Page 69 of A Game of Ruck

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Their fly-half tries to exploit the gap on the outside wing, but I see it coming.

I intercept the offload, barge through their fullback like a train through paper, and gain thirty meters before I’m taken down.

The crowd goes wild.

Momentum shifts.

I don’t stop moving.

I push.I bleed.I lead.

I call plays on instinct, working the ball wide, then pulling it in when their defense overcommits.

And then it comes.

Final minute.

Tied score.

Our scrum feeds me the ball clean.

I tuck it tight.

Lower my shoulder.

And drive.

Straight through their line, legs pumping like pistons.

One Gator clings to me.

Then another.

Their weight drags at my legs, but I don’t stop driving forward.

I grit my teeth, muscles screaming, until someone hits me low—and the ball pops free.

Shit.

It tumbles loose onto the pitch.

Chaos erupts.

Bodies crash in from every direction.

But I’m already diving—low, fast, head down.

We’ve got a ruck.

I slam into it shoulder-first, clearing bodies, throwing my weight behind the counter-drive.

Boots dig in around me.Elbows fly.

Someone’s shouting—maybe Coach, maybe one of the boys.I can't tell.

All I see is the ball.

And all I can think about is her.

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