Page 6 of Ignite

Ethan

The next morning, I crumpled the card Ophelia had tossed on my dashboard without looking at the company name above the image of three glossy cars. I didn’t want to take any advice from Ophelia. I mean, what kind of woman kept a car repairer’s business card in her wallet?

Finding my gym gear and trainers, I slowly jogged the two kilometers into town. My neck and arm were still stiff from the accident, but I didn’t have time to waste before getting the lay of the land and proving to the Meringa Rugby League Club that they had recruited wisely. The job had come with two months free, and twelve months of subsidized rent on a one-bedroom townhouse on the outskirts of town. Backing onto the golf course, it would be ideal if I ever had the money to learn how to play.

Personally, I preferred sports that built up a sweat, where I could go toe-to-toe with my enemy on the field and share a beer afterward.

Still, the wet grass felt soft underfoot as I avoided evil stares from morning golfers on my way into town. I needed the physical strain to get past the madness of yesterday. If Ophelia’s car ramming the back of mine hadn’t been enough, now the crumpled back shell refused to open. I’d had no choice but to smash the back window and pull out a few boxes, leaving my bedframe, mattress, and dismantled furniture asfuture me’sproblem.

By the time I’d made it to the road, my legs and lungs hurt more than my back—which might never forgive me for sleeping on the floor. Between that and the accident, I was feeling all of my twenty-nine years.

Ophelia had done a proper job on me and my ute. Hours after the tow truck had taken away her car, I still couldn’t stop thinking about her. For a minute there, she’d been the only good thing to happen in the last year. Her sass was hot AF and her ass looked like it could fit perfectly in my hands. Her lips were the most expressive I’d seen—and I couldn’t help but be affected by the soft way she bit down when I attacked her, right before unleashing an attitude of her own.

I hoped she was okay with no sore back or neck from the accident. Shit, I hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass long enough to check.

But I’d thought about Ophelia enough, for one day.

I’d been in town for one day. Met one woman.

Now, it was time to find the gym and start meeting my team.

After finding the key in a lockbox, I explored the gym, unlocked my shoebox-sized office, and tried to settle in before the team arrived. Until I got my duffel bag that was stuck at the bottom of the ute, I didn’t have much more than an old laptop, iPad, whistles, and a notebook. At least I could read pages of my chicken scratchings; ideas broken down by physical, mental, tactics, technical, and movement. Since unpacking took a whole five minutes, I still had time to check out the facility.

Larger than a basketball court, the open-plan space had room for everything. Half the long wall had the requisite mirrors in front of stands containing enough weights for the whole team to train at once. There were two rowing machines, half a dozen stationary bikes, three treadmills, and shelving with yoga mats and plastic steps.

I looked around for a booking or class schedule, but nothing seemed organized. Perhaps they managed everything online? Or perhaps not enough people came here for overbooking to be a problem.

I clicked my knuckles, impatiently looking out to the gravel parking lot, hoping someone would turn up. What if I called a training session and the players decided to boycott the new coach? I’d heard of hazing but hoped they’d at least turn up to meet me first.

Damn it, I banged my forehead on the window, trying to snap some sense into my brain. I had not just moved four hours away to the end of the earth to be hazed by a bunch of country bumpkins.

They called me.

They wanted me.

They needed me.

I had to believe that they needed me, and that they believed enough in my coaching and playing record to give me a chance.

Deciding that waiting for the parking lot to fill up was about as productive as watching paint dry, I took a closer look at the brick wall at the back of the gym.

Framed team photos seemed to go back forty or fifty years. It seemed the team had been sponsored by some guy called Old Man Hobbs for close to twenty years, with team photos taken inside his old-fashioned bar. The wood looked like it came from the first trees chopped down to build the town, and the décor wasn’t any younger. I could almost smell the stale beer-soaked carpet and hand-cut chips from the servery.

Some years, the newspaper co-sponsored the team. Other years, a local business, “Rylee’s Beat” handed over the cash. I pulled the card out of my wallet. It was the same business that Ophelia had recommended. Perhaps if they sponsored the football team, they’d give me a discount on my repairs.

Then I looked closer at the names underneath the team photos. It seemed as if the under-eighteen team from ten years ago had stayed together and played together every year since.

I immediately knew I’d have my work cut out for me. They’d be more than just a team, they would be more like brothers. They’d play instinctively, knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses without talking. They’d be set in their ways and probably have expected one of their own to take the job I’d won.

Fuck.

My temporary bout of confidence threatened to take the first bus out of town. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I needed some stability and at least a chance to put down some roots. They could kick me out at the end of my contract, but I needed to last until then.

Turning to a blank page in my notebook, I took note of who was on my roster, and how many years they’d been on the team. I powered up my laptop, promising to replace it before the end of this contract, and started searching online for any mentions of my players when the door slammed open.

The face coming toward me was the same face on my screen. Before I shut the lid, I glanced over the name and quickly skimmed the newspaper article. Reece Sinclair. Meringa’s promising footballer, whose career had been cut short by injury and who apparently now dedicated his life to his local veterinary business and volunteer firefighter service.

Double Fuck.

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