Page 123 of The No Try Zone
Warily, I point at him. “Nash.”
He stands and looks at the team. “Just a reminder that the arsehole Coach punched last night is number twenty. Plays openside flanker when he’s on.” He pauses. “That was my sister.”
“My wife.” Every pair of eyes slide to me. Holding Ollie’s eyes, I repeat myself. “She’s Ollie’s sister, she’s my wife, and she’s the team’snew head of PT.”
“No mercy,” Ollie says.
I start a nod as I look from him to Ansel.
Ansel stands. “On three. One, two, three!”
“Granite!” The response is loud, low, and rattling.
The guys run past me, Ansel leading the charge. Lennox pulls up the rear and leans in as he goes. “Number twenty is mine if he steps on the pitch, Coach.”
I don’t bother telling him to hold back. I want that prick flattened.
I make my way to the box overlooking the pitch, noting how much more luxe it is than ours. But itisLas Vegas, so it’s not that surprising. I settle into my seat as the team heads to their end of the pitch to warm up, adjusting my binder and pulling out my different colored pens to arrange them to the right and top of it. Pulling on the headset, I flip it on and give it a “Test test.”
Ryan’s voice comes back. “Go Granite.”
Elliott chimes in next. “Beat Lights.”
“Damn right,” I finish.
The announcer starts into his pre-game show, and I pull my quarter out to rub a thumb over the face.
“Hey, Coach.” Sullivan Adams appears in my profile as he takes a seat beside me.
I pocket the coin and nod a hello.
Half an hour later, the match is underway and the Lights have no chance. I don’t know if it’s our practices paying off in spades, the guys’ irritation that one of our own was harassed, or something else, but it doesn’t matter: they are on fire. By the half, we’re up by twenty-eight points and Las Vegas has scored only two tries. I stay in the booth, not willing to break whatever magic is being woven down there.
Number twenty is on the pitch in the second half, and I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Every time he dives into a ruck, our guys absolutely brutalize him. His position is made for stealing the ball and hauling toward the try line whenever possible, but inside a ruck is when an openside flanker is supposed to shine. Only not this guy. Each time there’s a ruck, he’s there grabbing for the ball, but he’s got no chance. Whether it’s one of our guys aiming right for his ribs or another guy “accidentally” nailing his nose with their boot, number twenty spends more time dodging hits than with his hand on the ball.
Serves the prick right. My phone pings and Sam’s name flashes across the screen.
SUNSHINE
Who told the guys it was #20?
I don’t hesitate, typing the answer out quickly.
Your brother and I have an understanding with the team.
Remind me to discuss your caveman tendencies later.
Pass
I grin and flip the phone over, needing to focus back on the match. But the warmth in my chest doesn’t leave.
We crush them, 53-32, and I take more than a little pleasure in watching my team ignore number 20 as they do the post-game walk across the pitch. All that is, but Ollie, who shoulder-checks him without breaking stride.
I grin. “Love that guy.”
Adams chuckles beside me. “Eh, he deserved it.”
I slide my eyes toward him. “No comment.”
