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“What?” Her voice is a quiet murmur with an edge of pain. Cassidy leans forward on the vanity, dangling her legs off the counter as her hands grip the edge. “What happened?”
Fuck, I never know where to start. Do I go in on the defensive and focus on the reasons why? Do I just stick to what happened? Which will spare me the most grief and embarrassment?
“I’m going to preface this by telling you that I’m not that guy. I made a fucking mistake. I trusted the wrong people.”
Cassidy nods, watching me intently as she waits for me to give her my story. And as much as I adore her face, I can’t bear to look at her when her perception of me sours.
Taking a deep breath, I focus back on my hands. “In Rugby, there’s a rule that if you have a head injury and don’t pass an assessment by a medic outside your team, you have to be substituted. It’s not like soccer where once you’re out of subs, it’s tough shit, you know?”
“I’m not into sports. The most I get into it is when everyone’s singing ‘It’s Coming Home’.”
I’m tempted to glance up and see the smile that’s coating her words, but I’m too afraid that I’ll find something else instead.
“So, head injuries,” she segues back to what I was saying.
“In short, the director for the team I was playing for asked me to fake a head injury so we could get a free substitution.” Bracing my elbows on my knees, I lace my hands behind my neck and suck in a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “He asked me to take one for the team, and I did.”
Those exact words: Take one for the team, and we’ll cover it. Now is the time to prove your worth, son, and make this championship go our way. It’ll be fine. No one will know, and any fallout will be taken care of. The win will be down to you.
It was all bullshit—empty promises from a man I wholeheartedly trusted with my future.
“What does that mean? You took one for the team?”
“A few minutes into the second half of the game, there was a ruck—”
“What’s a ruck?”
“A pile up.”
“Oh.”
“When it was done, I got up and stumbled a bit before I fell on the ground again. Our medic ran onto the pitch, and after checking on me, told the official I needed an assessment. I played along until they ruled that I wasn’t fit to go back on the field, and the coach brought in the fly-half we needed.”
“What’s a fly-half?”
“They’re kickers. They generally orchestrate the attack and defence. Really, they’re the heart of the team.”
“What about you? What are you?”
“I was a wing. Basically, a wing has to be fast and powerful enough to break through a defence in order to finish an attacking move and score tries. They're like a touchdown, when you take the ball into the opponent’s goal area, and you ground it.”
“Explains why you’re so fast. But why would they want to replace you if you’re the one scoring goals?”
“Because a fly-half can change the pace and direction of the game. They keep everything flowing the same way the heart pumps blood around the body. They’re basically the most valuable player on the field.”
“I see.”
“So, when I was substituted, the team got the chance to bring back one of the previously substituted fly-halves who was our best spot-kicker.”
“Not going to lie, most of the jargon is going over my head, but I get the gist. You pretended to have a head injury so that your team would be forced to make a change for a player that had a better chance at scoring.”
“Pretty much.”
“Wow, that’s… insane.”
“Yep.” I swallow, because the aftermath is the killer.
“Did you win?”
