Page 55 of Try Line Hearts
Under anthem and kickoff, everything narrowed.
For eighty minutes, there was only rugby.
The opposition were good and mean and clever. Lucas took hits, sent kicks into corners, dragged the line around until it obeyed. Eli ran lines that made defenders look stupid, hands sure as glue, boots flirting with touch without ever quite betraying him.
They were good together.
They were dangerous together.
Twelve minutes to go, scores level, scrum midfield, and Lucas called a move he had no right to try.
He shaped the pass; the defense bit; he stepped against the grain, dragging bodies with him.
He slipped the ball late. Too late for anyone but Eli.
Eli hit the line like a bullet, burned through two tackles, and dove under the posts.
Stadium eruption. Noise like weather. Arms around Eli in the in-goal. Eli pointing straight back at him.
You.
Lucas pointed back.
Us.
They closed it out from there. Ugly, tight, enough.
The final whistle left his bones hollow and humming.
After interviews and ice baths and Carmody’s growly praise, the changing room finally thinned. Steam from the showers drifted lazily. Lads wandered in and out in towels, buzzing on adrenaline and cheap coffee.
Lucas sat at his locker, half in, half out of his kit, head thumping in time with his heartbeat.
Eli dropped down beside him, knees touching his.
“Good game,” he said simply.
“Not bad,” Lucas replied.
“Understatement of the century,” Eli said. “You were ridiculous.”
“So were you.”
They let the quiet sit between them a moment.
Then Eli bumped his shoulder gently. “You done?” he asked.
“With what?”
“With everyone else,” Eli said. “Reporters. Lads. Strangers who want a piece of you.”
Lucas considered it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think so.”
“Good,” Eli said, standing. “Come on.”
“Where?” Lucas asked.
