Before he goes, he’s insisted I meet his replacement. Some guy named Brent. Which sounds more like a bloke who sells discount patio furniture than someone I’d trust to put a needle to my skin. But Tank knows me, knows how picky I am about ink—and people.
So yeah. Tonight, I get to grimace awkwardly at a stranger while pretending I’m not already imagining bailing out the back door while wondering if they’re going to sell a story to the press about how I whimpered or got a hard-on while getting ink.
I sigh, then wince as my hip pops when I try to sit up.
Lachie offers a hand. “Want help, old man?”
“Touch me and die.”
He grins. “There’s the ray of sunshine we all know and tolerate.”
The gym’s a humid mess by the time we limp out, sweat-slick and cursing softly, every one of us in some stage of broken.
The locker room’s already buzzing. Lads are stripping off kit, chucking socks into corners with surgical accuracy, snapping towels like feral schoolboys. The familiar stink of sweat, liniment, and that one mystery protein bar someone dropped behind a bench three weeks ago wraps around me like a weighted blanket. Disgusting. Comforting.
“Oi, Cap,” someone calls. “You survive the Joyce Special?”
It’s Rafi Khan—our rookie winger with lungs for days and legs like he’s got rockets strapped to his boots. He’s fresh out of the Under-18s England squad, and damn if he doesn’t have the makings of something massive. He’s already tearing up the pitchin his first pro season like he owns it. And the best part? He’s not a knob about it.
“Barely,” I grunt, tossing my kit bag into my locker.
“He cried,” Lachie adds, peeling off his shirt. “Tears of pain. And maybe a little shame.”
“I will end you,” I say mildly.
Rafi laughs and drops onto the bench beside me, towelling off his hair. “Well, you still looked cool doing it. Like a dying gladiator.”
“Appreciate that. Put it on my gravestone.”
He grins, wide and easy. It’s the kind of smile you can’t help rooting for. We all are, really. Kid’s got the game in his blood, and if things go right, we’ll be seeing him on that England squad for the World Cup in three years. He’s already got the attention of scouts and press. I just hope he keeps his head down and his ego in check—which so far, he’s managed.
Me? I gave up that dream years back. I never made the England cut, and at thirty-one, I’m not holding my breath. But seventy-two caps with Exeter and a captaincy that’s lasted longer than some of our sponsorship deals? I’ll take that. Honestly, I’m proud as hell of what we’ve built here and the part I’ve played. And this year, we’re third in the Premiership table, with six games left. It’s tight, and staying in the top four could go either way. But we’re playing our arses off to make the play-offs, and I’ve never seen the boys hungrier.
Lachie thumps down beside me, cracking open a sports drink. “Anyone seen Tommy?”
“Nope,” Rafi says. “He left early. Said his dog ate something dodgy and puked on his game boots.”
“Again?” Lachie blinks. “That dog needs therapy.”
“That dog needs to stop eating socks,” I mutter, peeling off my damp shirt and resisting the urge to just lie down right here on the floor and melt.
Lachie passes me a bottle. “You going out tonight?”
“Nah.” I shake my head, already picturing the blessed solitude of my flat. “Gonna veg at home. Might cook. Might stare at the wall. Big plans.”
“What about that thing with the new ink guy?” he says casually, but I clock the glint in his eye.
“Brent,” I reply, voice flat. “Yes. Later. A thrilling social engagement I’m deeply excited for.”
Rafi perks up. “New tattoo?”
“Not tonight,” I say, knowing better than having a new piece when I’ll be pummelled in a game a day or two after. “Just meeting the guy before I get new ink when the season ends. Tank’s leaving and wants me to bond with his hand-picked successor before he runs off to the land of syrup and apologies.”
Lachie snorts. “Bet Brent’s a sweetheart. You’ll love him.”
I arch my brow in his direction at his weird optimism. “I won’t.”
“You might.”
