Page 70 of Blindsided By You

I rise to my feet, yank out my fluoro-orange mouthguard, and take the water bottle thrust at me by the youngest Darby boy on the sideline. I swish the lukewarm liquid around my mouth, spitting out Cluanie dirt.

As I face the crowd, my smile could be for any of those faces looking at me with approval after my solid tackle prevented Duncraig capitalising on a cheeky intercept of a loose ball; but it’s only for one person.

I find her instantly. Jenna.

It’s been hard to keep my mind on the game. No matter whether I’ve been right here in sight of her at the halfway mark, or scrambling to my feet defending down on the try line, I’ve felt her eyes on me. Like a compass needle, unable to do anything but face true north, every time I look into the crowd my gaze turns to her. In a sea of Cluanie blue, she’s the lighthouse guiding me home.

She’s grinning, eyes locked on mine, giving me a thumbs-up. Heat surges through me, stronger than the fire in my legs.

“Nice hit,” she calls, cupping her hands around her mouth.

I flash her a grin, shoving my mouthguard back in.Focus, Geordie.Two minutes left, and we’re hanging by a thread.

The referee’s whistle cuts through the noise, dragging me back into the moment.

He’s ruled a forward pass against Duncraig.

Jogging back into position, I shake out the stiffness in my legs as we form up for the scrum. We prepare to link our tired bodies together, all of us in the forward pack summoning strength from the knowledge that what we do from this set piece is likely to determine the outcome of the game. Tension ripples off the men alongside me as the referee begins the calls.

“Crouch.”

My overworked thigh muscles ache as I squat, pressing my shoulder against the prop’s hip, muscles coiled. I reflexively shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, my spine tensing in anticipation.

“Bind.”

Shirts stretch tight, bodies shifting in micro-adjustments as we lock in. The tension vibrates through my spine.

“Set.”

Impact. The packs collide. Eight men surge as one, legs driving against churned-up earth. The scrum twists, lurches. Mud, sweat, torn grass—I barely notice. All that matters is holding our ground, keeping our shape, waiting for the ball to emerge. My body vibrates as both packs push for dominance, every muscle burning, but I maintain my position, standing strong, refusing to submit.

Then it’s out.

Darby scoops it up, firing a pass to Connor. Duncraig’s flanker charges, but Connor reads him perfectly, feinting a kick before offloading to Fraser. Fraser flicks it back to Brodie, who’s already sprinting into space.

I break.

The moment Brodie chips the ball over their heads, I’m accelerating. Their fullback hesitates, caught between options. Too late. The ball bounces, upright and perfect.

I gather at full tilt, dive.

The roar of the crowd explodes around me as I slam the ball down. Five points. All from a set-piece we’ve drilled a hundred times in training. And a tied score right on full time.

I scramble to my feet, ball tucked possessively under one arm, a grin of satisfaction splitting my face. Immediately I’m mobbed by our players, who leap upon me with howls of delight, cuffing my head, and slapping at my back.

Time’s up on the board, but we’ve got the conversion to come. Brandon jogs up from fullback, scooping up the ball and stridingup to the neon yellow tee, ready to nail the final points and give us the win. There’s no shame in a draw, but we’re hungry to cement a victory over our traditional rivals.

While we wait for Brandon to set up, I let my gaze wander back to the stand. There’s been a silent conversation between Jenna and me the whole eighty minutes, one I hope has gone unnoticed. Right now, while hundreds of eyes are preoccupied with the kicker, I dare another direct look, needing to see her approval more than that of all the other faces fixed on the field.

Her smile is broad, and her eyes meet mine. She joins in the chorus of encouragement. While the words are for Brandon, the look is for me.

It’s not an easy goal. I touched the ball down wide, less than five yards from the sideline. Brandon’s got his work cut out for him, but this is where the hours he’s spent down here practising, lobbing kick after kick from every angle, will pay off. Placing the ball precisely, he pauses a moment, hands still connected with it as if he’s having a secret chat, explaining what he requires.

We’ve watched this routine dozens of times. All kickers have their ritual, a series of motions to get them in the zone, necessary for success.

He takes three careful steps—I swear if I pulled out a tape, they’d measure exactly the same every time—pauses, and I see his chest rise and fall in three controlled breaths.

Needing to drown out the encouraging buzz of the hometown crowd behind him, and the expected booing of the Duncraig supporters, Brandon slips into his kicker’s trance. His gaze sweeps from the ball poised on the tee to the goal and back again, visualising thepath between the two, his head swivelling like the gun turret on an army tank, seeking its target.

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