and outweighs her by at least a hundred pounds.
Holy shit.
