April, 2014
“BLOODY HELL! IS this what I think it is?”
Kenny peered at the small velvet box nestled inside Nick’s kitbag.
“I have no idea what you think half the time,” Nick said calmly. “Your mind is in a different galaxy, far, far away.”
“Fuck off! Seriously? You’re going to ask Molly to marry you?”
Nick had been seeing Molly for nearly three years. She’d been angling for a ring and he thought why not? All the guys he’d gone to school with were married by now, kids on the way, why not him? He was twenty-six, reasonably well paid, owned his own home, and the next obvious step was to settle down.
“Yeah, I think it’s time.”
Kenny gave him a strange look.
“Is she pregnant?”
Nick laughed out loud.
“No, you mad sort! What you asking me that for?”
Kenny slapped him around the head and yelled, “Then what are you doing it for, you idiot?”
It was no secret that Ken and Molly didn’t like each other, although Nick’s life would have been a lot simpler if they did.
“You’re being a dickhead,” Nick said. “But I want you to be my Best Man.”
Kenny gave an evil grin. His front four teeth had been knocked out in a game two months ago and Kenny was waiting for the end of the season so he could get implants. He looked like an overgrown vampire.
“Oh yeah! Best Man’s speech! I’m down with that.”
Nick had a feeling he’d live to regret this decision.
“When are you going to ask her?”
“At the after-party tonight.”
“Your funeral, pal.”
What a knob, thought Nick, shaking his head.
“Why are we friends?”
Kenny frowned.
“Dunno. Low standards?”
All through his prep and match warmup, Nick had a strange feeling in his gut, a knot of anxiety.
He pulled out his lucky boots, placing them next to his gum-shield on the bench ready to use. He wasn’t as superstitious as some players, but he liked his lucky boots. Although they were beginning to wear out and that made him nervous.
He also had a favourite pair of Speedos to wear underneath his rugby uniform, but that wasn’t anyone else’s business.
“Last game with your mates,” said Kenny, his voice wistful. “Now you’re leaving us behind, you’ll be too big time for us lot in the second division. All change for you—you’ll forget all about us.”
Nick laughed and thumped his friend on the back.
“Like I could ever forget you, Ken.”
Kenny didn’t smile and something flashed behind his eyes, but then the captain called to signal them out onto the pitch and they didn’t speak again.
The sky was slate-coloured, boiling with dark storm clouds, and even on a late Spring afternoon, the fans huddled together, their applause dampened, with rows of seats standing forlorn and empty. Not many had followed the team to this last away-game of the season.
Nick glanced at the sparsely filled seats, disappointment souring his attempts to be positive. No matter what, he was still determined to play his best. But if the team had been in with a chance of promotion to the Premiership—the rugby super league—the stands would be full. Not today; not with a slow slide toward the lower half of the table after a mediocre season. Not even for the last game of the year.
As the ref blew his whistle to start the match, rain began to fall with heavy drops that rapidly turned the pitch into a mud bath, Nick and the other players slipping and sliding, clothes clinging wetly, slapping against his skin.
Nick hated games like this. He was a Fullback whose speed and acceleration, agility and power won his nickname, ‘The Rocket’; his speed could also win matches. But on days like this, mud weighed him down, clinging in heavy clumps to his boots so that every time the referee paused the play, he was hooking out clods from between the studs with his fingers, hoping to improve traction on the field.
The captain signalled the Backs to keep the action close—fewer mistakes on short passes—and Nick shook his head in frustration, water dripping across his mud-streaked face. He swiped at his eyes with his shirt, exposing his hard, flat stomach and part of his muscled chest as he felt the cool rain against his hot skin.
The game was even slower now as the ball became slippery and muck clung to Nick. The wind raged, sending stinging rain into his eyes, and the unseasonal cold bit deep into his bones. At the other side of the pitch, Kenny was leering at his opposite number and probably saying things that would get him sent off if the ref caught him.
