I know the second it leaves my boot.

Too much power. Wrong angle. Shite follow-through.

“Ah for fuck’s—”

The ball’s already gone, sailing clean past where it was meant to land. Meant for Gibs — big eejit had his hands up, roaring for it like he always does — but I don’t even look at him. My eyes are tracking the ball as it cuts across the pitch.

And then I see her.

Too late.

She’s cutting straight across the field, head down, bag slung over one shoulder like she’s already having a day. Small. Not paying attention. Nowhere near where she should be.

“Fuck—!”

The sound it makes when it hits her is sickening. A dull, solid crack that turns my stomach over.

She goes down hard.

Slips on the bank, tumbles awkwardly, uniform ripping at the knees, body folding in on itself before she disappears out of sight. The ball rolls uselessly away like it didn’t just ruin someone’s morning.

Everything stops.

My chest drops. Proper drops.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, already running.

Boots thud against the grass as I leg it down the pitch, heart hammering louder than the lads shouting behind me. Someone’s swearing. Someone else is laughing nervously. I don’t hear any of it. All I can see is her at the bottom of the bank, curled in on herself, not moving.

“Shite, shite, shite,” I breathe, skidding to a stop beside her. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to hit ya. Honest. It was a shite pass. Meant for Gibs, the spanner—”

She doesn’t look up.

That’s when it really hits me.

Her hands are in the grass. Knees scraped raw through the uniform. She’s breathing, thank fuck, but slow — like her head’s pounding too hard to let her do anything else.

The joking dies in my throat.

I crouch down without thinking, voice dropping, quieter now. “Hey. Hey— don’t move, yeah? Can you hear me?”

And for the first time since the ball left my foot, I’m not thinking about rugby, or the lads, or training.

I’m thinking I’ve just absolutely fucked someone’s day. Maybe worse.