Page 28 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
The whistle blows, and time seems to slow. I drop back, my feet finding their rhythm on the pitch as if it were the worn path between the farmhouse and the barn. My teammatesmove in perfect synchronization, a well-oiled machine honed by countless hours of practice.
I spot an opening and my body reacts before my mind can catch up. The ball leaves my hands in a perfect spiral, arcing through the air like a bird taking flight. For a breathless moment, I'm that barefoot kid again, tossing stones across the river, dreaming of this very stadium.
"Go, go, go!" I shout, urging my wingman forward as he catches the ball and tears down the field.
The defense shifts, adapting like a living organism. I push forward, my muscles burning with exertion, ready to support the play. The crowd's cheers build to a crescendo, a wall of sound propelling us forward.
I near the try line, and I think, 'This is why I do it. This is what I was born for.'
The moment of impact approaches, and I brace myself, every fiber of my being focused on the task at hand. Whatever happens next, I know I've given it my all. Just like Dad taught me on the farm—you reap what you sow.
The collision hits me like a freight train, sending shockwaves through my body. Time slows to a crawl as I feel something in my knee give way with a sickening pop. The roar of the crowd fades to a distant hum, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
"Bloody hell," I gasp, my vision blurring as I crumple to the ground.
The grass beneath me feels impossibly soft, like the downy pillows Mum used to make from our farm's geese feathers. Iblink hard, trying to focus on the concerned faces hovering above me.
"You alright, Iceman?" my teammate asks, his voice muffled and far away.
I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a grunt. The pain in my knee flares, white-hot and insistent. I've had my share of knocks, but this... this feels different.
As the team medic rushes over, I think of all the times I've pushed through pain before. The early morning training sessions in the biting Canterbury cold. The countless bruises and sprains I've shrugged off like they were nothing.
"Not now," I mutter through gritted teeth. "Not when we're so close."
I try to stand, but my knee buckles beneath me. The crowd's collective gasp washes over me like a wave, and I feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on my chest.
"Easy there, Elliott," the medic says, gently pushing me back down. "Let's take a look before you try anything heroic."
As he examines my knee, my mind races. What if this is it? What if this is the injury that ends it all? I think of the farm, of the life I left behind to chase this dream. Of all the people counting on me—my teammates, my fans, my family back home.
"I can't let them down," I think, clenching my fists in determination. "I've come too far to give up now."
But even as I try to summon that icy focus I'm known for, a nagging doubt creeps in. What if my body's finally telling me it's had enough?
"How bad is it, doc?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
The medic's hesitation speaks volumes. "We'll need to run some tests, but..."
I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath. The smell of grass and sweat fills my nostrils, grounding me in the moment.I've faced setbacks before. This is just another challenge to overcome.
"Right then," I say, forcing a smile. “Let’s start the rehab now so I can rejoin before the season ends.”
“Let’s get me patched up.”
But as they help me to my feet, I can't shake the feeling that this might be the beginning of the end of the only life I've ever wanted.
The locker room buzzes with a mix of concern and forced optimism as I limp in, supported by our team physio. My teammates crowd around, their faces a blend of worry and encouragement.
"Oi, Iceman!" Stevie, our jovial prop, calls out. "You're made of tougher stuff than that, eh? Bet you'll be back on your feet faster than a sheep fleeing the shearing shed!"
I manage a chuckle, grateful for the attempt at levity. "Might need to borrow some of that famous prop padding of yours next time, mate."
But beneath the banter, I can sense the undercurrent of tension. Whispers flutter around the edges of the room like uneasy birds.
"...could be career-ending..."
"...what if he can't come back from this?"