Every player was battling the elements, and Nick had lost his advantage of speed. He couldn’t rely on his ability to run the ball downfield; the best hope was that they could keep their opponents pinned to the try line.
The game was rough and bruising, and Dennis, playing on the left wing, put his bottom teeth through his top lip after a brutal tackle, colouring his shirt with splatters of rusty red as blood dripped down his chin. He grimaced ghoulishly, poking his tongue through the wound.
Nick winced. Been there, done that and got the scar to prove it.
Dennis walked off swearing, his voice a whistling lisp because he’d bitten his tongue, too. They’d stitch him up at halftime so he’d be back to play the second half.
The game restarted. Nick swore when Kenny got flattened at the bottom of the ruck, disappearing under a mountain of heaving, kicking, swearing man-flesh, and the paramedics started to unpack the stretcher. But then the Hooker freed the ball and the game rumbled on. Kenny sat up, shaking his head like a wounded bull and staggered back into position.
Nick was relieved that he wasn’t hurt, and the fans sent up a muted cheer.
Finally, the ball was passed sloppily in Nick’s direction, and he plucked it from the air, gripping the slippery leather and racing up the field, his eyes squinting as he tried to see through the pelting rain. Sensing the line was close, he flung himself forward, feeling the bone-shaking jolt through his entire body as he crashed onto the pitch, sliding forward and carving a muddy groove.
This! This was what he did, what he lived for. Nothing could compare.
Adrenaline shot through him as the referee blew his whistle.
Nick picked himself up, grinning at his teammates when they high-fived him, celebrating as the points were marked up on the scoreboard. Then the kicker stepped forward, wiping mud from his eyes, as he attempted the conversion. He focussed on the ball, glanced up to the sticks, then struck the ball perfectly. The team held their breath as the ball hit the stick a glancing blow, then sailed through the goal posts. Cheers erupted as another two points had the fans leaping to their feet.
Nick clapped, relief filling his chest. Every point mattered in a close game.
He breathed out heavily. His body, shorts and legs were coated in filth, his face smeared, and he spat out mud, nearly losing his mouth guard. He rolled his neck from side to side, ignoring the aches and bruises of his abused body.
Rugby was a hard game, a brutal game, even when you weren’t getting tackled, kicked, punched or head-butted. He loved it.
It was the only try of the match so far, and now they had seven more much-needed points.
But at halftime they were trailing by nineteen points and the team was losing focus. Coach let them take a drink and eat something sugary for an energy boost, then listened to them bitch for a minute before giving them a bollocking, spittle flying from his purple face.
“You’re playing like you’re half asleep out there! There’re too many dropped balls, too many missed tackles. You’re not a bunch of bleedin’ amateurs! You’re supposed to be professionals! Come on! You can do this! Keep kicking the ball back—they’ll struggle to score if they’re forced to play on their end of the field. And get your completion rate up—you can win this!”
They had to believe they could still win. No one was giving up. Being on the losing side week in, week out was mental torture. You played until your dying breath.
But the team was sluggish and morose, tired by the long season and drained by the foul weather, their bodies aching, muddied and bruised.
Nick gritted his teeth in frustration. The job of the Fullback was to attack, but Coach wanted the play to be short and safe and sensible. This was rugby—it was meant to be hard and tough and dirty.
He kept his mouth shut. Arguing with Coach never ended well.
They jogged back onto the swampy pitch and Nick couldn’t help noticing that most fans had already given up and gone home, leaving just a handful of people at either end of the rain-sodden terraces. He shouldn’t blame them—it was horrible weather and a scrappy, slow-moving match. But he did blame them. The team was playing their hearts out, and where were the supporters? Already in the pub, slagging them off.
A hot jet of anger pulsed through him. But as he moved into position, he forced himself to think positive, his mind slithering back to the tactics they’d discussed. His brain felt as muddy and weary as the rest of him.
