Page 4 of Worth the Try
And I scream.
Chapter 2
Ansel
THE ROAR OF the crowd is deafening, powering me on as I grip the ball. I run, lungs heaving in the final seconds of the game, looking for someone,anyone, to pass the ball to.
There’s no one.
I’m not even supposed to have the damn ball right now. But sometimes that’s how it goes. Tucking it tighter against my body, I double down. I’m almost there.
I already can’t hear shit, and the packed stadium gets even louder.
Too late, I realize why: one of the other team’s players is diving at me, angling his body perfectly towards my waist. There’s another at my back.
Where thefuckis River? Carter? I’ll take anyone.
There. Coming into view on my left is our number eight, Lennox Campbell, and not a moment too soon. I toss the ball in his direction, praying he catches it as I’m taken down. It’s an effort to keep my eyes open, straining to watch the ball as my body hits the pitch.
We go down in a heap of grunts and curses, me first, then three other players on the opposing team. There’s not enoughtime. I scramble up and scan the pitch, hoping like hell that Lennox caught the ball and made the try. But he’s booking it in the opposite direction, chasing the Hounds’ winger like a man possessed.
Fuck.
I turn and sprint, knowing I can’t make it in the three seconds we have left and hauling ass like I’m going to anyway. All our guys are running hard, doing everything they can to break through the Hounds’ defenses and make it to their number eleven. Holyshitthat guy is fast. We knew he was. We trained to stop him. We have to stop him. If we don’t, we lose the fucking championship.
And there he goes, flinging his body toward the try line with two seconds to go, ball gripped tight in one hand, arms outstretched, legs nearly covered by our guys.
The crowd roars, increasing in volume when the winger pops up and nearly gets tackled again by his teammates.
They made it.
We lost.
The yell that comes out of me is loud, primal, and pissed. “Fuck!”
The soundsin the locker room are muted, and I can’t tell if it’s that everyone is subdued, or if it’s my own rage drowning them out. I rip my shirt off and toss it in my bag, momentarily considering skipping the shower but knowing that Lennox will give me ten kinds of shit for it.
Besides, I played the entire eighty minutes. I stink.
Coach shoots me a glance from across the room, and I know what he wants. I’m the captain; I should probably say something to the team. Lucky for Coach, I don’t have it in me. We lost. We worked our asses off, we left it all on the pitch, and we lost anyway. I’ve got nothing to say, so I shake my head and start unwinding the tape on my wrists.
Coach taps his cheek and raises a brow.“You’re bleeding,” he mouths.
I shrug. I know. But it happened on that last hit, so I ignored it. Pretty sure I took a cleat to the face. Wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
He narrows his eyes.
I turn my back on him and sit on the hard bench, unlacing my boots with quick jerks of my fingers. Behind me, Coach calls the room to order.
“I’m not going to say anything you don’t already know,” he starts.
I peel off the tape around my ankles.
“But remember that last year, we were last place in the league. Last. Place.”
A chorus of grunts and grumbles responds.
“And this year, we damn near took the championship. Am I disappointed? Hell yes, I am. But we almost won.”
