Page 68 of Playing the Field

She smirks. “Brandt thinks it’s the pressure of the standings. Dominic thinks it’s because the media is still running that ‘Can Callahan Lead?’ narrative. But me?” She pats my arm, lowering her voice. “I think it’s got nothing to do with rugby.”

My jaw tightens.

I don’t respond.

Mostly because she’s right.

And I fucking hate that she knows it.

So I do what I do best.

I focus.

I push the frustration down. Push her down.

The only thing that matters today is winning this goddamn game.

By the time kickoff rolls around, the stadium is packed, the energy electric.

Utah is hungry. Desperate to move up the standings.

But so are we.

I stand on the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Dominic leads the team onto the field, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the air.

This is it.

The fight for second place.

I should be thinking about strategy, about execution, about how the Tigers need to keep the pressure on Utah’s weak outside defense.

Instead, my eyes flicker—just once—to where Anastasia stands a few yards away, completely focused on the players.

And just like that, my frustration spikes again.

Because she’s still acting like I don’t exist.

And that?

That’s more distracting than I want to admit.

Graham

From the moment the whistle blows, something feels off.

I can see it in the way the team moves, the split-second hesitation in their reactions, and the slight breakdowns in communication that weren’t there last week.

Utah comes out hard, crashing into contact with relentless energy, their forward pack setting a bruising pace in the opening minutes. The Warriors’ scrum-half is quick—faster than our defense is reacting to—and their fly-half is controlling the tempo, pinning us deep in our own half with pinpoint kicks.

Meanwhile, we’re scrambling.

Passes aren’t connecting. The breakdown is messy. The cohesion we had last week against Seattle? Gone.

I stand on the sideline, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the first ten minutes unfold like a slow-moving disaster.

Then, it happens.

A turnover in midfield.