Page 48 of Playing Rucking Hard

It’s on. Dawson gets to his feet and shoves the forward who swings the first punch. Dawson is faster on his feet but when the second punch bounces off his shoulder, Dawson starts swinging at anything and everything. Players come from all over the field, and I scramble to grab the Dawson’s jersey collar to yank him back.

“D, what the fuck,” I yell, but it’s no use. The ref blows the whistle. We get a penalty, but Dawson’s not done. He’s still mouthing off at the opposition, getting himself worked up like a kid who hasn’t been toldnoenough. I know what’s going on. He’s got some personal shit messing with his head. Something to do with his ex. She’s pregnant, and the last I heard, he’s not exactly thrilled about the wholerockstar babything. It’s a mess but until today, he mostly left his shit off the field. Now? There’s gonna be hell to pay back in the sheds, and Coops doesn’t stand for personal shit clouding a team’s judgment.

I try to shake off the external crap. The penalty’s ours now, and when the kick for touch gives us good field position, I’m back in game-day mode. The reason I love team sports is because we play as a team. Yes, Dawson’s attitude has a ripple effect, but this is when leaders stand up and heroes win games.

Time to put my bad-boy reputation to bed and demand the headlines scream my name for all the right reasons.Give Little Squid someone to look up to.

Bodhi Kalani runs the ball up, flicking a pass to me as he takes out three defenders. I catch it on my chest and charge forward. My legs pump hard, the grass disappearing underfoot as I focuson the opposition’s line. I’ve got the momentum now, and I see the gap. It’s there, if I just …

I don’t see the tackle coming.Fuck me, no.Multiple arms lift me in the air, my body weightless for half a second before I’m driven into the ground with a brutal thud.

Everything goes dark.

When I come to, I’m on my back, the air knocked out of me, my neck screaming in protest from the impact. The shock is still vibrating up my spine, and for a second, I think I might’ve just gotten myself a career-ending injury. But then the pain fades, I can wriggle my toes, and the unmistakable sounds of an all-in-brawl are music to my ears.My team have my back.

I blink up at the sky, trying to clear the cobwebs. The crowd’s going crazy, and if I’m not hearing things, they are split between chanting my name and for my team. Really? Like an hour ago, they’d forgotten both and now I’m their fucking hero?It’s about time, and I hope Squid’s watching.

I can’t see much through the bodies being flung around, but I know one thing for sure—Dawson wasn’t the only one waiting for an opportunity to unleash. Seeing me upended and driven head-first into the ground was the excuse they were looking for. Players are throwing punches left and right, and the refs are scrambling, trying to break it all up, but the energy is feeding on itself like a cyclone or tornado.

I push myself up, my vision a little blurry, but I’ve played through worse. It’s just a bit of whiplash. As long as the trainer and ref don’t think I was unconscious, I’ll be good to play on. With adrenaline kicking in, only common sense and a slight fogginess stops me from joining in the fray.

Dawson’s in the thick of it. Of course, he is. He’s right there, throwing hands with anyone who gets too close, his frustration boiling over into all-out violence. If we lose him and any of our forwards to the sin bin, and if I have to go to the head bin to getchecked for a concussion, you might as well hand the game over, regardless of who gets the penalty.

I can’t even hear the referees over the chaos. There are as many players trying to separate fights as there are players going punch-for-punch.

I move to get back in the action, but the trainer finally gets to me. “Eyes on me, Fleski.”

I succumb to the on-field tests and groan when he taps his head to the bench. I’m off for ten minutes to get checked out for a concussion.Fuck, me.A, I don’t want the sub to outshine me during his ten minutes. B, I don’t want my team to lose momentum—which can happen after a fight, depending on send-offs and field repositioning.

As I’m escorted from the field, I know the referee isn’t going to stop with a few penalties.

Each camera is directed at the fight, and I imagine the ratings skyrocketing with every punch thrown. I can already hear the commentators screaming about how this is one for the history books.

Hope the suspensions are worth the TV money.

By the time the chaos dies down, it feels like the whole stadium’s on fire. Players are being sent off, coaches are on the sidelines yelling at the refs, and the game has completely derailed. Even up the tunnel, I feel the tension in the air—it’s thick, like we’re all just waiting for the next spark to fly.

“You’re out.” The club’s game day doctor’s words are final. “We’ll get you properly checked out tomorrow, but you should be right for the next game.”

“But …”

“No arguments, Fleski. You were out for a second or two, and we’re not about to take any chances.”

Despite my half-hearted protests—because an injured hero should get the girl, right—I spend the rest of the game watching the Mavericks hold on for a win.

Me:You missed the best part of the game. Just me, nearly snapping my neck for the Mavericks. No big deal.??

Emma:That’s not funny, Dylan. I saw it. They didn’t let you back after the head bin. Are you seriously okay?

Me:Oh yeah, just a little sore. But I do think I earned a reward after that tackle. I’m talking about a second date.??

Emma:Reward? For almost killing yourself on the field? You’re insane.

Me:Insane enough to get you to say yes? I figure I’ve earned a second date before we’ve had our first date.

Emma:Ha! Confident much? What if dessert sux?

Me:Ouch. But fair. I’m a little out of practice inviting a woman back to my place for dessert.

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