Frustrated with himself, he took that slow-burning core of anger, using it to push himself to move faster, dragging his feet out of the mud and nearly losing a boot as he slogged across the field, thick thighs pumping, blood pounding in his ears.
Then one of the opposing team fumbled the ball and threw it forwards.
“Knock-on!” Nick yelled, raising one hand.
But the referee hadn’t seen the ball being dropped forwards, half-blinded by the lashing downpour.
Nick’s teammates detonated with a volcanic roar and suddenly the two teams crashed together, the heavy clash of meaty bodies brawling on the field, team colours lost in the mud-strewn melee.
A younger Nick would have joined in, but at 26 he was a seasoned professional and knew that a punch-up didn’t solve problems. Unfortunately.
He waded in, yanking bodies backwards by their shirts or shorts and getting an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.
“Wankers!” screamed Darren, spinning around to the ref. “That was a blatant knock-on! Come on, Ref! Give us a chance! Try reffing the game properly!”
The referee continued to blow the whistle impotently, but it was several minutes before order was restored, and the players leered at each other through bloody and bruised faces. Nick knew that in an hour they’d all be drinking beer together: a quiet pint, followed by 17 noisy ones.
But for now, the match became ugly with tempers fraying and flaring every other minute, and to crown the misery, Nick took a random boot to his temple during a tackle.
He sat up slowly, shaking his head to make sure it was still attached. Then he stumbled to his feet and gave a thumbs up that he was okay to play on.
As a headache bloomed behind his eyes and blood mixed with mud on his shirt, he tried to focus on some attacking play.
But at the other end of the field, Tufty, the Halfback was on his knees, cupping his balls and howling in agony.
“I got bleedin’ squirrelled!” he whined, still hunched over. “I think he’s ripped my nuts off!”
Without any protection, your balls were vulnerable to a sadistic squeeze or a vicious twist, as Nick knew all too well.
At least it wasn’t fingers up the arse. That happened in games, too. Not often, but there was one Aussie player who was notorious for it.
Play was suspended as the paramedics sprang into action. They helped Tufty onto a stretcher, knees still clamped together. But sliding and slipping in the mud, the paramedics dropped him, and he screeched, refusing further help and shuffling from the field, his face etched with agony. Nick grimaced. The game was a bloody shambles. All they needed now was a plague of locusts or zombies wandering onto the pitch and then he’d know for sure it was the apocalypse. It would be the definition of ironic if the world ended just as he was about to be promoted to a top league club.
Despite the team’s failings, he’d had the best season of his career. Without Nick, they’d have been facing certain relegation. Everyone knew it. And now Nick was leaving them behind for a starry future. He’d hoped that his last game wouldn’t be such a piece of crap.
The game restarted, but the light was so poor now that it was almost impossible to see the ball. Nick flailed up and down the swampy field, yelling out instructions, backing up his captain, and chasing down every stray ball.
As the minutes ticked down to the final whistle, Nick sprinted forwards, torturing his heaving lungs for one final push, gritting his teeth ready to receive, then abruptly changing direction with the flow of play. Suddenly, he felt a sharp, shrieking pain in his right calf, and grimaced over his shoulder to see which bastard had ankle-tapped him, and ready to evade being tackled, but the space behind him was empty.
Lame, with shock setting in, fear coating his lungs, he slowed to a limping walk, hobbling as the pain settled into a dull ache that spiked with every step. It was excruciating to put his full weight on his right foot.
“Shit,” he growled, and then got tackled, ploughing into the mud.
He reached for his back foot and knew something was wrong. He had two seconds to play the ball while his team were in an attacking position.
Then he turned to the bench and signalled that he needed a timeout. As he limped off the field, helped by the medical staff, Coach met him at the side-line.
“Pulled a muscle?”
“It’s my ankle. I can’t walk.”
“Alright, Nick. Off to the physio, see what he says. Good work today.”
Nick took one last look at his team, the men he’d played so many great games with, good memories, then turned and headed for the locker room in pain.
