Page 85 of Unwritten Rules
The bed sheets are a tangled mess around my legs, with one foot sticking out and the other trying to find the cool spot on the mattress I have yet to reach. My skin in inflamed, despite the ceiling fan running at full power, and a light sheen of sweat has broken out across my brow and upper lip. The bed shorts and tank top I threw on after the shower feel uncomfortable against my skin, and I’m itching to tear them off in the hope it’ll make everything feel less overwhelming.
I don’t know what’s going on with me. To start, I couldn’t concentrate on the words coming out of Dad’s mouth over dinner. I didn’t need to study his features to know he could tell something was up with me—it was evident in the way I kept glancing at my phone, hoping to see a text message from Sinnett. I knew it was rude to do something like that while eating dinner, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. I couldn’t stop myself from searching for any sign of him—however small—when he was the only thing on my mind.
Thankfully, Dad didn’t say anything and continued telling me about his day.
“The Wolves are looking good for the game tomorrow night,” he told me, a smile touching his lips. “I’m so pleased Sinnettwas cleared to play. The guys have been performing well without him, but I know they could be better, especially if he’s on the field.”
I understand the stress he’s under right now, especially with Sinnett returning. The Wolves are sitting on the leaderboard in second place, which is a great spot to be in at this point in the season. However, Dad is a perfectionist, so he will do everything in his power to get his team to the number one position by the end of the season. They’ll have to, if they want to win the minor premiership and then go on to win the grand final.
He’s always been a driven man—prepared to put his heart and soul into the sport he has loved his entire life. And while I admire his strength and determination, I would hate to see him burnout and lose his spark down the line if he doesn’t take it easy. Rugby is his life, and now with Mum gone, he’s dived head first into it.
We all need a distraction from the grief and heartache of losing a loved one, but he hasn’t slowed down in years, and I worry it’ll catch up to him sooner rather than later.
To top off my inability to fall asleep, I have a certain messy-haired, blue-eyed halfback on my mind. Ever since he got cleared to return to the field on Tuesday, I have been a ball of nerves and excitement. Nervous because I’m worried he might aggravate his quad if positioned in a bad tackle and is forced to take more time off to recover, and excited because I finally get to see him out on the field doing what he has worked his entire life to achieve.
Working with him throughout his recovery made it clear to me just how passionate he is about the sport. Not only does he love being out there, fuelled by the cheers from the fans, but he has a drive about him that pushes him to better himself each game.
We went for a drive around North Sydney last night, and somehow, the topic of conversation shifted to his younger days playing rugby.
“I wouldn’t say I was anything special, but I did try my best each game,” he had said, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my thigh draped over the centre console, resting over his. Warmth lit up his eyes, and he smiled softly. “After school, Khai and I would toss the ball around in the backyard, looking to improve our skills. At that moment, I hadn’t fallen in love with rugby yet.”
“When did you?” I questioned, tilting my head to the side.
“It wasn’t until I was seventeen and joined the U18s team.” Sinnett turned his attention to the crashing waves behind the car. “Coach Stevens took me under his wings after my first training session with him. He saw something special in me. Something I didn’t know existed. It was he who taught me to love the sport, accepting each ache and pain after a game and channelling it into a sense of self-worth and pride. And eventually, my mindset shifted from the sport being a hobby to something I wanted to pursue and make a career from.”
“Whatever happened to Coach Stevens?”
“We still keep in contact to this day,” he told me. “He comes by to watch home games when he gets the chance.”
“I’m sure he’s proud of you,” I told him, caressing his hand resting on my knee.
Sinnett smiled. “I hope so.”
It’s clear Sinnett was born to do this—to be the star he’s perceived to be—but he puts far too much pressure on himself to be the best. I hear it in the way his voice shakes at the edges when he talks about the sport in any capacity. I see it in the way his features harden at the mere mention of transitioning back into his regular training schedule.
He doesn’t need to outwardly tell me he’s worried about returning to the field and letting his teammates, coaches andclub down if he doesn’t perform as well as he did before he got injured. I wish I could tell him that he doesn’t need to put so much pressure on himself to be the best when all he needs to do is perform athisbest. From there, everything else will fall into place.
With a huff, I throw my arms down on the mattress at my sides and blink up at the ceiling. Giving up on trying to get a wink of sleep, I stare ahead and attempt to clear the corners of my mind. Maybe I should try counting sheep. People swear by it.
One sheep.
Two sheep.
Three sheep.
Four she?—
The vibration of my phone on the bedside table pulls me away from my counting.
Goddamnit.
Abandoning all hope that the fluffy sheep can pull me into a deep slumber, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone. The device bursts to life, momentarily blinding me until I swipe across the screen and lower the brightness. Blinking rapidly, I take note of the time. 3:15 AM.
My heart slams into my chest when I see the sender of the text message.
Sinnett.
SIN: Please tell me I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