“What’s up, Nick?”
Alan was the club’s physio and a retired player.
“Don’t know. My right calf hurts like a bitch, it doesn’t feel right. I’ve never had this before.”
He sat on the table while Alan took off his boot, examined the back of Nick’s ankle, pressing all around an area that felt bruised and was beginning to swell painfully.
Alan’s face was grim, the heavy jowls drooping like a bloodhound, his eyes red and watery.
Nick could smell Vicks Vapo Rub, Deep Heat and Tiger Balm mixed with nicotine and body odour—physio room and physio, combined in a familiar and overpowering fug.
He tried to breathe through his mouth and act tough. When Alan pressed harder on the injured area, he inhaled on a sharp stab of pain that made his stomach muscles contract.
He leaned back, his soaked jersey and shorts making him shiver as his body began to cool.
“I think you’ll need to go to hospital with this one, Nick. Looks like Achilles tendon to me.” He grabbed Nick’s ankle, rotating his foot and making him gasp. “You’ve still got movement in your foot so I’d guess that it’s not snapped, probably torn. I’ll get you some gas and air.”
Nick’s world flipped upside down. A torn Achilles ended careers. Why now? Why in his last game before he entered the Championship league?
He swallowed and closed his eyes for a second, opening them to see quiet sympathy on the older man’s face.
“Are you sure? I haven’t just pulled a muscle?”
Alan shook his head.
“Sorry, lad.”
So much for the end of season party. So much for leaving his club on a high note. So much for proposing to Molly—he couldn’t ask her to marry him when he no longer had anything to offer her. So much for his entire fucking life.
He dropped his head in his hands as everything was swept away in a wave of mud and shit: all those stupid hopes and dreams, gone.
Full of misery and pain, Nick sent a text to Molly letting her know that he wouldn’t make the party. He didn’t say why and knowing Molly, she’d be too pissed off to ask. That gave him a few hours to hear from a doctor as well as an aging ex-Prop that his rugby career was over.
Hobbling from wall to wall as he cannoned off furniture and lockers, he managed to shower slowly, dumping his filthy kit in the laundry basket for the kit-man to take care of, and taking his boots into the shower with him to save time.
The hot water felt wonderful against his battered body and he idly rubbed his purpling ribs and swollen ankle, wondering if he’d ever need the boots again.
Dirt and blood swirled around his feet, and Nick gently fingered the cut by his eyebrow, but it was already closing, leaving another scar, another souvenir of a rough game.
Inside, his emotions whirled with barely concealed panic, but outside, his stern face was set in stoic acceptance.
Silently, he took a turn in the ice bath, letting the change from hot to freezing cold soothe his body. The rapid temperature change helped speed up healing, combatting the micro-trauma of small tears in muscle fibre caused by the game’s intense physical stress. Although it wouldn’t be enough to fix a torn tendon. A surgeon’s knife was in his future.
He closed his eyes, enduring.
Two minutes cold-hot-cold-hot was more than enough, and his headache was worse now, then it was back in the hot shower and he tried to let the heat and steam soothe the ache he felt bone deep, brain deep, the one that came from being on the losing side—the never-ending rugby rollercoaster; the one that came from being finished. Done. Ended. Milled. Thrashed. Beaten. Broken.
“Seriously, your Achilles?” Kenny’s face fell and he grimaced in sympathy. “Tough luck, pal.”
The other players muttered condolences as they trailed blood and dirt into the changing room, and Nick began to feel as if he’d died out there. Maybe he had. Maybe it was his ghost sitting here. Wouldn’t that be fucking pathetic? To spend eternity in a stinking locker room. He smiled grimly at the thought.
Dressing in a t-shirt and sweatpants, he could only put on one trainer. The other foot was too swollen and painful to fit, so he shoved the toes in and left it at that.
Kenny slung an arm around Nick’s shoulders as he hobbled to the post-match dinner. Tradition: win or lose, you fed the team who bled on your field. Hospital would have to wait—not that there was anything they’d do for him immediately. So instead, he sat with his teammates, pretending that a black hole of desolation wasn’t growing inside his chest.
Tanked up and full of curry, it was a noisy crew that headed to the waiting team bus. It was a two-hour drive back to the clubhouse, and only then would he get medical treatment. It would be different in the top league, but second division was almost nowhere when it came to fixing what they’d broken.
Eight years he’d given to this team. Eight years of success, eight years of heartbreak, just like every other professional athlete.
Nick didn’t want his career to be over.
Traffic was heavy on the motorway, and rain continued to pelt the bus, clattering noisily onto the roof and falling so fast it seemed to Nick as if they were underwater. He drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep, dozing through the drunken singing of his teammates. Usually, he’d be with them, singing the bawdy songs and laughing at stupid jokes.
Tonight they left him alone, respecting his retreat into silence.
Jerking awake with a grunt of pain, Nick sat up as the bus bumped across water-filled potholes and stopped with a sudden lurch at their clubhouse.
“You want me to drive you to the hospital?”
Nick stared up at his friend’s face, sickly yellow in the pale neon glow.
Nick grimaced and nodded.
Rotherham was a no-frills club. If you were conscious and vertical, you took yourself to hospital.
“Yeah, thanks, Ken. I don’t think I could drive right now.”
Kenny nodded.
“I’ll get Tufty and Gavin to take your car home on the way to the party. No worries.”
But Nick was worried.
His ankle was still swelling and trying to walk even a single step sent pain lancing up his whole leg. As Kenny drove him to the private hospital that the team paid for, Nick held a dripping bag of ice to his ankle, hoping it might help. So far, it hadn’t, and he’d maxed out on the painkillers he’d been given. But he was relieved that he’d traded up from a part-time team where you had to make do with the NHS.
The last time he’d been to an Accident & Emergency department, the walls had been a dull olive colour, institutional and depressing, with old posters warning of what would happen if you assaulted a member of staff. An old guy with dementia had kept on trying to open the fire exit and his tiny, white-haired wife could do nothing to stop him. A teenage boy had vomited down the front of his t-shirt.
A typical Saturday night.
Thank God for private healthcare.
Instead, Kenny pulled up in a quiet car park outside a new-looking building.
He slung a brawny arm around Nick’s waist and half carried him inside to register his name and details.
Coach had phoned ahead so they were expecting him.
Sensing he’d be here a while, Nick settled into a low, leather sofa and tried to relax.
He glanced up at his friend.
“Look, you go on to the party—no reason for us both to miss it.”
Kenny shook his head.
“I’m not leaving you here by yourself. What kind of mate does that?”
“I appreciate it, seriously—but Molly hasn’t replied to my text so she’s probably on her way there. She’ll need someone to keep an eye on her.” And to stop it turning into an episode of ‘Geordie Shore’.
“Great,” muttered Kenny. “Think I’ll stay here then.”
Nick clenched his teeth and Kenny sighed. There was no love lost there.
“Fine,” Kenny grumbled. “I’ll go. Let me know if you need a lift later.”
Nick waved him away.
“Nah, I’ll call a taxi. I’ll be fine.”
He watched Kenny striding down the corridor, relieved to be free of the hospital sounds and smells.
Nick’s thoughts darkened.
Best case scenario, he’d be off for at least four months, probably much longer. Worst case scenario: he’d never play again.
Pain and frustration filled him. Of all the times to get injured, why now? Why me?
Was he supposed to laugh or cry? Was he supposed to laugh at the irony of having his worst injury in eight years of playing rugby professionally, his final game before starting next season with a Premiership club? Was he supposed to celebrate that someone had thought him good enough? Was he supposed to sound like Marlon Brando and howl at the moon, I coulda been a contender!
He didn’t do any of those.
He turned off his phone and closed his eyes, listening to the gurgling sound as his career disappeared down the toilet.